“No,” Rupak said. “Rosh Hashanah is a holiday. You’re wearing a yarmulke. What are you doing? That’s offensive. You can’t do that in New York.”
“Don’t shout at your father,” Mrs. Jha said. “We haven’t seen you in months. Have the decency to say hello nicely.”
“Mom, I’m sorry. But how can you let him wear that?” Rupak said, and then added in a whisper, “Especially in this neighborhood. It’s not appropriate.”
Mrs. Jha stopped listening after she heard the word Mom. She didn’t recognize this boy in the cargo pants and T-shirt, with stubble on his cheeks, who spoke with an American lilt and called her Mom. This was not the same boy who was so shy he would wrap himself up in her pallu whenever they went to a party.
“It’s colder than I expected,” Mr. Jha said. “And I’ve been losing hair on the top of my head. It makes me feel very vulnerable, but this is just the perfect size and shape to keep my bald spot warm. You know how much I hate hats—makes me feel sleepy, as if there’s a pillow against my head—but this yarmulke is perfect. I bought two.”
“Dad, you cannot wear that. It’s offensive,” Rupak said.
“Son, you worry too much about being offensive. America has ruined you. I am wearing this out of a deep appreciation and people can see that. The man who sold them to me was very friendly. Most people are friendly if you stop being so nervous all the time. Now come along. Let us have a cup of coffee.”
“There was a McDonald’s the way we walked earlier,” Mrs. Jha said. “We can have coffee there and make our plans.”
“There’s a show called Cats that I’ve bought tickets to for tonight,” Mr. Jha said. “Humans dress up as cats and sing and dance—what madness. Our seats are in the second row. They were so expensive. I’ll have to make sure I get a picture that shows how close to the stage we are.”
After the cup of coffee during which the yarmulke was not mentioned, Mr. Jha suggested they stop by the hotel to freshen up for a night out.
Rupak had walked past the Holiday Inn on Ludlow on earlier trips to NYC, and the sight of it always depressed him, but entering with his parents today was different. The Bangladeshi staff at the front desk jumped up and buzzed around his parents chattering away and Rupak noticed his parents come alive.
“Rupak, meet Shonjoy and Ali, they run this place. And they are our Muslim brothers from the East.”
Rupak tensed up the minute he heard his father describe them that way. Did his father have no sense? But Shonjoy and Ali both laughed and extended their hands for Rupak to shake. Maybe his father was right. Maybe he had become too nervous about offending people. Rupak would never dream of using the word Muslim to loudly describe someone, but here was his father, Hindu, in his yarmulke, speaking happily to his Muslim brothers from Bangladesh who looked equally happy about the whole situation.
Back in the room, Mr. Jha took off the yarmulke, wrapped it carefully in tissue paper, and placed it on the shelf near the television. It had served him well today but he could see that it was making his son tense, so he decided it would be best to leave it in the room when they went for dinner. Mr. Jha put on his nicest black button-down shirt and took out a fashionable gray tie he had bought from Banana Republic earlier in the day. It was what the salesman had called a skinny tie and was, allegedly, the only way to go these days.
“Rupak,” Mr. Jha said. “Are you going to get changed? And when was the last time you shaved? Now hurry up, you two. Bindu, wear the earrings we got today. And please change out of those horrid pants. Don’t you have something more feminine? Maybe a skirt?”
“Papa, could I borrow a shirt?”
Mrs. Jha was so happy to hear her son say “Papa” that she didn’t bother getting offended by her husband’s suggestion that she wear a skirt. She was enjoying herself today. Americans hadn’t been so frightening. From the man at Tiffany’s to the black man who had helped them get train tickets, people had been friendly. She took the diamond earrings from earlier in the day out of the small blue box that looked like the cake.
Mr. Jha watched his wife put on the diamond earrings and felt happy. They suited her. He was in a hotel room—a bit on the small side but nobody knew them here so it was okay—in New York City with a wife who was not aging too badly, wearing diamond earrings from Tiffany’s, and their son studying in America, about to go see humans dressed as cats. How could he be so fortunate? In some past life, somewhere, he must have done something good. Silently, he thanked God.
Mr. Jha loved Cats, even though the usher had scolded him loudly for taking a flash photo. It was worth the mild public humiliation to be able to show the Chopras where they were sitting. Since he had had to quickly move the phone down, the picture was mostly of the wooden stage, but explaining that would make it easy to say where their seats were.
When they got back to the hotel that night, Mr. Jha was happy. On the single bed that Ali had set up near the window, his son was happy. Mrs. Jha, however, was nervous. Things were going too well for them, she worried. Maybe another visit to the Mayur Palli temple was due. She hadn’t even set up a small temple in the Gurgaon house, she reminded herself. She would do that as soon as they returned to Delhi, and she would donate money to the temple in Mayur Palli. The old neighbors would appreciate that.
The next morning, the sun was shining and New York City glistened in the way only New York City does. The sun reflected off the buildings to make the city twice as bright as the rest of the world.
“We should buy property here,” Mr. Jha said. “Maybe just a small one-or two-bedroom. Rupak, maybe you will get a job in New York after you graduate.”
“But would New York be a good place to raise a family?” Mrs. Jha said.
“It can’t be much worse than Delhi,” Mr. Jha said.
“You know, Rupak,” Mrs. Jha said. “We were in Khan Market recently and there are so many foreigners working and living there now. Maybe you should come back and work in India for some time.”
“What nonsense, Bindu,” Mr. Jha said. “We didn’t send him to America to study just so he could come rushing back.”
“It’s just something to consider. It’ll be nice for you to have some time at home—have home-cooked food, clean bedsheets, everything.”
“I have clean bedsheets in Ithaca, Ma. You’ll see. I do okay on my own,” Rupak said. “But I’m not completely against the idea of coming back to India either. I know things are changing there.”
And he wasn’t sure he was going to get a job that would sponsor a visa here anyway, so it was best to start preparing his parents to think he was choosing to come back on his own.