“Bindu, you can get vegetarian food on every street corner in India. Maggie’s will be a different experience. And I’m sure Rupak’s…friend…will enjoy it.”
Mrs. Jha was nervous about meeting Rupak’s friend. Would Serena call her Bindu? Americans all behaved with such familiarity. And what would Serena think of her outfit? Tonight Mrs. Jha was wearing a black kurta and black salwar, with a red dupatta draped around her shoulders. Fortunately Ithaca was much more relaxed than New York. In New York, Mrs. Jha constantly wondered how women managed to walk in stilettos on cobblestones. She could not even wear wedge heels. It was strange that she had such a different idea of what it meant to be a woman. For her, life had been about raising a family. There was no mystery, there were no secrets. She had never thought about her clothes or her body and apart from the occasional pedicure, she did not pay much attention to how anything looked below the neck. Maybe it was time to change. Look at Shobha De, after all. She’s old but still wears sleeveless blouses and sometimes even skirts. Maybe tomorrow Mrs. Jha would buy herself a long skirt. And when she got back to Delhi, she vowed to take longer walks in the evening and maybe even start yoga. Forget Shobha De, Mrs. Jha thought, just look at Mrs. Ray. Maybe someday Rupak would have a church wedding, and she did not want to be the frumpy one in flat shoes while Serena’s mother wore some fitted, sleeveless dress and high heels.
Mr. Jha looked around for his son’s special friend. He hoped she would be beautiful. He liked the idea of having a blond exotic woman calling him Dad. Although it had sounded nice to hear Rupak say “Papa” earlier. They had come a long way from Mayur Palli. If only the Chopras could see them now.
“There she is!” Rupak said. “Serena! Serena! Over here.”
And they all turned to see Serena walking toward them dressed, like Mrs. Jha, in black leggings, a kurta, and a dupatta. Serena adjusted her dupatta and wondered if she looked appropriate for the evening.
“Isn’t this restaurant lovely? Anil, I’m glad you booked it. I feel like I’m in Paris,” Mrs. Jha said.
Mrs. Jha looked around the restaurant and then over to her son and Serena. She smiled. Serena was Indian. With an unusual name and a degree in theater, but Indian nevertheless. Rupak had his choice of all the women in America and he had chosen an Indian woman who was dressed similarly to his mother.
“I like it,” Serena said. “I had never been here before because I always wonder if the price will be worth it at places like this, you know? Like, can the food really be that much better?”
“You aren’t paying just for the food,” Mr. Jha said. How had his son managed to find a woman who was so similar to his own mother? Of all the women in America, he had to pick this one, whom nobody in Delhi would look at twice. He could easily have met and charmed a beautiful young blond woman whom all of Mayur Palli and Gurgaon would sit up and notice, but instead he had found a younger version of Mrs. Jha.
“I agree with you, Serena,” Mrs. Jha said. “I can never understand such expensive restaurants.”
“Can we not ruin the dinner by talking about the prices?” Rupak said. He was only half listening because he was busy imagining what it would have been like to have Elizabeth sitting at the table instead of Serena.
“You’re right,” Mrs. Jha said. “Let’s order. Should we get some appetizers?”
“You can order appetizers. I’m just going to order a main course,” Mr. Jha said.
“Should we get snails?” Rupak said. “Ma, have you tried snails?”
“Like garden snails?” Mrs. Jha said.
“You’ll like them,” Serena said. “Let’s get one order. Aunty, do you eat chicken stomach?”
“I love chicken stomach,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Snails are kind of similar in their consistency,” Serena said. “Let’s try some—make this even more of an evening in Paris.”
“Have you even been to Paris?” Mr. Jha asked.
“Well, no, but,” Serena said.
“Well,” Mr. Jha said.
“Anil, what’s wrong with you?” Mrs. Jha said. “Are you tired? We walked a lot in New York. And we hardly took any time to get over the jet lag so it’s all catching up with us.”
“We went to Tiffany’s,” Mr. Jha said. “Have you ever been to Tiffany’s?”
“No,” Serena said. “Did you go to any museums?”
“We went to the MoMA shop in Soho,” Mr. Jha said.
Serena looked toward Rupak, but he looked down at the menu.
“I’m going to order a whiskey,” Mr. Jha said. “A Lagavulin 16. Bindu, we should take a bottle of good whiskey back for our neighbors. Rupak, you will enjoy meeting them. They have a son about your age.”
“Do you find the people in Gurgaon really different from what you’re used to?” Serena asked.
“We’re still adjusting,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Not at all. The people of Gurgaon are people like us,” Mr. Jha said. “They’re very sophisticated. Rupak, Mr. Chopra has a Jaguar.”
Serena again made eyes toward Rupak and smiled as if they shared a secret. Rupak didn’t return the smile. Instead he said, “What does the son do?”
“He’s an aspiring poet,” Mrs. Jha said.
“In Gurgaon? And his parents are okay with that?” Rupak said.
“His parents are probably proud because it means he doesn’t earn any money,” Serena said. “All these rich Delhi kids pretend they’re in the arts. It’s like the wives of Bollywood stars calling themselves interior designers. Next thing you know, his father will be funding a literary magazine.”
“But weren’t you saying nobody in India funds the arts?” Rupak asked. “Isn’t them funding it, even if it’s for their son, better than nothing?”
After the dishes of the main course had been cleared away, Mrs. Jha asked Rupak how his classes were going this semester and instead of telling her he was at risk of failing, he said they were going fine and then quickly said, “By the way, you know Serena is Mrs. Gupta’s niece.”
“Which Mrs. Gupta?” Mr. Jha said. He hadn’t spoken much through the meal.
“From Mayur Palli. Our neighbors,” Rupak said.
“Oh, how wonderful!” Mrs. Jha said. “You’re basically family already! Should we order dessert? And I feel like a cup of chamomile tea.”
“What? You never order tea at restaurants. Since when are you willing to pay five dollars for something you can make for free in Rupak’s apartment?” Mr. Jha said. And then added to Rupak, “Your mother brought a box of tea bags from India so she wouldn’t have to buy tea out. But now you want dessert?”
“That’s different. I brought the tea bags because we both like having a cup of tea first thing in the morning in the hotel in New York, and going out to buy it every day is a waste. But tonight is different. We’re at a restaurant, and we’ve just met Serena. I’m going to order some tea.”
“Look how special you are, Serena,” Mr. Jha said.
Serena laughed.
“Oh, I understand. My mother is the same way,” she said. “I like it.”
Mrs. Jha smiled. What a lovely young woman, she thought. She would fit right into their world in Delhi.