“Bindu?” Mrs. Ray said. “How nice to hear from you. Oh, Bindu, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been meaning to call you but I just haven’t had time. I just got home—it’s nearly eleven! Imagine. I had gone to a dance recital with Upen. Bindu, he’s wonderful.”
Mrs. Jha pictured Mrs. Ray sitting in her living room, talking on the phone. If her curtains were open, the light from the neighboring apartments would be visible. Not here in Gurgaon, though—the windows were wide open and nothing was visible. She interrupted Mrs. Ray and said, “Reema. Do you mind if I interrupt you? Just for one second. It’s about Rupak.”
Mrs. Jha had to say the words to make them feel more real. She needed someone other than her husband to know. So it all came tumbling out to Mrs. Ray—about Rupak, about Serena, about their trip to America, and about her husband’s strange behavior. She needed to tell someone she was lonely and that living in this huge house made her feel smaller than she ever had in Mayur Palli.
“I just don’t know who he is anymore,” Mrs. Jha said. “I’m worried he doesn’t even know who he is. I want him to stand for something.”
“He’s figuring that out, Reema,” Mrs. Ray said when Mrs. Jha stopped. “And he’s made a mistake. And you will forgive him and you will love him and you will support him because you have him and you have Anil and even if they drive you up the wall, you have them. You don’t have to forgive him right away—for now you just have to figure out how to interact with him. The rest will follow.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right,” Mrs. Jha said. “Tell me good things instead—tell me more about Upen.”
“No, that can wait, but Bindu, it’s connected in a way. Upen has made me realize how nice it is to have people around. I thought I was fine alone, and I was, but it’s nice to have someone. And you have that. Even when it gets difficult.”
“You sound like you’ve been reading self-help books,” Mrs. Jha said with a smile. It was nice talking to Mrs. Ray, but clearly they were in different mental states at the moment.
“I could write a self-help book right now,” Mrs. Ray said. “But you know it’ll be fine—he’s a wonderful boy. I’m surprised by this as well, Bindu, but you’ve all been going through such a change. Things will settle.”
Mrs. Jha nodded and thanked Mrs. Ray for calming her down even though she wasn’t feeling any calmer.
Downstairs, after he had eaten and Mrs. Jha was still upstairs, still hardly speaking, Mr. Jha gingerly sat on the sofa with a cup of tea and stared up at the crystal chandelier. The house was silent. He had to admit that Mrs. Jha was correct. It was too silent. You could not hear traffic, you could not hear the clanking of dishes from neighbors’ kitchens, you could not even hear your own wife upstairs. He listened for Mrs. Jha. Nothing. In Mayur Palli, Shatrugan would walk around every night lazily hitting his stick on the ground to keep away thieves and stray dogs. From midnight to five a.m., Mr. Jha used to sleep deeply knowing that life was right outside his window. In Gurgaon, life was far away. He would try desperately to listen for sounds of Balwinder, but even he could hardly be heard late at night. Even the big malls on MG Road were kept secure by computers and cameras instead of humans. This was his world now. It was much too easy to think.
He snapped back into attention when he heard a loud rapping on his front door. Who would be knocking this late at night, he wondered? This was exactly why they needed a guard. He looked through the peephole and saw Mr. Chopra standing and waving a piece of paper around. He opened the door.
“Is everything okay?” Mr. Jha said. “It’s nearing eleven o’clock.”
“Oh, Anil, what to tell you. I came over to have a good laugh with you because you will understand this. My son is so useless, I just don’t know what to do. Listen to this poem he has written.
I have heard the pigeons of Defence Colony
Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees
“What is this nonsense he is writing? About pigeons? Dirty birds. You know they are called the rats of the skies? Here, listen, Johnny goes on:
Hum in the neem tree flowers; and put away
The unavailable—sorry, what does this say?—unavailing
“He must mean unavailable. In any case, it goes on and on like this—utterly meaningless. He calls this poetry. It doesn’t even make any sense.”
Mr. Chopra dropped the piece of paper onto Mr. Jha’s coffee table, laughed heartily, and took a sip of Mr. Jha’s tea.
“See? I’m telling you, my Johnny has no talent. I found this on his desk. Of course now he’s out partying and God knows what time he will come home.”
“That poem is not so bad, Mr. Chopra,” Mr. Jha said.
“Nonsense. He is useless. Unlike Rupak. I hope he can talk some sense into Johnny. Filmmaking is a good industry.”
“Oh, it is,” Mr. Jha said. “For talented people. But Rupak has no talent. Only dreams. What can one do?”
Both the men laughed, each trying to be slightly louder than the other.
“You know,” Mr. Jha said. “That poem is quite good. I have a friend who works with Penguin Books. Maybe I can set up a meeting with him and Johnny. I think Johnny could be a real success. I’m telling you his poetry reminds me of something. Some poet. Johnny can go far. Writers get a lot of respect these days.”
“This poem? No, no. It is too bad. Johnny has no talent. Maybe he would if he didn’t waste his time with all those pretty young girls all day. I really think he should be more like Rupak—studious, hardworking. Not writing garbage about pigeons,” Mr. Chopra said.
“No, no. Please don’t encourage him to be like Rupak. He is too bad. Who takes a break in the middle of his MBA? Your son should focus on his poetry and talent. At least he is trying to make something of his life.”
Mr. Chopra finished Mr. Jha’s tea, put the cup down on the table, and said, “Well, I should get going. But my wife wanted me to ask Mrs. Jha if she would like to go shopping with her sometime. Maybe buy some new saris. Let her know. I can send one of our cars.”
With that, Mr. Chopra picked up Johnny’s poem and was gone. He was hurrying down Mr. Jha’s driveway toward his own home. He rushed through the Sistine Chapel–inspired dome and into his study. He turned on his laptop and typed in the first line of Johnny’s poem and was amazed to find that the whole poem had already been written by someone named William Butler Yeats. Johnny had plagiarized! Well, not completely—he had made the poem about Delhi. The original said something about the pigeons of Seven Woods, wherever that might be, and Johnny had made it about Defence Colony so really he was quite intelligent but it was still plagiarism. Mr. Chopra called Mr. Jha immediately.