“But your wife had an affair,” Mrs. Ray said.
“So? We were happy for quite a while. And then we weren’t anymore. That had nothing to do with the marriage being arranged or love.”
“You’re funny,” Mrs. Ray said.
“I’m being serious,” Upen said, no longer laughing. “The next generation gets to fall in love. Our generation had our love planned for us. But we’re stuck in the middle. What was arranged for us fell through and we can hardly go online looking for a fellow widow or divorcé—India doesn’t have those websites as far as I know, at least not yet. Hopefully they will in the future—I still think you should start a website for widows to find new love; aftershaadi.com, maybe? But until enough people start to think it’s socially acceptable, what are the rest of us supposed to do? We’re too young to give up, don’t you think? And it isn’t just that—God, that sounds awful. I don’t mean to say we’re each other’s last resort. I mean I like you—I really like you. And you like me. And we should be together all the time.”
Mrs. Ray handed him a bowl with a gulab jamun and one scoop of vanilla ice cream and took one bowl for herself. Upen put the bowl down on the table without touching the food and said, “I’m being completely serious. Spend the rest of your life with me.”
Mrs. Ray sat down on the sofa and put her bowl of dessert down on the coffee table.
“And if it doesn’t work, we get…divorced?”
“What happened to all your romance talk? Who mentions divorce in the middle of a proposal?” Upen said with a laugh, and sat down next to her. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but yes, if it doesn’t work, we get divorced.”
“But, divorce…,” Mrs. Ray trailed off.
“What? Yes, divorce. It’s no longer the end of the world, you know. I’ve survived a divorce before. We’ll be gentle with each other; we’re too old to be petty. But we won’t get divorced! I’m trying to ask you to marry me; stop talking about divorce!”
He pulled Mrs. Ray closer to him on the sofa.
“I’m trying to think of a reason to say no, but I can’t seem to come up with any,” she said, smiling. What she wanted was to say yes. What she wanted was to throw her arms around him with happiness. What she wanted was to feel this way forever. Was it possible? Was it allowed? Who made the rules once your parents died and your husband died and your only friend moved away and the rest of the world seemed to forget about you? Could she just say yes and choose to be happy? Was it really that simple?
“Then say yes.”
“As simple as that?”
“As simple as that,” Upen said.
“But not a big wedding. That would be embarrassing.”
“A court wedding.”
“Maybe followed by a small dinner with our friends,” Mrs. Ray added.
“Why not?” Upen said.
“Why not,” Mrs. Ray said, and picked up her dessert bowl. Then she put it back down and leaned over and kissed Upen on the mouth.
Mrs. Jha had hardly been able to make eye contact with Rupak since he had arrived at two a.m. She had not even been able to go downstairs to see him even though she was wide awake when she heard the taxi pull up outside.
“You sleep,” Mr. Jha had said. “Tomorrow will be a long day. I will open the gate and let Rupak in and make sure he is okay.”
Under any other circumstances, she would have refused. In fact, she would have insisted on being at the airport to greet him. But tonight, she did not know how to face him. When her husband went downstairs, Mrs. Jha got up and looked out the window. The taxi pulled into their driveway and Rupak got out, looking less sloppy than he had been of late. He was wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with actual buttons. His hair was cut neatly and his face was clean-shaven. He had made an effort because he knew he had failed them, Mrs. Jha thought. Her son knew he was a disappointment. She saw Mr. Jha patting him on his back while laughing, and she felt grateful to her husband for being nice to Rupak. She wanted to go downstairs and hold him and hug him and tell him that it was going to be okay and they would help him overcome this and whatever other problems he had, but she also wanted to slap him across the face and tell him that she had raised him better than this. She had not raised him to do drugs. But she did not say any of that. Instead she went back to bed and pretended to be asleep when Mr. Jha came back in.
In the morning, Rupak and Mr. Jha were both fast asleep and Mrs. Jha was grateful for the silence in the house. She was starting to get used to the quiet mornings and the sound of birds. In Mayur Palli, she had not realized how much she missed the quiet. There, mornings were filled with sounds of people living lives—dishes clanking in kitchens punctuated by the hissing of pressure cookers, neighbors paying milkmen, maids gossiping in hallways, cleaners listening to loud Bollywood music while washing the cars parked downstairs. In Gurgaon, all she heard in the mornings was the distant rumble of a truck on the main road. Mrs. Jha made a cup of tea and sat with it and the cordless phone on a cane chair on the small marble patio in front of the front door. She was about to call Mrs. Ray to find out how things were going with her and Upen when Rupak came out and joined her on the porch. She hung up the phone while it was ringing.
“Papa seems pretty excited about me meeting the neighbors. Do you need me to do anything before they come over?”
“No, nothing. You settle in. I’m sure you’re tired. You relax. I’ll see to everything,” Mrs. Jha said in a rush. She was startled by the phone ringing in her hand.
“Hello?”
“Bindu? Did you call just now?” Mrs. Ray said. “Is he home? Is everything okay?”
“I did, but I’m just a bit tied up now. I’ll give you a call back later tonight or tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, call soon. I have some good news to share,” Mrs. Ray said.
“Maybe I’ll come to Mayur Palli next weekend and see you. I miss it,” Mrs. Jha said. She looked over at Rupak sitting on the cane chair, looking like an adult.
“Is that Reema Aunty? Tell her I say hello,” Rupak said.
“So we’ll speak soon,” Mrs. Jha said, and put down the phone.
“She was in a rush but we’ll invite her over soon. I better go see what your father wants for breakfast,” Mrs. Jha said, and got up, picked up the newspaper, empty cup, and cordless phone and went back into the house.
Drugs. That had never been her world. Even when she was young, she was never rebellious. She knew that when she was in college, many people in Delhi were experimenting with drugs, but she had never gone near any of it. What was she supposed to say to him? Was she supposed to ignore it? Was she supposed to act happy that he was home?