“He was kicked out of graduate school in America, so even completing in India is not really an option now,” Mr. Jha continued.
Mrs. Jha got up and walked over to Mr. Jha and took his wineglass from him. She stayed standing next to her husband, avoiding going to the kitchen in case he gave away more information to the neighbors. She looked at him and didn’t recognize him, his eyes large and wild, darting around the room from person to person. A small V-shape of sweat had formed on the white T-shirt he was wearing under his tracksuit.
“Well, no harm,” Mr. Chopra said. “There are other options. You can join a company and work your way up. Even Bill Gates was a dropout. There are many paths to success these days.”
“Oh, unlikely,” Mr. Jha said. “Very, very unlikely.”
“Don’t despair,” Mr. Chopra said. “I’d be happy to put you in touch with some people. What are you interested in? Banking? Consulting? We know lots of people. Half the board members of HSBC are members of the LRC. I will set up some introductions. Take advantage of the neighbors. Let us help.”
“That won’t work!” Mr. Jha said, more loudly than before. “Don’t you hear me? He was kicked out. We wouldn’t want to embarrass you by asking for your help. There’s no hope. I will be taking care of him forever. Forever. Thank God I’ve earned enough for the next generation. And maybe the one after that as well. But who will marry Rupak?” Mr. Jha slapped his thigh and faked a loud laugh. He took his glasses off and used the sleeve of his tracksuit to wipe the sweat off his face. “Wine! Who wants more wine? Where’s my glass?”
Mrs. Jha put her hand on his shoulder. The rest of the room went silent. Even Mr. Chopra had no words left to offer. Mrs. Chopra fidgeted slightly—a crystal was poking her right thigh.
“We should head home,” she said after a few more uncomfortable moments that felt like long minutes. “Rupak, you must be tired.”
“Not before the soup!” Mr. Jha said. “There’s chilled soup.”
Mr. Chopra put his wineglass, still half full, down on the coffee table.
“What happened? Don’t you like that wine?” Mr. Jha said. “It’s good wine.”
“It is,” Mr. Chopra said. Everyone wanted to get up, but nobody moved. “You just poured a bit too much for me. I’m not much of a wine drinker. And my wife is right, we really should get going.”
Mr. Jha nodded absentmindedly and continued, “Drugs. He was kicked out for drugs. Expelled. For drugs.”
“Anil,” Mrs. Jha said. “That’s enough.”
“Papa,” Rupak started.
“He had to leave the university and the country,” Mr. Jha said, shaking his head now but also smiling.
“You know what? I’m starting to get worried that I left the oven on,” Mrs. Chopra said. “I really should go home and check on it. You know how maids are—they’re probably watching television in the back and won’t even notice until the whole house burns down around them.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Jha said. “We can continue this some other—”
“I’ll go!” Mr. Jha said, and jumped up. “I’ll go and check the stove. Bindu, serve the soup. You can’t leave before the soup. It’s chilled soup. Like they serve on MasterChef. I’ll just dart over and check your stove and be back in two minutes flat. Meanwhile, you start with the soup. How convenient to live next to each other, isn’t it? No reason to go home early. Let the neighbors help, like you said, Dinesh. Take advantage of the neighbors.”
With that, Mr. Jha rushed out his front door into the dark night before anybody could stop him.
“Good evening, good evening, Balwinder. No need to get up. I’ll let myself in. Stay where you are. I’m just doing a quick favor for Mrs. Chopra and then I’ll be gone,” Mr. Jha said. “And Balwinder, please tell your agency to send a guard for us to interview. Tomorrow. We can do it tomorrow. I want a guard.”
The cobblestones on the Chopras’ driveway crunched under his white sneakers, which were looking bright in the moonlight. He entered the foyer of the Chopras’ home and looked up at the mural on the ceiling. He walked through the quiet living room toward the kitchen at the back—the ground floor of their home was designed almost exactly the same as the Jhas’ home. He could hear the television on in the back room. Everything in this home felt expensive. He took his sneakers and socks off and let his feet sink into the thick carpet in the living room. He stroked the smooth head of the Buddha bust as he walked past it. He stopped and kneeled and touched his hot cheek against the cool stone.
He continued past the dining room to the kitchen. The home was perfect, not a thing out of place yet not a trace of the maids, except for the faint sounds of the television from the back. But the kitchen, their kitchen wasn’t as nice. A wooden stepladder leaned against the wall, a cobweb thick under one of the steps. Under it, on a yellowed newspaper, lay a rusted paint can and a hardened paintbrush. He looked at the kitchen counter and noticed a round metal spice box, the kind every home in Mayur Palli had and he was certain no house in Gurgaon had. The fridge handle was sticky. The faucet dripped. Mr. Jha leaned against the fridge and steadied his breathing, tied it to the sound of the drip—breathe in for two drips, out for two. He should hurry. If he didn’t go back home, one of them would come looking for him. The stove wasn’t on; he knew it wouldn’t be. Mr. Jha walked back out to the dining room, then the living room.
He stopped to put on his socks and sneakers. The light from the foyer trickled into the living room. He had one sock on but he left the remaining sock and shoes on the floor in the living room and walked into the foyer and looked up at the Sistine Chapel. The painting was ugly, the lines too harsh, and the colors too basic.