“The LRC? Where every single person from this neighborhood will be? Interfering in everyone’s business? Rupak really wants to go?”
“He’s already gone. He wanted to set up his equipment; he rented everything from a shop in INA Market—he said he didn’t want to buy new equipment until he could prove he was good at it. He’ll meet us there.” Mrs. Jha stood up and picked up her blouse and her sewing kit. “And he invited Serena along as well, so he’s picking her up. She’s in town for the holidays and I think it’ll be nice for all of us to see her.”
“He’s seeing Serena again? Bindu, doesn’t it worry you that she would put up with him after what he did?”
It was true that Mrs. Jha was surprised that Serena was coming—from everything Rupak had said about her after their Ithaca trip, she got the distinct feeling that Rupak and Serena didn’t actually get along. She hoped Rupak wasn’t forcing things just because he felt he ought to. As upset as Mrs. Jha was about his actions in Ithaca, she didn’t want him to live his life with some false sense of duty. She wanted him to be happy. But she was glad Serena would be there, because having an outsider in the midst always makes things easier. Knowing they could not discuss any private family matters took the pressure off needing to discuss private family matters.
“Anil, this isn’t about Rupak, or you, or me. This is about Reema and Upen. And we are going. Get up, get ready, and plan to leave the house at seven forty-five,” Mrs. Jha said. “And put the blanket away when you get up. It makes the living room look messy.”
“I’m not at all happy about this,” Mr. Jha said. “And it’s called a throw, not a blanket.”
They were both silent for some time.
“Bindu,” Mr. Jha said.
She looked over at him. He had taken his glasses off and was rubbing his eyes.
“Bindu. Do you think if we asked the Ramaswamys to leave early, they would? I could return the rent they’ve paid so far.”
Mrs. Jha said nothing. She wanted to go over to him, but her body felt too heavy.
After picking up his equipment from INA Market, Rupak drove to Khan Market to get Serena. He wasn’t feeling particularly excited about seeing her, but he was grateful that she had agreed to come tonight. His parents were making a real effort to forgive him and resume some sort of normalcy, so he still felt he owed them Serena even though it was Elizabeth he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Rupak was fiddling with the radio tuner, trying to find a channel that played anything other than Bollywood hits or the news, when Serena approached the car and knocked on the window. She was holding a cup of take-out coffee from Café Turtle, and her hair was loose and more wavy because of the humidity, and she was wearing a bindi on her forehead that made her dark kohl-lined eyes somehow look even bigger. She smiled at him as he unlocked the doors. When she got in, he noticed that she was wearing an off-white salwar kameez with a green and gold dupatta draped like a scarf around her neck, and was carrying a cloth bag. She certainly looked beautiful but her clothes were completely inappropriate for the LRC. He had assumed she would be wearing jeans and heels like she always wore in Ithaca.
“You look nice,” Rupak said, hoping she would respond with an explanation for why she was dressed like this.
“Thank you. I love being back in my Indian clothes,” Serena said.
“It’s strange seeing you in Delhi.”
“I can’t believe we’re going to the famous LRC. I never thought I’d set foot in there,” Serena said, as if she could read his mind.
“Do you know much about it?”
“I know that they frown upon Indian clothes. On Indians anyway. I’m sure they’d be thrilled if a white hippie showed up wearing a shabby kurta. Right?”
Rupak didn’t answer. He was irritated that she was trying to turn dinner into a statement of some sort.
“How are all your friends in Ithaca? Is everyone back in Delhi for the holidays?” he said.
At the Moti Bagh intersection, on the pavement, a young girl sat in a torn salwar kameez, two sizes too large, her face dirty and her hair matted. She was watching over a toddler who sat between her legs, naked with dried snot on his face. A man with one arm moved from car to car selling strings of fresh jasmine flowers wrapped in newspaper.
“Uncle! Uncle!” Serena called out to him, and turned to Rupak and said, “I’ve seen him on this corner for years. I wonder if he’ll remember me.”
The man came over.
“How are you, Uncle?” Serena said in Hindi.
“Thirty rupees for a bunch, fifty for two,” the man said, not responding in the slightest to Serena’s attempted familiarity.
“The price has gone up,” Serena turned and said to Rupak. “Just one, please. You’re looking well, Uncle.”
The light changed to green and cars were honking from behind them and circling around to get past them.
“Madam, please hurry,” the man said, looking over his shoulder toward the impatient cars behind them.
“Membership card, sir,” the guard at the LRC said to Mr. Jha.
“We aren’t members,” Mr. Jha said. He looked down the tree-lined driveway of the LRC and tried to imagine himself being a member here, coming in his gym clothes for a hit of tennis or a few swings of golf. Were those the right terms? Or was it a swing of tennis and a hit of golf?
“Yet.” Mrs. Jha undid her seat belt and leaned across from the passenger seat. “Jhas. We’re here for the wedding dinner for Reema…Ray? Chopra? Did she change her name? Maybe it’s under Upen Chopra?”
“Do widows change their names back to their maiden name after the husband dies?” Mr. Jha asked his wife.
“Mr. Anil Kumar Jha?” the guard said, holding up a sheet of paper with a list of names on it.
Mr. Jha nodded. Mrs. Jha sat back upright in her seat. The guard handed Mr. Jha a red plastic card and said, “Sir, please keep this carefully to return at the exit gate. For security purposes. Your party is in the back lawns called Peacock Haven. You can give your car to the valet at the main entrance at the end of this driveway.”
“He didn’t check our ID. I could have just nodded and not actually been Anil Kumar Jha,” Mr. Jha said as he drove slowly, very slowly down the driveway. “I really don’t think I should be here, Bindu.”
Mrs. Jha put her hand on her husband’s hand on the gear.
“It will be a nice evening,” she said. “And if you hate it, we’ll leave. Okay?”
Mr. Jha nodded. They had arrived at the end of the driveway, where the valet drivers were waiting in black pants and white tucked-in shirts. The entrance was large and regal with dim lighting and five-foot-tall vases with purple bougainvilleas spilling out. The awning was fitted with heat lamps and Mr. and Mrs. Jha stepped out of their car into the outdoor warmth in the middle of the Delhi cold. Mrs. Jha looked up at the warm yellow glow above.
“This feels even less like Delhi than the rest of Gurgaon. Do you want to get one of those for our front entrance too?” she said with a laugh.