Mr. Jha said nothing and handed the car keys to the valet driver.
“Where’s the Peacock Haven?” Mrs. Jha asked the valet. “We’re here for the wedding reception.”
“That’s the back lawn. It’s quite a walk so you can just take one of our rickshaws,” the valet said, and whistled toward the row of three-wheeled auto-rickshaws that was parked to the right of the main entrance. They looked almost like the regular rickety auto-rickshaws of Delhi except that each one was brightly painted in a different style.
“We have to take a rickshaw from here?” Mr. Jha asked.
“Yes, sir,” the valet said. “They are solar powered and each rickshaw has been hand-painted by a contemporary artist from Delhi.”
A rickshaw with a Technicolor painting of the Taj Mahal on it pulled up, driven by a man wearing a crisp white kurta pajama with a red turban perched on his head. Mr. Jha had spent most of his life avoiding getting in auto-rickshaws, but now he was stepping from his Mercedes into one. He got into the rickshaw behind his wife as the valet driver took his Mercedes away to the parking spot.
“What a lovely idea. Too many people avoid rickshaws these days. This is nice,” she said.
“Seems a little gimmicky,” Mr. Jha said. It was bad enough that the local trains were getting popular, but now rickshaws?
“Will you please try to enjoy yourself today?”
“I’m just surprised that you like this,” Mr. Jha said. “I thought you hated everything about Gurgaon.”
“I never said I hated Gurgaon. It’s just very different from what we’re used to, that’s all.”
“You don’t want a guard, you didn’t want me to join the LRC, you want Rupak to keep studying, you don’t wear diamonds. It’s understandable that I’m surprised that you like these rickshaws. Isn’t this the equivalent of when that Hollywood actress wore a bindi and you got annoyed about it being culturally inappropriate?”
“That’s different. And in any case, wanting Rupak to keep studying has nothing to do with Gurgaon. I want our son to be like you—I want him to work hard and earn his success. And as for the LRC, I admit that I’m surprised. So far it seems quite tastefully done. I may have been wrong about it.”
Mrs. Jha just wanted him to enjoy this world again. It had been a difficult few weeks. It had been a difficult year but they had to move on. They had to be happy.
“Peacock Haven,” the rickshaw driver said.
Mr. and Mrs. Jha stepped out of the rickshaw and walked toward the large lawn. Big round bouquets of multicolored flowers dangled down from the trees on strings made of more fresh flowers. The lawn was dotted with metal heat lamps that gave off a hazy glow. A DJ console was set up at the back and a Frank Sinatra song played loudly. There were several stations set up for food—kebabs, pastas, pizza, a taco and burrito station, one section for Chinese food—vegetarian and nonvegetarian, one table just for Burmese khausuey, and a whole different section for desserts from all around the world. At all four corners of the lawn, there were bars set up and even from the entrance Mr. Jha could see that it was all imported top-shelf liquor and wine.
“Who are all these people?” Mr. Jha whispered to his wife.
“Just regular club members,” Mrs. Jha said. “Reema said they do this every Saturday night at the LRC. And members are allowed to invite guests. They haven’t set this up just for their reception. They just added us and the Guptas as guests.”
“This is a regular Saturday night here?” Mr. Jha asked. He looked around at the people dressed in Delhi’s Saturday best. There were women in tight bandage dresses with high heels that were digging into the grass every time they stood still. Some wore expensive designer saris with embroidered shawls or heavy furs over their shoulders. The men mostly wore suits, some with fashionable black coats that came all the way down to their ankles. A few wore turtlenecks under their blazers. It was easier to fit in, in the winter, Mr. Jha thought. He was also wearing a plain black suit with a blue button-down shirt and a black tie. And his wife, even though she was once again wearing one of her monochromatic sari-blouse combinations, had a dark red cardigan and a darker red shawl covering her shoulders that added a warmth to her face and made her look beautiful even though you could hardly even tell she had diamond earrings on, they were so small.
“Not quite the monthly Mayur Palli meetings, is it?” Mrs. Jha said. “Come on. Let’s go find the happy couple.”
As they walked across the lawn, Mr. Chopra saw them and boomed, “Jha! There you are! Where have you vanished?”
Getting a drink, he mouthed to Mr. Chopra, and pointed toward the bar. “Quick,” he whispered to his wife. “Move quickly before he comes up to us.”
“You’re going to have to talk to him. Reema just married his brother.”
“Later. We’ll do that later. Let’s get a drink first.”
“Anil,” Mrs. Jha said. But then she stopped. What was there to say? Nothing had been said after the last time they had seen the Chopras, and nothing could be said now.
“Come,” she said. “Let’s go to the bar. Isn’t it nice that nobody here knows us?”
As they walked toward the bar, a couple about the same age as them stopped and looked at them walking. Mrs. Jha smiled, trying to be friendly. They needed more friends in this neighborhood. But then the wife leaned forward and whispered to her husband, who looked at them more carefully, and then they both turned away. Mrs. Jha noticed her husband look at them and then look down at the ground for the rest of the walk to the bar.
Two young boys who looked about fifteen came up and asked the bartender for two glasses of vodka.
“My father will kill me,” one of them said.
“That’s why we’re getting vodka. He’ll think it’s water,” the other one said.
The bartender looked around, unsure what to do.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to serve you alcohol,” he said quietly.
“There’s no rules here,” one of the boys said. “My father’s on the board of the club and he won’t be happy to hear I was denied something.”
The waiter put out two glasses and filled them to the brim with ice.
“No, no, no,” said the same boy. “I don’t just want a glass of ice with a thimble of vodka, man. Just give us like four or five cubes of ice and fill the rest up with vodka.”
The waiter did as the fifteen-year-old demanded, and the two boys took their glasses and walked away.
“Black Label, on the rocks,” Mr. Jha said to the bartender, who was wearing a tie that was similar to his, equally narrow. “Make it a double.”
“And I’ll have a Limca, please. No ice,” Mrs. Jha said.
“Bindu!” Mrs. Ray said, rushing toward the bar toward the Jhas. She was wearing a gold chiffon sari and, despite the chill in the air, no shawl or sweater. Her hair was pulled into a low chignon and Mrs. Jha marveled at how beautiful her friend looked.