“You will, darling. There’s nothing to do there. You’re not going to want to go diving and there’s absolutely no shopping. Go to Mallorca, it’s much better.”
“Take a skiing vacation. That’s what we did last year, and it’s so cozy to sit in the log cabins all bundled up with some mulled wine.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” the first one said. “I hardly get to wear my heavy winter clothes in Delhi.”
“We just got back from New York,” Mrs. Jha interjected.
The three women looked at her and did not respond for a moment. They looked behind her at Mr. Jha and then back at each other. One of them finally said, “Well, New York is always an option. It never loses its charm.”
Mrs. Jha was relieved that they had not laughed in her face.
“It was lovely,” she continued.
“We saw the musical Cats,” Mr. Jha added, also pleased that these women were talking to them.
“I’ve seen Cats,” the one in the long dress said. “I saw three Broadway shows when I was there last time, can you believe it? Oh, you’re right. I do miss New York. Maybe it’s best to go back there again. I haven’t been in almost a year. It’s a wonderful idea.”
“Absolutely,” Mr. Jha said. “Always a good excuse to go to Tiffany’s.”
The three women laughed and nodded in agreement and sipped their drinks.
Rupak, with his camera draped around his shoulder, came to his parents.
“Where’s Serena?” Mrs. Jha asked.
“In the bathroom. Reema Aunty told me you were here already,” he said. “I’m enjoying shooting this—it’s a strange part of the city. I probably shouldn’t have invited her tonight when I’m trying to work.”
“Oh, are you a photographer?” one of the women cooed at him while touching his upper arm. Mrs. Jha looked alarmed. She had never seen women, especially older women, treating her son like this. Rupak looked toward his parents. Mrs. Jha pretended not to notice, and Rupak, convinced that she hadn’t, looked back at the woman, smiled, and said, “Film. I want to make films. Here, say hello. It’s a wedding video.”
Rupak lifted the camera up and pointed it at the woman, who laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder and said, “Men with cameras are always charming.”
Mrs. Jha wanted to pull Rupak back by the arm and hold him close to her, but she resisted.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” the woman in the short dress and fur jacket said. “Are you members of the club?”
“We only just moved to Gurgaon,” Mrs. Jha said.
“But we are hoping to join the club. We thought we would check it out,” Mr. Jha added.
“Well, I hope you do, director sir,” the woman in the short dress said to Rupak, and the other two laughed. Mr. Jha also laughed along. Look at Rupak charming everyone. His son, his genes. He looked over at his wife, who was not laughing.
Mr. and Mrs. Chopra came to the bar to find the Jhas. Mrs. Chopra was wearing yet another heavy sari with gems stitched into it. Her jewelry sparkled and she was carrying a small Birkin bag. Mrs. Jha had heard that you had to put your name on a waitlist to get a Birkin bag in India.
“Anil, where have you been?” Mr. Chopra said, slapping Mr. Jha on the back. “You’ve all but vanished.”
“We’ve been around. Just a bit busy,” Mr. Jha said.
Serena approached the group then, and nobody reacted except for Mrs. Jha, who noted that Serena was dressed rather casually for the evening—had Rupak not told her that it was a formal event? Never mind. Mrs. Jha gave her a hug.
“Rupak, you have an assistant already?” Mr. Chopra said, his hand still on Mr. Jha’s shoulder. “Good to see all of you here tonight.”
Who would say that, Mr. Jha wondered nervously. Why had they even come tonight? It had seemed until now that everyone in Gurgaon lived in their own big homes and paid no attention to the neighbors, but suddenly this felt exactly like Mayur Palli. Worse. At least there the neighbors liked each other despite the gossip. At least there Mr. and Mrs. De would still send a box of sweets to Mrs. Ray even though she had accused him of stealing her yoga pants.
“Seema, Pinky, Delilah, have you met our new neighbors?” Mr. Chopra said to the three women standing next to them.
“Neighbors?” the one in the short dress said.
“You mean the…,” the one in the kurta trailed off.
Seema, Pinky, Delilah? Those were really their names, Mrs. Jha thought. Who had their parents been? With a name like Delilah, of course you would be wearing a long kaftan dress and ankle-length white flowing cardigan on a Saturday night. With a name like Delilah, you would never be wearing a neatly ironed sari.
“The Jhas. Mr. and Mrs. Anil Jha. And their son, Rupak,” Mr. Chopra finished.
“Oh…,” the one in the dress said. “The Jhas.”
“Oh my God,” the one in the kurta said. “Yes, you’re the…my driver…my guard…” She tried to stop herself from laughing. She turned her face into her shoulder to muffle the sound. The woman in the dress tugged it down and sipped from her glass, smirking into it while looking the Jhas up and down.
“What? What happened?” Delilah said. “And I’ve finished my sangria already. It was mostly ice anyway. Why are you two laughing?”
“Nothing,” the one in the kurta said, still stifling laughter. “We aren’t laughing. Nothing. We’ll tell you later. And that drink was not mostly ice. You’re drunk.”
“What will you tell me later?” Delilah said, while motioning to the bartender to get her another drink. “What about your driver and guard?”
“Shh, forget it,” the one in the kurta said. “These are the Jhas. Mr. and Mrs. Jha. The new neighbors.”
“The Jhas? The Chopras’ new neighbor!” The woman in the kaftan dress spun away from the bar and slurred loudly. “The one who fell off the ladder. Who your guard told your driver about? The ones from East Delhi!”
The woman in the kaftan dress laughed with less discretion than her two friends, staring straight at Mr. Jha, who wasn’t breathing. Next to him his wife had moved a few inches away without even realizing, and Rupak had quietly lowered his camera.
“That’s right,” Mr. Chopra said, putting his hand again on Mr. Jha’s shoulder. “Our new neighbors. Mr. Jha here is the one you must have heard fell off a ladder while trying to fix a part of the painting on our foyer ceiling. He’s been to Italy and has seen the real Sistine Chapel, you see. What a wonderful new neighbor to have. Have you ladies been to Italy?”
“Apparently there’s some sunlight in the middle of the painting,” Mrs. Chopra added confidently.
Rupak looked surprised. Everyone looked a little surprised.
“It’s true,” Rupak said. “And yes, you really should visit Italy. It’s beautiful.”
“It really is,” Mrs. Jha added. “Forget New York. If you haven’t been to Italy, that’s where you must go.”