Mrs. Jha stepped away and opened the fridge. She could feel the sweat gathering under her arms. She leaned down and allowed the refrigerated air to slip down the front of her blouse. She was gaining weight. She looked over at Mrs. Ray, who seemed to become younger and more beautiful every day. Granted, at forty-two, Mrs. Ray was seven years younger than Mrs. Jha, but her glow wasn’t just about age. She looked younger now than she did when Mr. Ray had died five years ago. Mrs. Ray had been only thirty-seven when her husband died, and at first widowhood had forced her to immediately become older. But Mrs. Jha had noticed Mrs. Ray gradually reversing that trend, and now she looked over at her friend with happiness and a sudden stab of envy. Even her hair seemed to have become thicker.
“Your hair is looking good these days.” Mrs. Jha said, and shut the fridge. “Are you using some new hair oil?”
Mrs. Ray turned around from the stove, wiped her hands on the towel that was on the counter, and touched her right hand to her hair.
“It’s improved, hasn’t it?”
“Share your secret, Reema.”
“The usual,” Mrs. Ray said. “Lots of leafy green vegetables and coconut oil in the hair overnight once a week.”
“We’ve been doing that for years. It must be something else,” Mrs. Jha said.
Mrs. Ray laughed a little and turned back to the stove to open the pressure cooker.
“What is it?” Mrs. Jha asked. “What secret are you keeping from me?”
Mrs. Ray faced Mrs. Jha.
“Oh, Bindu, it’s ridiculous. Prenatal supplements! I’m taking prenatal supplements because I read that it helps the hair, and it’s true—my hair has never looked better! Every alternate day I take one pill,” Mrs. Ray said. “I feel so crazy when I go to the chemist to buy it; I make up some excuse or the other each time, as if I’m buying it for my niece or for a friend or something. Imagine a childless widow getting prenatal vitamins.”
Mrs. Ray spooned the daal into a glass bowl for serving. She shook her hair out and looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Jha, laughed, and said, “Prenatal vitamins for widows! Don’t tell anyone.”
In a way, being widowed young and childless allowed Mrs. Ray to have a second youth, one unencumbered by family. And as far as young deaths go, Mr. Ray’s quick and powerful brain aneurysm five years ago at age forty was as simple as possible. At least he didn’t suffer and Mrs. Ray didn’t have to deal with the guilt in the aftermath of a loved one’s suffering. Mrs. Jha knew it had been difficult for Mrs. Ray—young widows make people nervous. When Mr. Ray died, a lot of the other women in Mayur Palli treated Mrs. Ray like a bad-luck charm or a seductress—but Mrs. Jha looked over at her friend now and saw only vitality and a good head of hair. She immediately felt guilty for envying a widow. May God always keep my husband safe, she quickly said to herself.
“Do you know what I had to do this afternoon? I had to unpack all the decorations for the drawing room and put them back up so the guests wouldn’t guess as soon as they walked in,” Mrs. Jha said.
She took out the bowl of chilled yogurt mixed with onions, cucumbers, tomatoes, and spices, pushed the fridge door closed with her hip, leaned against it, and sighed. Mrs. Ray was now ladling the chicken into a large glass serving bowl, and she laughed.
“You’re living the dream, Bindu,” Mrs. Ray said. “In any case, you should be glad you’re getting out of here. This housing complex is not the same as it used to be.”
Mrs. Ray reached over for a napkin to wipe the curry off the rim of the bowl. She turned off the second flame on the stove and said, “Someone stole a pair of my yoga pants from my balcony.”
“What?” Mrs. Jha said. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent,” Mrs. Ray said. “Anyway, it’s silly. I didn’t even want to mention it, but be glad you’re moving. Everybody here interferes too much in each other’s lives. You are lucky to be going somewhere where you will have some privacy. Count your blessings.”
“Reema, you have to complain about this at the next meeting,” Mrs. Jha said.
“And what? Draw more attention to myself? Forget it. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t be doing yoga on the balcony.” Mrs. Ray said. She turned back to the counter and put a large spoon in each serving bowl. “Here, the chicken and the daal are in the bowls. I’ll take them out to the dining room. Do you need anything else?”
Mrs. Jha turned to Mrs. Ray and said, “Thank you. Just send my husband in here, please.”
Mrs. Jha picked up the pan from the stove and dropped it in the sink. Water splashed out and wet her sari, darkening the blue fabric near her bellybutton.
Mr. Jha came into the kitchen. It was smoky and felt as though the loud exhaust fan above the window was pushing hot air back into the kitchen. It would be nice for his wife to have a new kitchen with a door leading out to the backyard instead of this small space that was the same size as one of the bathrooms in the new house. All the surfaces had become sticky with years of oil splatter. Mr. Jha wanted one of those kitchens he had seen in television cooking shows—all stainless steel with pots and pans hanging off hooks above the stoves. Even though he never cooked and hardly even entered the kitchen, he wanted the spices kept in clear glass bottles in a wooden holder hammered into the wall. He was sick of the salt and sugar being browned by fingertips and clumpy through humidity.
“I think they’re ready for the news now,” Mr. Jha said. “I tried to get them started on the idea of ‘home.’ Said it isn’t defined by location. I made some quite moving points, I think. I talked about home being where the heart is and all that. No need to mention that home is where the double servants’ quarter is.”
He paused, then continued, “What are you doing in here? I was just about to announce our plans when you rushed off screaming about the chicken. Would you prefer it if I called people in here? The Guptas have definitely not been over since we got the new dishwasher.”
“I am not screaming about anything. I’m just trying to serve our guests a decent dinner. If you had let the maid stay, I would have had the help I needed. I have been spending all day every day packing boxes, going back and forth from Gurgaon in the heat, setting up the water filters, dealing with the air-conditioning installation—”
“It’s your fault that you’re going back and forth in the heat. I’ve told you a thousand times to take the car. You act as if you’re scared of the car. The car, the new house, a washing machine, everything. Everything, Bindu. You think the new dishwasher will ruin the serrated knives—you’re scared of everything.”
Rupak entered the kitchen.
“What are you two doing? The guests are getting restless. And, Dad, Reema Aunty wants some more wine. Should I take out another bottle of white from the fridge?”
“Don’t call him Dad!” Mrs. Jha said as Mr. Jha returned to the living room. “What’s wrong with calling him Papa? You’re studying in America, but you aren’t an American.”