Bharati Mukherjee - Miss New India

She winced when she thought back to the squabbles and tears on the rare Sundays that her mother persuaded her father to have "Munitions" Mitter and "Tobacco" Nyogi and their families over for lunch. "A waste of my sweat-of-brow savings," "Railways Bose" ranted. "What favor have they ever done for us?" The only person he tolerated as a regular visitor was Dr. Fit-as-a-Fiddle Dasgupta, who was smart enough to leave after a double peg, which he earned by dispensing medical tips: hartaki-steeped water for constipation, ajwan water for indigestion, folic acid pills for child-bearing daughters. "Yes, please. The Auro Special." The Auro Special was a fizzy sweet-sour nonalcoholic cocktail that had become Anjali's new signature drink, and Swati brought out freshly blended ginger and mint paste, lime juice and chilled syrup when Auro was ready to play bartender.

"Don't do anything rash, Tara," Parvati begged her sister on the phone, "and promise you'll call me back in a couple of hours?" She flipped her cell phone shut. "Tara's cooking as therapy. She says cooking calms her, and the more elaborate the recipe, the better. She's sick of the same old, same old fight with Bish about where to retire. Bish wants us to look into Bangalore properties. Whitefield, Palm Meadows, for a start."

"Don't get sucked into Tara's problems," Auro admonished his wife. "Gin and lime? I'm serious, never lend money to relatives, and never, never give marriage advice."

"It better be a scotch tonight, Auro."

"That bad?"

"Bish wants to settle here, but she wants to bring up little Kallie in San Francisco."

"In other words, your sister would rather live in California than in Bangalore."

"Once Bish has made up his mind, it seems there's no changing it."

Auro laughed. "Pull of homeland, et cetera. We know about that, except you and I were on the same page." He fixed Parvati's drink: a halfpeg of single malt.

"Bish'll keep the San Francisco place for Rabi. That's the only concession he's willing to make. Tara's very upset."

"Upset as in furious? Or upset as in depressed?"

Anjali marveled at how openly they were discussing family fights in front of an outsider. Rabi's mother was lucky to have a sister she was so close to. She remembered her last bitter fight with Sonali-di in Patna. She'd been a novice runaway with a heavy suitcase then. She still had that suitcase, and she was still running. Boldly, she asked "Would you be offended if I changed my mind and asked for a glass of the Sula chardonnay instead?"

"As long as you promise not to get tipsy, my dear," Parvati joked. "Auro, did I tell you Bish is thinking of investing in a winery around here?"

"If it was anyone but Money-Spinner Bish, I'd say it was a crazy idea."

MR. GG PARKED his car in the Banerjis' driveway at two minutes before seven. Anjali had surreptitiously clocked him on her hand-me-down Movado. She pretended it was the wine, though it was Mr. GG's entrance that gave her a happy buzz. He was still in the dark suit that he wore to the office, but he had undone the top button of his starched white-stripe-on-white shirt and loosened the knot of his pink silk tie. Instead of a briefcase he carried a cellophane-wrapped gift basket of assorted nuts, candies and dried fruits. He presented it formally to Parvati, who showered him with thank-yous-"Oh, Girish, you didn't have to"-and handed it to the dog walker to unwrap.

"Mrs. Banerji," Girish Gujral announced, thick hands folded in na-maste, "your home is an oasis for weary wanderers. You see how I'm drawn back again and again."

Anjali, trusting instinct, decoded his flowery compliment to the hostess as his confession of lovesickness for the houseguest. She had dared hope for only a hint of his feelings and was rewarded with a declaration. She, not the house, was his oasis. Pleased, she arranged her legs on the chaise as she'd seen models do on the virtual deck chairs on virtual beaches on Mr. GG's Vistronics website. And sure enough, instead of joining Auro at the bar trolley, Mr. GG settled into the chair nearest her. "Miss Bose, you should always wear a tiger lily in your hair," he said, raising his highball glass.

"Then you'll have to make a habit of sending them, Mr. Gujral," she responded.

Why did clueless Auro have to pull up an ottoman close to Mr. GG's chair just then and bombard Mr. GG with prophecies of a Kali Yuga-scale financial meltdown? In this "epoch of cosmic slump" India must "decouple" its economy from that of Western nations. "We Indians hitched our bullock cart to the U.S. wagon, and now we're up to our knees in horseshit and bullock dung." Citing statistics about investment flight, capital lost, and plummeting rates of corporate expansion, he worked himself into cathartic wrath. Mr. GG refuted each of Auro's arguments and dazzled Anjali with his optimistic theory that a belt-tightening time in the United States equaled an outsourcing boom time in India. Debt collection was the newest growth area for call centers. He was part of a consortium scouting belly-up overseas businesses. "Best of all," he rhapsodized, "this is our chance to leapfrog and win the creativity race. We Indians are genius inventors, not just cut-rate mistris!"

Anjali had to concede that the tight-fitting vest, the saucy capri pants, and the bright blossom behind the ear were no competition for Auro's incitement to debate India's financial future. Auro was for decoupling; Mr. GG ardently against it; Anjali resentful of it for having turned Mr. GG from swain to debate champion. Parvati took her husband's side. "How can you be so smug, Girish? Nobody's recession-proof in this skittish economy." Student enrollment was down at CCI, and a competitor had already folded. She pummeled Mr. GG with more anecdotal proof. Two of Dr. Ghosh's nephews had been let go from their software programming jobs in Gurgaon. Dr. (Mrs.) Ghosh's beauty-and-brains niece-in-law ("top of her IIT class") had expected to pick and choose from fat-salaried job offers even before graduating, but months after finishing school she was still temping. Mr. and Mrs. Pandit, with the unmarried, aging twin daughters on the next block in Dollar Colony, had scratched all bridegroom candidates with IIT degrees from their list.

Anjali sulked. "Coupling" or "decoupling" made sense to her only in the context of her personal life. She didn't feel connected to global issues. She boycotted the conversation swirling around her.

Mr. GG surprised her with a question. "May I invite Miss Bose for a dekko of Bagehot House, what's left of it anyway?" He seemed to be asking for Auro's and Parvati's permission to ask her out for an evening ride. The casual seducer of Cubbon Park had evolved into a respectable, permission-seeking suitor.

Trust your impulses. "I'd love to," Anjali quickly answered.

Parvati hesitated. "Do you feel ready to see it? You don't think it's too soon, Anjali?"

"Well, she'll have to find out for herself, won't she?" Auro scolded Parvati. "And under what more reassuring circumstances than with Girish?"

Mr. GG rose from his chair. "If you are ready…"

Anjali couldn't get to the front door fast enough. "Tell me, Girish." Auro persisted in continuing the conversation. "The slump must be affecting your redevelopment plans for the Bagehot property? Be honest, bank loans must have become more iffy, even for a consortium of hotshots."

Mr. GG guided Anjali out the front door. "My dear Banerji, I'm constitutionally incapable of anxiety. It's off to Mexico and Hawaii early next week for me, Mrs. Banerji, but if there's any way I can be of service to CCI before or after the trip, please text me."

Anjali walked ahead of him to his Daewoo to cut short the lengthy goodbyes required by Indian etiquette.

THEY DROVE TO Bagehot House in silence. The rusty entrance gate was missing, probably carried off by scrap-metal scavengers. Heavy wrecking equipment was parked in the torn-up driveway. Two watchmen smoked near a small mound of excavated earth.