The Windfall

by Diksha Basu

His India was neither rich nor poor. There were no huge homes and elaborate weddings, nor were there slums and water shortages and child laborers. The middle ground was too confusing to explain to an outsider. It was neither exotic enough nor familiar enough.

Her mother had taught her how to make this chicken curry and it had always been Rupak’s favorite. She hoped Rupak’s wife would someday learn how to make it. Wait, no—she was supposed to say she hoped Rupak himself would someday learn how to make it. She sometimes forgot to be a feminist.

“How come Americans get called expats but if we move to America, we’re called immigrants?”

“Doesn’t look like God is doing any of these people much good. Any of the gods,” Mr. Jha whispered to his wife as a man with a white bandage covering one eye walked past them. “Well, you don’t know what state he’d be in if he didn’t come to the temple,” Mrs. Jha said.

“Sundays make me think of death anyway,” she would say. “If I slept for half the day, I’d go crazy.”