(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
"Nikhil," she said as he sat down on the stool beside her, and ordered a single malt.
"Yes."
"As opposed to Gogol."
"Yes." It had annoyed him, when he'd called her, that she hadn't recognized him as Nikhil. This was the first time he'd been out with a woman who'd once known him by that other name. On the phone, she'd sounded guarded, faintly suspicious, as he had. The conversation had been brief and thoroughly awkward. "I hope you don't mind my calling," he had begun, after explaining to her that he'd changed his name, "Let me check my book," sh'd told him when he'd asked if she was free Sunday evening for a drink, and then he'd listened to her footsteps clicking across bare wooden floor.
She studied him for a moment, playfully twisting her lips. "As I recall, given that you're a year older than me, I was taught by my parents to call you Gogol Dada."
He was aware of the bartender glancing at them briefly, assessing their potential. He could smell Moushumi's perfume, something slightly overpowering that made him think of wet moss and prunes. The silence and the intimacy of the room disconcerted him. "Let's not dwell on that."
She laughed. "I'll drink to that," she said, lifting her glass.
"I never did, of course," she added.
"Did what ?"
"Call you Gogol Dada. I don't remember our ever talking, really."
He sipped his drink. "Neither do I."
"So, I've never done this before," she said after a pause. She spoke matter-of-factly, but nevertheless she averted her gaze.
He knew what she was referring to. In spite of this he asked, "Done what ?"
"Gone out on a blind date that's been engineered by my mom."
"Well, it's not a blind date, exactly." he said.
"No ?"
"We already know each other, in a way."
She shrugged and gave a quick smile, as if she'd yet to be convinced. Her teeth were crowded together, not entirely straight. "I guess, I guess we do."
Together they watched as the bartender put a CD into the player mounted to the wall. Some jazz. He was thankful for the distraction.
"I was sorry to hear about your father," she said.
Though she sounded genuinely sympathetic, he wondered whether she even remembered, his father. He was tempted to ask her, but instead he nodded. "Thanks," he said, all he could ever think to say.
"How is your mother getting along ?"
"All right, I guess."
"Is she okay on her own ?"
"Sonia's living with her now."
"Oh. That's good. That must be a relief to you." She reached for the Dunhills, opening the box and peeling back the gold foil. After offering one to him, she reached for the box of matches that lied in an ashtray on the bar and lighted a cigarette for herself. "Do you guys still live in that same house I used to visit ?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"I remember it."
"Do you ?"
"I remember that the driveway was to the right of the house as you faced it. There was a flagstone path out into the lawn."
The fact that she could recall these details so precisely was at once startling and endearing to him. "Wow. I'm impressed."
"I also remember watching lots of television in a room covered with really thick brownish gold carpeting."
He groaned. "It still is."
She apologized for not being at the funeral, she'd been in Paris at the time. It was where she'd lived after graduating from Brown, she explained. Now she was a candidate for a Ph.D, in French literature at NYU. She'd been living in the city for almost two years. She'd spent the past summer temping, working for two months in the business office of an expensive midtown hotel. Her job was to review and file all the exit surveys left by the guests, making copies, distribute them to the appropriate people. This simple task had taken up her day.
"Why did you leave Paris for New York ?" he asked. "I'd think you'd rather study French literature in France."
"I moved here for love," she said. Her frankness surprised him. "Surely you know about my prenuptial disaster."
"Not really," he lied.
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