Mohan looked pleased. “Thank you,” he said quietly, as if she had complimented him on his own apartment. “You should come here at sunset. It’s heaven on earth.”
She thought of all the beautiful, magical places she had visited—Capri, Saint-Tropez, Paros. As beautiful as this park was it could hardly compare with the heart-stopping beauty of the places she’d been. And yet, in the middle of a dirty, crowded metropolis, it was a kind of paradise. She took in the old couples sitting quietly on the stone benches, watched the affluent residents of the neighborhood walk briskly by, the old gardener watering the pots of flowers that dotted the walkway. But what tore at her heart was the sight of the middle-aged women, fat as dumplings, jogging in their tennis shoes and saris, their bellies jiggling. Something about this sight felt so quintessentially Mumbai. Or Bombay, as her parents insisted on calling their old city. Yeah, this was Papa’s Bombay—cosmopolitan, sophisticated, but also resolutely out of step with the rest of the world.
She nodded. “It is,” she said.
Mohan turned toward her, surprised, and she realized that he had braced himself for an argument. Had she really made herself so obnoxious the day before that he felt defensive around her? Her feelings for this city were complicated. She was sorry that he had registered only her disapproval.
Mohan pointed to a bench in a shady spot. “Shall we sit for a few moments? The sun is already so hot.”
A bird chirped above them, but when Smita looked up, she couldn’t spot it. “That sounds so lovely,” she murmured.
“It’s rare,” Mohan said. “The city’s mostly overrun by crows. They’ve chased all the other species out. It’s only in this posh part of town that you spot other birds, occasionally. And thankfully in Dadar, we still have parrots.”
“Do you own an apartment in Dadar?”
He shook his head. “Actually, I live as a paying guest with a Parsi family. I went to college with their son, but he lives in Bangalore. It works out great—I have my own room, and Zarine Auntie sends a hot lunch tiffin to my office every day.”
“Is it because you hate living alone?” Smita said, remembering their conversation from the day before.
Mohan nodded, without a hint of self-abasement. “Yah. Also, rents in this city are absurd. I mean, if it’s London or New York, I can understand shelling out so much. But in this bloody city, with its potholes and dirty air? Absurd.”
“Oh, so now you’re dissing Mumbai?” Smita teased. “I thought you loved this city?”
“I do,” he said promptly. “But you don’t love something because you’re blind to its faults, right? You love it despite its flaws.”
She nodded. They sat in silence, staring out at the sea. Smita remembered going to the seaside during the monsoon season, how the ocean used to heave and spit, thrilling her with its might and fury.
“What about you? Do you live with your parents?” Mohan asked.
“Are you kidding me?” The words escaped her lips before she could pull them back. She registered the insulted look on Mohan’s face. She reminded herself that her not living with her parents probably seemed as odd to him as living with his would have seemed to her. “I don’t,” she said. “And in any case, my mother is dead. She died eight months ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “My condolences.”
Smita blinked hard, staring straight ahead as she wrestled for control of her emotions.
“I am really sorry,” Mohan said after a few minutes. “I cannot imagine what I would do if something happened to my mother.”
She nodded, unable to say what she was thinking: What had made Mummy’s cancer diagnosis and quick death even more unbearable was knowing that Mummy would die without ever seeing India again. That somehow, the final bereavement had echoed the earlier one, as if Mummy had died not once but twice. The fact that they’d landed on their feet in America didn’t diminish the hardship and loneliness of exile: The early promise of Papa’s academic career thwarted; the two-year period when Rohit refused to invite his white classmates to their modest apartment after one boy had screwed up his nose and said, “Ew. It smells like curry in here.” Smita herself had grown quiet and distant, far removed from the fun-loving, lively girl she’d once been.
“Where do they live?” she asked. “Your folks?”
“In a town called Surat. It’s about five hours’ drive from here.”
“Do you see them often, then?”
He shrugged. “Not so much. They bought another place in Kerala after my papa retired, and they spend a lot of time there. And when I’m working, I put in long hours.”
“Can’t you go see them now? Since you’re off for two weeks?”
Mohan clasped his hands behind his head and stretched back against them. “Well, they’re away at the moment. Normally, I would have gone for a few days to check on the house. But now, with Shannon being sick, I don’t know.”
“Shannon. We should call, no?”
“In a minute.” Mohan paused. “I admire Nandini,” he said. “From what Shannon says, she’s very good at her job. But to be honest, yaar, she’s gone a bit pagal since Shannon’s accident.”
“Pagal?”
“You know? A bit mad.” He pointed to his temple and made a circle with his index finger, making the universal gesture.
“She acts as if she hates me,” Smita said. It felt good to be able to verbalize this.
“No, don’t be silly. I told you. She’s, like, mad with worry.” He sighed heavily. “It will be better when she gets out of town with you. I’ll find it easier to manage in the hospital without all her drama.”
“I hate drama, too. That’s why I’m dreading traveling with her.”
“I understand. But Shannon really respects her.” Mohan pulled on his lower lip. “How many days do you think you’ll be gone?”
“I’m not sure. I spoke to my editor on my way here this morning. He wants at least a couple of stories.” Smita exhaled. “I brought my laptop with me today. I will need to work from the hospital this afternoon. I still have to read Shannon’s previous stories, and I probably need to talk to Anjali some more.”
Mohan raised his eyebrows. “Nandini will have all that information, yaar. Don’t worry.” He rose from the bench. “Maybe we should head back. But first, we can stop by a few clothing stores.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Smita said hastily. “I can do this later. I didn’t mean for you to help with that.”
“Oi, Smita,” Mohan said, “take pity on a poor fellow. Don’t make me go back to the hospital just yet. I’m telling you, this surgery is going to take hours.”
As they walked toward the exit to the park, Mohan phoned Nandini. “Sab theek hai?” he asked her in Hindi. “Fine, fine, good. We will be back in a couple of hours. But call if you need anything before then, accha?”
As it turned out, Smita was grateful for Mohan’s company. The salesman at the store sized her up immediately and began to show her the most expensive and garish outfits. Smita protested, but the man ignored her. “Oh, bhai,” Mohan intervened after a few minutes. “Memsahib is not going to a wedding. She is visiting some very poor people in a village. So show her the simplest cotton outfits you have.”
The salesman looked so put off that Smita fought to keep a straight face. “Maybe madam should go to Khadi Bhandar,” he muttered, loud enough for them to hear. But he signaled to Smita. “Please to come this way, madam.”
In the end, they left the store with four identical shalwar kameez outfits, each in a different color. “I wanted to shop at Colaba yesterday but ran into the same problem,” Smita said.
Mohan shook his head dismissively. “All these people are chors,” he said. “Colaba has so many foreigners that it’s the worst. They just fleece people.”
Smita smiled. “I grew up in Colaba,” she said. “It was this way even twenty years ago.”
“Oh really? Which street?”