Mohan sat down across from her. “Do you ever get used to seeing such misery? I mean, in your line of work you must see this kind of thing often, no?”
She shook her head, unable to answer. Everywhere she went, it seemed, it was open season on women. Rape, female genital mutilation, bride burnings, domestic abuse—everywhere, in every country, women were abused, isolated, silenced, imprisoned, controlled, punished, and killed. Sometimes, it seemed to Smita that the history of the world was written in female blood. And of course, to go into the far-flung parts of the world to tell these stories required a certain amount of dispassion. But getting used to it? That was another thing altogether. No, she wouldn’t be worth her salt as a reporter if she ever got used to the injustice inflicted on women like Meena.
“I . . . I don’t think so,” she said. “But, I’m never in a place long enough to get really involved, you know?”
He frowned. “That’s good?”
“It’s not a matter of good or bad. It’s just the nature of the beast.”
“I see.” He nodded. “Okay, I should let you work. See you later.”
Smita watched as Mohan walked away, took in the loping walk, noticed how he strode with his palms facing backward. She turned back to her laptop and began to read about Meena’s sad, ruined life.
Chapter Eight
Three hotel employees had already approached Smita as she stood in the lobby of the Taj with her suitcase, asking if she needed assistance. She reached for her phone to call Nandini.
“Hey.” The male voice came from behind her, making Smita jump. She turned around so fast that Mohan took a hasty step backward, raising his hands in an appeasing gesture. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle.”
“What are you doing here?” Smita looked around the Taj’s lobby. “Where’s Nandini? Is Shannon—”
“Shannon’s fine,” Mohan said hastily. “She has a slight fever, but the doctor said it’s not unusual.” He hesitated, looking at Smita closely. “But Nandini. Well. She had a meltdown at the hospital this morning. She called me on my mobile, crying. She’s refusing to leave Shannon’s side.”
“What is she, in love with Shannon or something?” The words were out of Smita’s mouth before she could take them back.
Mohan looked at her, one eyebrow crooked. “No,” he said. “She just . . . cares about Shannon, that’s all.”
She heard the chastisement in his voice and flushed. But her anger rose again. “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated, I guess. I mean, she should’ve backed out yesterday. It’s going to be hard to find another translator on such short notice. What if the verdict comes—”
“There’s no need for that.”
“Yes, there is. I know Hindi, but I’m not fluent and I don’t particularly want to drive myself to Birwad,” Smita said, her voice rising. Another guest, a woman who was speaking on her phone, brushed up against her, not paying attention, and Smita glared at her. “Excuse me,” she hissed, and the woman glanced back, startled.
“Smita,” Mohan said, “I’m your new driver. And translator.”
“What? No way. I’m sorry, but no.”
Smita saw the hurt look that rippled across Mohan’s face. She opened her mouth to explain, but he raised his left hand to stop her, fishing his phone out of his pocket with his right. He dialed a number. “Here you go,” he said. She heard the note of impatience in his voice. “Talk to Shannon.” He walked away before she could react.
“Hello? Mohan?” Shannon’s voice was weak, groggy.
“It’s me,” Smita said quietly. “I’m sorry to trouble you.”
“Smits. I apologize for all this.” Shannon lowered her voice. “Nandini just stepped out to get me some ice water, so I’ll talk fast, okay? Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Smita said. Already, it was beginning to feel as if the trip to Birwad with Mohan was yet another thing she had no control over.
Shannon sighed. “Great. Listen, between you and me, I’d rather have Mohan here and Nandini with you. But what can I do? Nan has been hysterical since you left yesterday, and I just don’t have the energy to deal with her theatrics. Also, she was up with me almost all night long. To be honest with you, I’d be afraid to let her drive in this state.”
“Mohan said you have a fever?”
“I’m fine,” Shannon said. “But here’s the thing—it’s actually better that you travel with a guy on this assignment. This is a very traditional area you’re going to, and they’ll respect you more if you’re with a man.”
Smita scoffed, “You travel with Nandini.”
“That’s different. I’m this big, white American broad. Men like Meena’s brothers don’t even see me as a woman. They’re a little afraid of me. You know what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“Hang on.” Smita could hear Nandini’s voice in the background, heard Shannon mutter, “Thank you,” and then let out a sharp “Fuck!”
“I’m back,” Shannon said. Her voice was hoarse, and Smita surmised that her pain level had shot up again. “Can I ask?” Shannon continued. “What’s the big deal about going with Mohan? He knows the area better than . . .”
Even though Mohan had wandered a good distance away, Smita whispered into the phone. “I hardly know him,” she said.
“Oh, come off it, Smits,” Shannon snapped. “Like you know most of the minders you travel with when you get to a new country?”
“That’s true, but . . .”
“Okay then,” Shannon said. “I guess we’re good?” She sounded as if the matter were settled. “Smits? Are we good?”
“We’re good.” Even as she said it, Smita marveled at how skillfully Shannon had played her. “Okay, I’ll see you soon. You keep getting better.”
“Thanks, love. Stay in touch. And remember, I owe you big.”
Smita looked in the rearview mirror as Mohan pulled out his wallet and handed a few bills to the elderly doorman who had insisted on placing her suitcase in the trunk. She had waved him off when he’d hurried up to them, but Mohan had shot her a disapproving look and asked her to get in the car. As he got in the driver’s seat and began to back up the car, she said, “It was just one bag. We could’ve handled it.”
He clucked at her. “Eh, what to do? He’s almost my father’s age and probably needs the tips. I didn’t want to insult him.”
She nodded, chastised by his generosity. “And you?” she asked. “Have you already packed, or do we need to . . .”
“Yes. My bag is in the trunk, also.” He fiddled with the air-conditioning dial. “I’m just glad that girl had the sense to call me before I had left home this morning.”
“Me too.” She was suddenly grateful for Mohan’s lighthearted presence, such a contrast to Nandini’s dour demeanor.
Mohan gestured toward the back seat as they pulled out of the hotel driveway. “By the way, we have omelet sandwiches in the cooler, in case you’re hungry,” he said. “Zarine Auntie is a fabulous cook.”
“Your landlady made you sandwiches this morning?” Smita said.
“Landlady? She’s more like a second mother to me, yaar. But it’s true. She spoils me rotten.”
“Aren’t all Indian men spoiled?” Smita said, a smile in her voice. She thought of Papa, who had never cooked a meal for himself until her mother died. Papa. How happy he’d been to learn she was extending her vacation by a week, not suspecting a thing.
“Maybe,” Mohan replied. He lowered the volume on the radio. “Mostly by our mothers. Not like those poor American children. Forced to leave their homes at eighteen so that their parents can enjoy being—what’s that term you Americans use?—empty nesters. As if human beings are birds.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve read about it. How you must leave your home the instant you turn eighteen. Whereas here in India, my God. Parents would kill themselves before they would force their child to leave.”
“First of all, nobody is forced to leave. Most teenagers are dying to strike out on their own. And secondly, didn’t you leave your parents’ home?”
He gave her a quick look. “True, true. But that was for my schooling.”
“And now?”