“Now?” He sighed. “What to do, yaar? Now, I’m in love with this mad city. Once you’ve had a taste of Mumbai, you can’t live anywhere else.”
For a moment, Smita hated Mohan for his smugness. “And yet, millions of people do,” she murmured.
“Right you are.” Mohan swerved to avoid a pothole. “So why did your family leave?”
She was instantly on guard. “My papa got a job in America,” she said shortly.
“What does he do?”
She turned her head to see what movie was playing at Regal Cinema as they passed it. “He’s a professor. He teaches at a university in Ohio.”
“Wow.” He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Smita beat him to it.
“You’ve never thought of settling overseas?” she asked.
“Me? He considered for a moment. “Yah, maybe when I was younger. But life is too hard abroad. Here we have every convenience.”
Smita took in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, the blare of the horns, the plumes of smog from the truck in front of them. “Life is too hard abroad?” she repeated, her tone incredulous.
“Of course. Here, I have the dhobi come to the house on Sunday to pick up my laundry. The cleaner washes my car each morning. For lunch, Zarine Auntie sends a hot tiffin to my workplace. The peons at my office go to the post office or the bank or run any errand I ask them to. When I get home in the evening, the servant has swept and cleaned my room. Tell me, who does all this for you in America?”
“I do. But I like doing it. It makes me feel independent. Competent. See what I mean?”
Mohan nodded. He lowered the window for a moment, letting in a blast of midmorning heat, then rolled it back up. “You must be mad, yaar,” he said. “What’s so bloody great about being ‘independent’?”
With his Ray-Bans and in his blue jeans and sneakers, Mohan looked like a modern guy. But really, Smita thought, he was like all the other pampered Indian men she had known in America.
“Bolo?” he said, and she realized he was waiting for her reply.
“I . . . I don’t even know how to answer that. I mean, being self-sufficient is its own reward. I think it’s just one of the most valuable traits a person can . . .”
“Valuable to whom, yaar?” he drawled. “Does it help my dhobi if I wash my own clothes? How will he feed his children? And what about Shilpi, who cleans my room every day? How does she survive? Besides, you’re dependent, too. You’re just dependent on machines. Whereas I’m dependent on people who depend on me to pay them. It’s better this way, no? Can you imagine what the unemployment rate would be like if Indians became . . . independent?”
“Your argument would make more sense if these people were paid a fair wage,” Smita said, remembering how upset her former neighbors used to get every time Mummy gave their servants a raise, accusing her of raising the bar for the rest of them.
“I do my best to pay well,” Mohan said. “I have had the same people work for me for years. They seem happy.”
Mohan fell silent and Smita glanced at him, afraid that she had hurt his feelings. We all have our cultural blind spots, she reminded herself. “I guess independence is in the eye of the beholder, right?” she said. “For instance, the freedom I feel in America as a woman? You can’t even imagine . . .”
“Agreed,” Mohan said at once. “We Indians are in the Dark Ages when it comes to the treatment of women.”
“Look at this poor woman we’re going to go see. What they did to her, it’s barbaric.” Smita shuddered.
“Yes. And I hope they give those bastards the death penalty.”
“You believe in the death penalty?”
“Of course. What else can you do with such animals?”
“Well. You can lock them up, for one thing. Although . . .”
“And that’s better, this locking them up?” Mohan asked.
“Well, you’re not taking a human life,” Smita said.
“But you’re taking away human freedom.”
“Obviously. But what do you propose . . . ?”
“Have you ever been locked up, Smita?”
“No,” she said carefully.
“I didn’t think so.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning . . .” He slowed down as a woman crossed the street in front of them, dragging her three children behind her. “Meaning, when I was seven, I was very sick. For the longest time, the doctor couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. But every evening I would get extremely high fevers. I was confined to the house for four months. No school, no playing cricket, no going to movies, nothing. In those days, our family doctor used to make house calls, so I didn’t even have to leave the house to go to his clinic.” His voice was low, faraway. “I have a small experience of what it’s like to be locked up.”
“Are you really comparing being sick for a few months to being locked up in prison for life?”
Mohan sighed. “I guess not. Not really. There’s a big difference, of course.”
They were quiet for a few moments. “Honestly, I can’t even remember how we came to this topic,” Smita said at last.
“I was saying I hope those brothers are given the death penalty. And you were defending them.”
“I did no such thing,” Smita protested. “I just don’t believe in the death penalty.”
“But that’s what these chutiyas gave to Meena’s husband, right? The death penalty?” He said it softly, but she heard the anger in his voice.
Smita was too weary to respond. The debates surrounding abortion, the death penalty, gun control—she knew from her years in Ohio how tightly people clung to their opinions. This is what she liked about journalism—she didn’t have to choose sides. All she had to do was present each side of the argument as clearly and fairly as she could. She assumed that she and Mohan were more or less the same age and came from similar class backgrounds. But that’s where the similarities ended—he held beliefs that would shock her liberal friends back home. But what did it matter? In about a week or so, with any luck, she’d be flying back home—this trip, this driver, this conversation forgotten.
The modest motel was so off the beaten path that they had to stop twice and ask for directions. As they entered the building, Smita speculated that there were probably no more than nine rooms. Instead of entering through a reception area, they walked up to a small desk. They rang the old-fashioned bell, and after a moment, a middle-aged man appeared from the back room.
“Yes?” he said. “May I help?”
“We’d like to rent two rooms, please?” Smita said.
The man looked from one to the other. “Two rooms?” he repeated. “How many in your party?”
“Just the both of us,” Smita replied.
“Then why you are needing two? I can offer one maybe. Someone called earlier today and said a big wedding party may be coming tomorrow.”
“Well,” Smita said, “we’re here today. And we need two rooms.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You are man and wife, correct?” he asked.
Smita felt her cheeks flush with anger. “I don’t see how that . . .”
“Because this is a respectable family establishment,” the man continued. “We don’t need any problems here. If you are married, you can have one room. If you’re not, we cannot rent to you. Full stop.”
Smita was about to snap back, but Mohan squeezed her arm and stepped in front of her. “Arre, bhai sahib,” he said, smoothly. “This is my fiancée. I told her that we could stay in one room and save some money. But what to do? She is a girl from a good family. She insists on having her own room. Until the wedding.”
Smita rolled her eyes, but the clerk’s face had begun to soften. “I understand,” he said nodding. “For you, sir, I will make an exception. I applaud your modesty, madam. You may have the rooms. For how many days will you be staying?”
Smita hesitated, but Mohan had begun to reach for his wallet and was pulling out a few hundred-rupee notes. “This is for being so understanding,” he said. “We will pay separately for the rooms, of course. But this is just because of the extra trouble. Because we don’t know yet how long we’ll be staying.”
“No problem,” the clerk said, sticking the bills in his shirt pocket. “You are visiting for family reasons?”