But Abdul was unable to speak. He sat looking at me, and then he began to cry. Suddenly, I was terrified. “Are you not happy?” I asked.
He got up and washed his hands. Then, he came up to me, took my face in his hands, and kissed my lips, my eyes, my nose, my forehead. “My wife,” he whispered, “what a foolish question. Today is the happiest day in my life.”
He sat next to me, rocking me like a baby, and I thought, Whatever Abdul does to me, he’s doing to our baby. If he kisses me, he is kissing our son. If he rocks me, he is rocking our baby. The thought made me shiver. “Shall we go give Ammi the news?” I asked.
Abdul looked deep into my eyes. “Later,” he said. “Tomorrow. Tonight, I want to be alone with my wife. And my daughter.”
“Daughter?” I said. “I pray that it is a boy.”
“It can be a boy or a girl—it makes no difference to me. I love the baby already because my wife made it for me.”
“You helped,” I said.
Abdul’s eyes were bright. “Let me help some more,” he said, and untied my sari.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Smita looked up from the newspaper and wondered where the past two days had gone. It was a mellow Sunday morning, and she and Mohan were sitting on the patio, sipping tea and reading different sections of the Times of India.
What was Meena doing at this moment? Smita wondered. Was Ammi berating her for this reason or that, or had the groceries brought by Mohan cut some of the tension between them? How on earth did Meena spend her days? Was there even a radio in that dismal shack? Smita gazed at the lush garden around her—the fruit trees, the flowering bushes—and thought of Meena’s barren patch of earth.
Mohan looked up from the newspaper and stretched lazily. He caught Smita’s eye and smiled. She smiled back. This is nice, she thought. I could get used to this.
She sat up taller, bewildered by that complacent sentiment. She supposed it was a measure of how close a friendship she and Mohan had formed in the cauldron of a hectic, emotional week that such a thought had crossed her mind. They had already promised to stay in touch, but Smita knew how impossible that would prove to be. They would exchange emails for a few weeks; he would write a wry reminiscence that would make her feel briefly nostalgic. And then she’d shut her laptop and resume whatever task she was doing in New York.
If the verdict came the next day, as she hoped, they’d return to Mumbai by midweek, after she’d completed a few more interviews. Once back at the Taj, she would finish writing her story while Mohan spent time with Shannon at the rehab center. Smita had already resolved that she wouldn’t fly home without trying to contact Chiku Patel. They had once been close friends; surely, he would not greet her with the hostility that his mother had. Maybe he could add some fresh perspective. Of course Chiku would defend his mother. But still . . . All she wanted was a plausible explanation for that day in 1996. Chiku had been thirteen at the time—old enough to remember.
Smita then remembered that she hadn’t phoned Papa in several days. Ever since Mummy’s death, she had done her best to call him regularly from wherever she was traveling. She glanced at her watch—it was nighttime in the US, the perfect time to reach him.
“More tea?” Mohan said, reaching for the pot.
Smita hesitated. She wanted to go inside the house and use her cell phone while Mohan was still in the garden. But it was so lovely right there. “Sure,” she said. “Just a little bit more. But I need to make a quick call to my father before he goes to bed.”
“Of course,” Mohan said. “You can use the phone in the living room.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I can call on my cell.”
“Whatever you wish.” He stretched languidly. “What do you feel like doing today?”
The truth was, she was content to laze around and not leave the tranquility of the house. “Do you have stuff you need to do? Errands? Friends to see?” she asked.
“Nahi, yaar.” He smiled sleepily. “I just want to make sure you . . .”
“I’m happy to just hang out.”
He laughed. “What an old couple we are.”
She registered that Mohan had referred to them as a couple, but knew he meant nothing by it.
“What is it?” Mohan said after a moment. “You look upset?”
“You called me old,” she said. “What girl wouldn’t be upset about that?”
He laughed. “You’re the last person who would care about something like that.”
She got to her feet, pleased that he knew her well enough to understand that about her. “Well,” she said, “I’ll go call my father. See you soon.”
“Hi, Papa,” Smita said. “It’s me.”
“Arre, beta, how are you? Why no phone call in several days? I have been going mad with worry.”
Smita’s heart sank. Despite Papa’s reassurances that he was coping better with his grief, he had clearly slipped some. She had hoped that he had turned a corner. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Ah, forget it. But tell me. Are you enjoying yourself? How is your holiday going?”
“Oh, it’s just fantastic.”
“And the weather in the Maldives?”
She would soon have to tell Papa the truth. The less she lied, the better off she’d be. And yet, hearing the eagerness in his voice, she heard herself say, “I tell you, Papa, it is just so wonderful. Blue skies, clear water, white sand. It’s heaven on earth. It’s like a perfect day today. I’m having a great time.”
“Accha?” She could hear the lightness in her father’s voice and was gratified.
But the next moment, Papa’s worry resurfaced. “Listen, beta. You stay away from those cafés where the Western tourists hang out, okay? Those are the places that the terrorists target, you know?”
Smita’s mind flashed to her visit to the Leopold Cafe. Was that really just around ten days ago? “Oh, Papa,” she said, laughing. “The Maldives are pretty safe. Don’t worry. I’m fine. In any case, we are hardly leaving the resort.”
Papa told her about Alex’s latest escapades and then about the dinner party he’d attended earlier in the evening. Even though he kept up a lively conversation, Smita’s heart ached at the loneliness she heard in his voice. He misses Mummy, she thought. She knew how hard it was for him to attend parties by himself. She would go visit him soon after she got back.
“Chalo,” her father said after a while. “This phone call must be costing you a great deal.”
“It’s not. Don’t worry.”
“Well, beta, to be honest, I’m pretty tired. That party was difficult for me, you know?”
“I know you miss her, Papa,” Smita said. “I do, too.”
Papa sighed. “What to do, Smita? She had everything but the gift of years. Nothing we can do. What cannot be cured must be endured.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“Well, good night, my darling,” he finally said. “Khuda hafiz.”
“Khuda hafiz, Papa. You take care,” she replied as she hung up.
Smita lingered in the bedroom for a moment. Should she call Rohit to ask him to check on Papa? Not tonight, she thought, turning to leave the room. Mohan was standing in the hallway, holding the newspaper in his hand. From the expression on his face, Smita knew that he had overheard at least part of her conversation.
Smita shifted from one foot to the other. “What’re you doing here?” she said at last.
“I came in to make us more tea.”
“Oh.” There was a silence, painfully awkward, and Smita felt herself flush.
“How is your father?” Mohan said.
“Fine,” she said cautiously. “Sounds like you heard part of my conversation.”
“Yup. I heard. Something about you still being in the Maldives? Instead of in India?”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to worry him.”
“Why would he worry about you being in India?” And before she could think of an answer, Mohan added slowly, “Also, you said ‘Khuda hafiz’ before hanging up.”
“So what?”
“So . . . It’s a Muslim greeting, right?”
The suspicion in his voice ignited her anger. “I don’t appreciate you snooping on my conversation with my dad.”
“Snooping? I was simply crossing the hallway to go toward the kitchen when . . .”