“I see.” Smita bit a fingernail, stalling for time, her head reeling. After Shannon’s phone call had brought her vacation to an abrupt end, she had made her peace with visiting Mumbai again. Sitting in her hotel room in the Maldives, Smita had reminded herself of their history—she and Shannon had worked together at the Philadelphia Inquirer; later, she had gotten her job in New York because of Shannon’s advocacy. When Mummy had died eight months before, Shannon, who happened to be in the US at the time, had taken three days off to fly to Ohio to attend the funeral. More than anything else, it was this last act of friendship, this sense of a debt that needed to be repaid, that had made Smita say yes when Shannon asked her to fly to Mumbai. She had believed she was agreeing to spend a few days here to help Shannon get back on her feet. But instead, she found herself dealing with everything that she detested about this country—its treatment of women, its religious strife, its conservatism. But you’re the damn gender issues reporter, Smita reminded herself. It was a no-brainer for Shannon to summon you. Especially since you were a three-hour plane ride away.
“So, we’re talking about what?” Smita said. “Just a reaction piece, right?”
“I’ll leave that to you,” Shannon replied. “Maybe meet with Meena first and do a short profile on her—you know, what she’s thinking, a hopes-and-fears piece. And then do another, a local reaction story once the judge rules. What do you think?” She glanced at Nandini. “Nan is superb, by the way. A total pro. She’ll help you in any way she can.”
Smita decided to state the obvious. “Well, I don’t really need a translator. I mean, my Hindi ain’t great, but I think I can manage. They speak Hindi, right?”
“Yeah. And a peculiar dialect of Marathi.”
“If I may,” Mohan interjected, “the most important thing is, getting there will be a problem. It’s very rural. So having someone like Nandini, who knows the way, will help.”
Behind him, Nandini scowled. But only Smita noticed.
“There is a train station, but it’s not all that close to Birwad,” Shannon said. “Even the motel where we normally stay is a good distance from the village. You really do need a car.”
Smita nodded. She had no intention of taking a train through India.
The nurse returned with the pills Shannon had requested and bottled water, but Shannon motioned to her to set them on the bedside table. After the woman left, she made a sad face. “Once I take these, I’ll be zonked out for hours. I need to give you all the information now.”
“Okay,” Smita said. Things were spinning out of her control. There was no real possibility of refusing the assignment. What reason could she offer her editor, Cliff, for refusing to cover the story, after she had heedlessly rushed here? Cliff must have given Shannon his go-ahead to contact her. Hell, Smita thought, he probably thought he was doing me a favor, throwing me a great assignment. But why hadn’t he given her a heads-up? Anything that would have spared her the mortification of this misunderstanding.
Shannon gritted her teeth against the pain and began talking faster, even as her hand reached for the water glass and the two white pills. Smita’s stomach lurched. She had never broken a bone and was suddenly deeply grateful for that fact.
“If you hand me my phone, I’ll give you Anjali’s phone number,” Shannon was saying. “She’s the lawyer who’s helping Meena. As far as I know, Meena is still living with her mother-in-law. They live on the outskirts of Birwad. By the way, the brothers are out on bail and walking around free, believe it or not. Talk to them, too. And interview the village chief. He’s a piece of work, that guy. He terrorized her even before her marriage.” She swallowed the pills. “If you look up some of my past stories, you’ll get the name of the brothers’ village. Or maybe Nandini remembers. There’s also a sister somewhere . . .”
Shannon set the glass down. “Thank you for doing this, Smits. I owe you one.”
Smita dismissed the last of her reservations. The truth was, she would have asked for the same favor if the roles were reversed. And Shannon would have helped her without the slightest bit of resentment or complaint. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’ll call Anjali today and figure out when to leave. I’d like to be here for the surgery if I could.”
“There’s no need. Mohan will help . . .”
“That’s a good idea.” Nandini was nodding vigorously. “We must be here for the operation.”
“There’s no need,” Shannon repeated. “You need to assist Smita.”
They talked for another fifteen minutes, and then Shannon shut her eyes. After a few minutes, she gave a loud snort, then began to snore softly.
Smita turned toward Mohan. “How long will she be out?”
He looked at her quizzically. “Out?”
“I . . . sorry. I mean, how long does she sleep after these pills?”
“Oh. I understand. Hopefully, for three or four hours. But often, the pain wakes her up sooner.”
“Okay.” She looked around the room, wanting to talk to him privately. “Do you think—is there someplace I can get some coffee?”
“Yes, of course,” he said immediately. “Shall I go and—?”
“I’ll go with you,” she said, getting up before he could react. She turned to Nandini. “What shall we bring for you?”
“Nothing, thank you. I am fine.”
“Are you sure? You must be so tired.”
“I am fine.”
“Okay.”
“You mustn’t be angry at Nandini,” Mohan said as soon as they left the room. “She’s just very worried about Shannon. Feels responsible.”
“Why should she? It was an accident.”
He shrugged. “She’s a girl from a lower middle-class family. The first in her family to go to college. And she works with this American woman who is good to her and makes her feel valued. And she makes good money working for a Western newspaper. You can see why she feels loyal.”
“How long have you known Shannon?”
“About two years.”
“You’re a good friend,” Smita said as they waited for the elevator. “Helping her like this.”
“So are you. Interrupting your vacation to come back to your homeland to help her.”
“My homeland?”
“Yes, of course. You said you were born here, correct?”
“Yeah, but . . . I mean, I was a teen when we left.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think of India that way.”
“How do you think of it?”
What was with this guy, being so prickly? “I . . . I don’t,” she said at last. “Think about it that much. I don’t mean to be rude.”
Mohan nodded. After a moment, he said, “You know, I had this friend in college. He went to London for a month during summer vacation. One month. And when he came back, suddenly he was talking with a British accent, like a gora.”
The elevator doors opened, and they got in. Smita waited for Mohan to say more, but he had fallen silent. “What’s that got to do with me?” she asked at last.
“I hate this inferiority complex so many of our—my—people have. Everything about the West is best.”
She waited until they were out of the elevator, aware of a young guy riding with them eavesdropping on their conversation. In the lobby, she said, “Listen, I hear you. But I’ve lived in the US for twenty years. I’m an American citizen.”
Mohan stopped walking and looked down at her. After a beat, he shrugged. “Sorry, yaar,” he said. “I don’t know how we got on this stupid subject. Chalo, let’s get you your coffee. The cafeteria is right this way.”
Smita had a feeling that she’d somehow slipped a notch in his esteem. Fuck him, she thought. He’s just some kind of a nationalist.
“I left without breakfast this morning,” Mohan said. “Will you take something? Other than coffee?”
“I ate a big meal at the hotel. But you go ahead.”
Mohan ordered a masala dosa. Smita resisted the urge to order a fresh juice, settling for a coffee. “I used to love sweet lime juice,” she said.
“So get one, yaar,” he said immediately.
“I’m afraid it may upset my tummy.”
“Your American tummy.” But he said it with a smile in his voice.
His dosa arrived, and Mohan tore off a piece of the crepe and held it out to her. “Take it. Arre, take it, yaar. Nothing is going to happen. And if you do have an upset stomach, look around. You’re in a hospital.”
Smita rolled her eyes. She chewed on the crepe. Even without the potato filling, the dosa was heavenly, better than any she’d tasted in the States. “Sooo good,” she said.
His face lit up, and he immediately signaled for the waiter and ordered another. “Go ahead and eat this one. I’ll get mine soon.”
“Absolutely not. You’re the one who’s hungry.”
“And you’re the one who is eyeing this dosa like you’re a bloody famine victim. Eat. It’s obvious that you’ve missed the taste of home.”
The tears that sprang to her eyes took them both by surprise. Embarrassed, she looked away. There was no way to explain that his words echoed what Mummy used to say about missing the sights, smells, and tastes of India.