She turned to him, disoriented, confused. “The bathroom?” she said. “I feel a little faint.”
Smita held on to the sink as she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Relax, she told herself. You’re under a lot of pressure. So you had a weird . . . But what exactly was it? A hallucination? A premonition? A feeling of déjà vu?
Then, she knew: It was wishful thinking, a moment’s indulgence, a case of the If Onlys. A phantom image created by intense longing. All she had to do was wait it out, and the moment would pass. In fact, it had already passed. She knew from experience that no matter how much she loved a place or a person, she just had to wait for the fever to break. It always did. During her first year in the States, she had refused to eat any of Mummy’s Indian dishes, had been adamant about learning to love mac and cheese and hamburgers and pizza. It was her way of forgetting India. Yes, she determined, she would simply wait out her love for Mohan, allow it to subside into affection.
Smita splashed cold water on her face, dried herself, and stepped out of the bathroom. Mohan was perched on the edge of his bed, but he rose immediately. “Are you sick?” he asked. “Do you need to lie down?”
“I’m okay.” She forced a smile. “I’m much better.”
They walked back into the dining room. “Come, beta,” Zarine said, patting the chair beside her. “Nothing like a good cup of tea to chase away all ailments.”
“Is it time to wake up Abru?” Smita asked as she sat down. The thought of leaving Zarine’s flat without seeing the child awake was too depressing.
“Sure,” Mohan said. “I’ll go get her.”
“I’m sorry,” Zarine said as soon as Mohan was out of the room. “I forgot my manners. What to do? I love that boy so much. I cannot bear to see him hurt.”
“It’s okay, Auntie,” Smita said. “It means a lot to me that he has someone like you who cares for him.”
Zarine shook her head in wonder. “Accha?” she murmured. “You love him that much?”
Smita flushed. “I do.”
“I see.” Zarine peered at Smita from the top of her glasses. “So, take him back with you. Who does the poor boy have in Mumbai except for my husband and myself? Two oldies? All he does is work, work, work. He may as well live in America.”
“Auntie. You don’t understand. It’s not that easy.”
“I see. It’s not that easy.” Zarine blinked furiously. “Tell me something. Is it easier to break this poor boy’s heart? To leave him stuck with the child all alone?”
Zarine was making her head spin, adding to the disorienting quality of the day. Besides, how was this any of her business? There was a noise in the hallway, and then Abru came running into the room, her hands raised. Before Smita could get up, the child flung herself at her and tried to climb into her lap. A startled laugh escaped Smita’s lips as she lifted Abru and hugged her. Was there anything more flattering than being the object of a child’s affection?
“Do you want some custard?” she said to the girl, who stared back at her.
“Wah,” Zarine said. “Look at her. She thinks you’re her mother.”
There was a painful silence in the room. “Okay, Zarine Auntie,” Mohan said. “Enough drama. Please.”
“I’m sorry,” Zarine said.
Smita busied herself feeding bites of dessert to Abru. “This custard is superb,” she said. The dessert reminded Smita of the cardamom kulfi her mother used to make. What would Mummy say if she could see her now? Would she be proud of her for fighting her fears and coming to India? Smita had a feeling that she would.
“Thank you,” Zarine said. “It is my mother’s recipe. Her brother was a wedding caterer.”
“Hmmm. I remember going to a Parsi wedding when I was a child,” Smita said. “The food was out of this world.”
“What was the name of the couple?” Zarine asked.
Smita laughed. “Auntie. I have no idea. I was a kid.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Zarine had the grace to look abashed. “When did you leave India?”
“In 1998. I was fourteen.”
“I see. We had a chance to go. When we were first married.” She looked at Mohan. “Your Jamshed Uncle had a job offer. But we didn’t take it.”
“I didn’t know this,” Mohan said.
“It was donkey’s years ago. Ancient history.” Zarine leaned over to wipe Abru’s mouth with her napkin.
“Do you regret not going?” Smita asked.
“Regret? No. I was so busy taking care of my old parents and my son—who had time for regret-fegret?” Zarine smiled. “Besides, home is where the heart is. As long as I’m with my Jamshed, even hell would feel like paradise.”
“Jaasd,” Abru said suddenly.
“Oh my God,” Zarine squealed. “She’s talking. She just said my Jamshed’s name, I swear.”
Mohan took Abru from Smita’s lap after they were finished with lunch. “Do you want to go for a walk?” he asked. “I can show you around Dadar Parsi Colony and the Five Gardens before we head back?”
“I’d like that.” Smita turned to Zarine. “It was so nice to have met you,” she said. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Zarine grinned. “So formal,” she said to Mohan, as if Smita were not present. She pulled the younger woman into her arms. “Safe journey to you. God bless.”
“God bless,” Smita repeated.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
On the way to the airport, Mohan played a Hemant Kumar CD. Smita listened as Mohan sang along to a particularly haunting song by the velvet-voiced singer: “Tum pukar lo / Tumhara intezaar hai.”
“That’s so lovely,” she said.
“I love this song.”
“I can see why. What do the lyrics mean? What’s ‘pukar lo’?”
“He’s saying, ‘Call out to me—I am waiting for you.’ ”
Smita took his hand and held it in her lap, trying not to cry. She wanted to reassure him and repeat what she’d said the day before—that she’d try and visit any time an assignment brought her to Asia. But the time for promises was behind them.
After a few seconds, she cracked the window slightly, and India rode in on the night air and entered the car, a third passenger who, she suddenly realized, had been present from the moment she’d met Mohan.
The police officer stood under the large signs that read: Ticketed Passengers Only. But Mohan slipped into the airport terminal with Smita, wheeling her bag. “I still cannot believe you don’t check in a suitcase,” he said. “Don’t you know that traveling abroad with bags as big as dining tables is part of our national heritage?”
“Years of practice traveling light,” Smita said. She looked around nervously. “Security is going to catch you. If not now, then on your way out.”
Mohan clucked dismissively. “Don’t worry about me,” he said.
They moved away from the main doors. She took in his tousled hair, the shirt that clung to his body due to the humidity. “Thank you for everything, Mohan,” she said. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
He stared at her wordlessly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “So?” he said at last. “I guess this is it.”
The other passengers rushed past the two of them as they stood gazing at each other. The last time she’d left Mumbai, twenty years before—with Sushil accompanying her family to the airport—Smita couldn’t wait to get away. This time, she held herself still, as if her body were a clay pot filled to the brim with grief. One false move, and all her emotions would spill over.
Mohan looked at his watch. “You should go,” he said. “There’s usually a long line at security and immigration.”
She took his hand in hers. “You’ll write? You’ll keep me informed about how things proceed with Abru’s paperwork?”
“Yup.”
“And . . . and you promise not to be too sad? For my sake?”
“I’ll be fine,” Mohan said, and smiled that new, cynical smile. “Once I’m back at work, I won’t even have a chance to miss you.”
“Good,” Smita said, pretending to believe him. “Good.”
She kissed his cheek. “Bye, my Mohan. I’ll miss you.”