Mohan sat back and watched her with satisfaction. “See?” he said after a few minutes. “You’re still a desi at heart.”
She stopped chewing. “Why is it so important to you? For me to reclaim my”— she made air quotes—“homeland”?
The waiter set Mohan’s dosa down in front of him. “Shukriya,” Mohan said before turning his attention back to her. “It’s not a question of important or not important, yaar. It’s just that . . . who could ever leave Mumbai and not miss it?”
“What would I miss? The fact that every time I rode the bus, a stranger felt entitled to touch me? Or that every time I wanted to leave home wearing a short dress, my dad wouldn’t let me because of the ruffians on the street? Tell me.”
“But that’s not fair,” Mohan said. “That stuff happens everywhere in the world.”
“Sure. Definitely. But I’m trying to make you understand something. That your Mumbai isn’t the same as my Mumbai.”
Mohan grimaced. “Okay. I get it. My sister has often said the same thing.”
“Good.” She nodded, finishing the last of her coffee. “How old is your sister?”
“She’s twenty-four.”
“And she goes to college in Mumbai?”
“Shoba? No, she’s married. She’s settled in Bangalore. I’m the only one here in Mumbai.”
“You are here in the city alone?” she said.
“Yes. Even though I hate being alone.”
He looked so sheepish that Smita burst out laughing. Something about him reminded her of her brother, Rohit.
“If you don’t mind, I want to order a sandwich for Nandini,” Mohan said. “You know, she takes two buses to get here. I’m sure she has not eaten today.”
Yup. He was very much like Rohit. “That’s great,” she said. And she didn’t even offer to pick up the tab. He was a Mumbai boy, and Mumbai boys didn’t allow guests to pick up the check. That much she still knew.
Chapter Four
They could hear loud voices coming from Shannon’s room as they approached.
“Oh God, she’s awake,” Mohan said. “The pain pills didn’t work.”
“Where the hell have the two of you been?” Shannon snapped as they entered her room, and Smita froze, transfixed by the distress she saw on Shannon’s face.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “We just got a bite to eat.” She took in Nandini’s pinched, teary face, and felt sorry for the younger woman.
“Well, I’ve had it,” Shannon said in the same, harsh tone. She turned to Mohan. “Dr. Pal stopped by while you were away. Turns out they can’t give me any fucking drugs stronger than what I’m on.”
“I’ll talk to him—”
“No. It’s okay. He’s convinced me. I’m going under the knife tomorrow. Pal says this other guy’s pretty good. I can’t wait another goddamned day.”
“Shannon, are you sure?” Mohan’s voice was low, his brow furrowed with worry.
“Yeah. I’m sure,” Shannon said, dissolving into tears. “I can’t take another moment of this pain.”
Mohan took in a sharp breath. “Okay,” he said. “This is a good idea.”
Shannon pulled her hand out from under the sheet and held it out to Mohan. “And you’ll be with me? After Smita and Nan leave?”
“Yes, of course.”
There was a sound from the corner of the room, and they all startled as Nandini rushed out. Shannon looked at Mohan. “I can’t deal with her theatrics,” she said. “Go talk some sense into her.”
“What’s going on?” Smita asked, but Mohan shook his head and left the room.
Smita pulled up a chair next to the bed. She could hear Mohan and Nandini talking in the hallway, the woman’s voice high and strident.
“You got Anjali’s number. right?” Shannon asked with her eyes closed. “You’ll call her soon and find out if she has a date for the verdict?”
“I will. I got it. Now, stop worrying about work.”
Shannon smiled. “You’re the best. This is why I could trust this story to only you. You’ll understand Meena, like none of the other reporters can.”
Waiting for Mohan to return, Smita sat watching Shannon as she dozed. After a few minutes, she got up and walked to the window. Outside, the sea crashed against the enormous boulders, spraying spittle into the air. She jumped, realizing Nandini was standing next to her. She hadn’t heard her come back into the room. “Oh, hi,” Smita said, not bothering to hide her annoyance, dreading the thought of being alone in the car with this strange woman.
“I’m so scared, madam,” Nandini said. “My friend’s mother had this same surgery. And she died.”
Was it fear that was making Nandini act so strange? “She’ll be fine,” Smita said. “This is a good hospital.”
Nandini nodded. “Mohan bhai was also saying that to me.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “But, madam, Shannon has been so good to me. Better than my own sisters, she has treated me.”
Smita had seen this phenomenon all around the world—young women from low-income families, slender as reeds, working insane hours against insane odds to better their lives. And the gratitude they felt toward bosses or benefactors—anyone who tossed a morsel of kindness their way—was so heartfelt, so earnest, that it never failed to break her heart. She pictured the crowded tenement where Nandini lived, the long commute by public transportation, the Herculean efforts to learn English, and at long last, the chance to work for a Western agency or newspaper—the liberation that came from such an opportunity, and the loyalty that this inspired.
“Nandini,” she said, “Shannon is otherwise healthy. She will bounce back quickly. And in the meantime”—she took a deep breath—“we will have a good time together, okay?”
“One thing, Smita.” The younger woman’s eyes swept her body. “You will need some other, more modest clothes, like shalwar kameez. It’s a conservative area we are going to.”
Smita flushed. Did Nandini think she was some kind of a rookie? “Yes, I know,” she said. “I will buy some outfits later today. As you know, I was on vacation until yesterday.”
“That will be good.”
They stood looking out at the sea until a nurse came into the room. She said something to Nandini in rapid-fire Marathi while Smita looked from one to the other. She heard the word “American” a couple of times, the nurse looking visibly upset. Finally, the woman turned to Smita and said, “It is past visiting hours, madam. You must leave.”
“She’s here,” Smita said pointedly, nodding toward Nandini.
“Matron has made exceptions for Miss Shannon’s caretaker and the tall gentleman. But please, guests are allowed only during visitation hours.”
Smita sighed. “Okay.” And when the nurse didn’t move, she said, “Please give me a few minutes to make some plans.”
“Five more minutes.”
Smita followed the nurse out into the hallway. Mohan was at the nurse’s station, talking to the same young medical resident as before. Mohan spotted her, said something to the young man, and approached her. “You’re leaving?” he asked.
“I’m being kicked out.”
“They’re very strict about visiting hours. But I could try . . .”
“It’s okay. It sounds like they’ve already made an exception in your and Nandini’s cases.” She heard the bitterness in her voice and knew that Mohan had heard it, too.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shook her head. “It’s fine. The fact is, I still have to prepare for Birwad. I need to contact that lawyer. And also, I was told by Nandini that I must buy more suitable clothes for our trip.”
Mohan looked embarrassed. “We are all under pressure,” he murmured. He then brightened. “By the way, I just got some good news. They are putting Shannon at the top of the list. Hers will be the first surgery of the day tomorrow.”
“Great. What time should I be at the hospital?”
“Let’s see. They will take her in by seven. But nothing is going to happen until eight. And it’s a long surgery. Even if you came by nine or ten . . .”
“I’ll be here at seven.”