But after we get off the Sea Link and pull into a neighborhood the driver calls Bandra, the atmosphere changes. The stalls along the dusty streets display a mix of old and new. The clothing gets a little more stylish, and couples cuddle up along the sea. My driver is like a tour guide. We drive along the busy Bandra streets just as the sun begins to sink. Every time we pause, women with babies or small children pound on the taxi windows for handouts. I don’t have any rupees yet, but I slip a few American coins through a cracked window, along with an apple and a bag of chips that I had in my purse, and they go nuts.
There are bakeries and outdoor clothing stalls and men with sewing machines setting up shop on the side of the road. There’s a hair salon with a sign that reads Curl Up and Dye. There’s a tiny ice cream shop advertising something called kulfi. Cows walk in the streets and laze on the sidewalks. Horns never stop honking; and on the backs of trucks there are signs that read Horn OK Please. I can see why Adam never wants to leave: in this short drive, the sights and sounds are enough to infuse my tired body with energy that could last a decade.
Charlie hated Bombay; that much I remember. He hated the smells, the homeless people, the pollution, the sick and deformed animals and people. He hated having to sterilize vegetables and brush his teeth with bottled water. You’d have thought Charlie would have been used to that—he moved around all his life—but he was much more of a Europe/North America kind of guy.
I can feel my pulse racing as we turn onto a busier highway. I remember this road from our trip from the airport earlier today. Adam lives in Andheri, right by the airport, on the northern end of Bombay, where the slums stretch for miles and aren’t punctuated by the bungalows or restaurants that dot Bandra, or the British-style cafés of South Bombay.
“Linking Road,” says the driver in his melodic, carefully syllabled way.
I’ve seen the pictures Adam’s posted on Facebook and Instagram. Since graduation, he’s been working for an NGO set up to aid educational programs within the slums. In some of his photos, he holds little Indian babies who are screaming and reaching for their mothers standing just out of the frame. In others he beams over mountains of chicken-studded rice, mystifying sauces in simple silver tureens waiting by his elbow. My favorite photo, though, is one of a goat wearing a T-shirt next to a stall that displays Bollywood posters. There’s a cart holding piles of lychees just barely in the shot and a sign offering the services of a bonesetter in the background.
I’ve seen Adam’s house, too: a low-lying slum house—not the worst kind, sheltered by a tin roof or a tarp, but the “nicer” cement-block kind—with the words Home Sweet Home painted next to the door. Behind the house rises the Holy Spirit Hospital. Even before I reached out to him on Facebook, I knew Adam lived in the neighborhood of Andheri. But as of yesterday, I have his whole address:
Opposite Merwans bakery
Near Andheri East Metro station, SV road
Andheri East, Mumbai, Maharashtra
“Is this how you get your mail?” I typed at him. And he answered with “Yep. ?”
Adam’s not expecting me and Lena until tomorrow, and by now it’s nearly seven p.m. I’m standing there in front of the salmon-colored house, having paid a total of ten dollars for my ninety-minute taxi ride, when I realize how insane I’m being. I swivel back toward the taxi, but it’s too late; it’s already halfway down the street.
I take a step away from the house. People are everywhere; the house is so small, I could probably reach around and hug it. Instead I turn, hating myself for doing something so stupid—for coming here all by myself with no real idea where I am or how to get back.
Then the curtain that functions as a door swishes, and I hear his voice.
“Aubrey,” he says. It’s all it takes. I turn, moving toward him like I’m on a leash. Women with baskets on their heads eye me curiously, but I ignore them, pretend there’s no heat flaming in my cheeks at all, and focus only on Adam. He steps inside the shack and I follow and he closes the curtain behind us. It’s all black and we’re the only ones inside. “Aubrey,” he says again, but he whispers it this time, like it’s a prayer.
Then he’s on me, pushing me against the wall, his mouth on mine as I wrap my legs around his waist and he hoists me up, pinning me there, working his tongue inside my mouth and his mouth on my neck and finally, when he lets me down, his hands in my hair.
None of this was ever about Charlie, I realize, as my hands intertwine with Adam’s and press against his back and work their way over the muscles of his chest. The minute Lena and I hopped on our first plane—the minute there was Bombay—Charlie ceased to exist. Adam fills all the emptiness inside me that Charlie created.