Honor E-Book

Thrity Umrigar

• Herausgeber: Swift Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 472

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

'A powerful, important, unforgettable book' Cheryl Strayed, author of Wild In this riveting and immersive novel, bestselling author Thrity Umrigar tells the story of two couples and the sometimes dangerous and heartbreaking challenges of love across a cultural divide. Indian American journalist Smita has returned to India to cover a story, but reluctantly: long ago she and her family left the country with no intention of ever coming back. As she follows the case of Meena – a Hindu woman attacked by members of her own village and her own family for marrying a Muslim man – Smita comes face to face with a society where tradition carries more weight than one's own heart, and a story that threatens to unearth the painful secrets of Smita's own past. While Meena's fate hangs in the balance, Smita tries in every way she can to right the scales. She also finds herself increasingly drawn to Mohan, an Indian man she meets while on assignment. But the dual love stories of Honor are as different as the cultures of Meena and Smita themselves: Smita realizes she has the freedom to enter into a casual affair, knowing she can decide later how much it means to her. In this tender and evocative novel about love, hope, familial devotion, betrayal and sacrifice, Thrity Umrigar shows us two courageous women trying to navigate how to be true to their homelands and themselves at the same time.

Leseprobe

HONOR

Also byTHRITY UMRIGAR

The Secrets Between Us

Everybody’s Son

The Story Hour

The World We Found

The Weight of Heaven

If Today Be Sweet

The Space Between Us

Bombay Time

First Darling of the Morning:

Selected Memories of an Indian Childhood

PICTURE BOOKS:

Sugar in Milk

Binny’s Diwali

When I Carried You in My Belly

SWIFT PRESS

First published in the United States of America by Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill 2022

First published in Great Britain by Swift Press 2022

Copyright © Thrity Umrigar 2022

The right of Thrity Umrigar to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 9781800751606 eISBN: 9781800751583

For Feroza Freeland, whose light brightens our path

What we don’t say we carry in our suitcases, coat pockets, our nostrils.

—“Town Watches Them Take Alfonso,” ILYA KAMINSKY

This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful.

—“Good Bones,” MAGGIE SMITH

HONOR

HINDU WOMAN SUES BROTHERS WHO KILLED HER MUSLIM HUSBAND

BY SHANNON CARPENTERSouth Asia Correspondent

BIRWAD, INDIA— Her face is a constellation of scars.

Her left eye is welded shut, while a network of stitches has reassembled the melted cheek and lips. The fire rendered her left hand useless, but after reconstructive surgery, Meena Mustafa is once again able to hold a spoon in her right hand to feed herself.

The fire that took the life of her husband, Abdul, has long since been extinguished. He was allegedly set on fire by Ms. Mustafa’s two brothers, Hindus who were infuriated by her elopement with a Muslim man. Police allege that the brothers tried to kill the couple to avenge the dishonor caused by the interfaith marriage.

“My body did not die the night of the fire,” Ms. Mustafa says. “But my life ended then.”

Now, a new fire glows in her heart—a burning desire for justice.

This made her defy the wishes of her embittered mother-in-law and her Muslim neighbors, and demand that the police reopen the case. With pro bono help from a group called Lawyers for Change, Ms. Mustafa is taking her brothers to court. She says it is to seek justice for her dead husband.

In a country where dowry deaths, bride burnings and cases of sexual harassment are commonplace, such an act of defiance makes Ms. Mustafa a singular figure in her community. But the move has also made her a social pariah in this small, conservative Muslim village, where many fear retribution by the Hindu majority. Still, she is undeterred. “I’m fighting this case for the sake of my child. To tell my child that I fought for her father’s sake,” she says.

A petite, demure woman, Ms. Mustafa has a soft demeanor that masks an iron will. It is this same will that earlier allowed her to defy her older brother and get a job at the local sewing factory where she met her future husband.

Encouraged by her lawyer, she agreed to be interviewed in the hopes that her courage would inspire other Indian women to confront their perpetrators.

“Let the world know what they did to my Abdul,” she says. “People need to know the truth.”

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

THE AIR SMELLED of burnt rubber.

That was the first thing that Smita Agarwal noticed as she stepped out of the cool, rarefied air of the airport and into the warm, still Mumbai night. The next instant, she recoiled as the sound hit her—the low rumble of a thousand human voices, punctured by occasional barks of laughter and shrill police whistles. She gaped at the sight of the wall of people, standing behind the metal barriers, waiting for their relatives to emerge. She wondered if the old Indian custom of entire families converging to drop off travelers still prevailed in 2018, but before she could complete the thought, she felt her throat burn from the smell of exhaust fumes and her eardrums thrum from the blare of the cars just beyond the waiting crowd.

Smita stood still for a moment, cowering just a bit. She traveled more days of the year than not, her foreign correspondent job taking her around the globe, and yet, barely a few seconds into India, and already the country was overwhelming her, making her feel as if she had been hit by a force of nature, a tornado, maybe, or a tsunami that swept away everything in its path.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and she again heard the lap of the waves in the Maldives, the paradise she’d left hours earlier. In that moment, she hated all the weird confluence of events that had brought her to the one place she had spent her entire adult life avoiding—the fact that she’d happened to be on vacation so close to India when Shannon had desperately needed her help, that Shannon’s contact had procured her a six-month tourist visa in a matter of hours. Now, she wished his effort had failed.

Get a grip, Smita thought, echoing the stern talking-to she’d given herself during the flight. Remember, Shannon is a dear friend. A memory of Shannon making Papa smile during the dark days following Mummy’s funeral flashed through her head. She forced herself to cast the image aside while peering through the mob, hoping to spot the driver that Shannon had sent. A man stared back at her brazenly and pursed his lips in a suggestive pout. She looked away, scanning the crowd for someone holding a sign with her name on it while reaching for her cell phone to call Shannon. But before she found her phone, she saw him—a tall man in a blue shirt holding up a cardboard sign emblazoned with her name. Relieved, she walked over to him. “Hi,” she said, from across the metal barrier. “I’m Smita.”

He looked at her, blinking, confusion on his face.

“You speak English?” she said sharply, realizing that she had asked him the question in that language. But her Hindi was rusty, and she felt self-conscious using it.

The man spoke at last, in perfect English. “You’re Smita Agarwal?” he said, glancing at his sign. “But you were not supposed to get here until . . . The plane was early?”

“What? Yeah, I guess so. A little bit.” She looked at him, wanting to ask where the car was, wanting to get out of the airport and into the Taj Mahal Palace hotel at Apollo Bunder, where, she hoped, a long hot shower and a comfortable bed awaited her. But he continued staring at her, and her annoyance rose. “So? Shall we go?” she asked.

He snapped to attention. “Yes, yes. Sorry. Sure. Please. Come around this way.” He motioned for her to walk toward a gap in the barricades. She passed the boisterous, squealing reunions that were occurring around her, the profusion of kisses bestowed on the faces and heads of teenagers by middle-aged women, the extravagant bear hugs with which grown men greeted one another. She looked away, not wanting to lose track of her driver as he pushed his way through the crowd toward an opening.

On the other side, he reached for her carry-on suitcase, then looked around, puzzled. “Where’s the rest of your luggage?”

She shrugged. “This is it.”

“Only one bag?”

“Yup. And my backpack.”

He shook his head.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said as they resumed walking. “It’s just that . . . Shannon said you were Indian.”

“I’m Indian American. But what does that . . . ?”

“I didn’t think there was an Indian anywhere in the world who could travel with only one suitcase.”

She nodded, remembering the tales her parents used to tell her of relatives traveling with suitcases the size of small boats. “True enough.” She peered at him, puzzled. “And you are . . . Shannon’s driver?”

Under the glow of a streetlamp, she caught the flash in his eyes. “You think I’m her chauffeur?”

She took in the blue jeans, the stylishly cut shirt, the expensive leather shoes—and knew she’d made a gaffe. “Shannon said she would send someone to pick me up,” she mumbled. “She didn’t say who. I just assumed . . .” She took in the bemused way he was looking at her. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s okay. Why sorry? Nothing wrong with being a driver. But in this case, I’m a friend of Shannon’s. I just offered to pick you up since you were arriving so late.” He flashed her a quick half smile. “I’m Mohan, by the way.”

She pointed to herself. “I’m Smita.”

He waved the cardboard sign. “I know. Same as the Smita on the placard.”

They laughed awkwardly. “Thank you for doing this,” she said.

“No problem. This way to the car.”

“So, tell me,” Smita said as they walked. “How is Shannon doing?”

“She’s in a lot of pain. As you may be knowing, the hip’s definitely broken. Because of the weekend, they couldn’t do the operation. And now they’ve decided to wait a couple more days until Dr. Shahani gets back into town. He’s the best surgeon in the city. And hers will be a complicated case.”

She looked at him curiously. “And you’re—you’re close to Shannon?”

“We’re not boyfriend-girlfriend if that’s what you mean. But she’s my dear friend.”

“I see.” She envied Shannon this—as the South Asia correspondent for the paper, Shannon could put down roots, form friendships with the local people. Smita, whose beat was gender issues, was hardly ever in the same place for more than a week or two. No chance to stay in any place long enough to plant the seeds of friendship. She glanced at the suitcase that Mohan was carrying for her. Would he be surprised to know that she kept two other identical bags packed in her New York apartment, ready to go?

Mohan was saying something about Shannon, and Smita forced herself to listen. He mentioned how frightened Shannon had sounded when she’d called him from the hospital, how he had rushed to be by her side. Smita nodded. She remembered the time she’d been laid up with the flu in a hospital in Rio, and how isolating it had felt to be ill in a foreign country. And that hospital was probably paradise compared with this one. Although Shannon had been covering India for—How long had it been? Three years, maybe?—Smita couldn’t imagine her having to undergo surgery alone in a strange country.

“And the conditions in the hospital?” she asked Mohan. “They’re good? She’ll be okay?”

He stopped walking and turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised. “Yes, of course. She’s at Breach Candy. One of the best hospitals. And India has some of the finest doctors in the world. It’s now a medical destination, you know?”

She was amused by his wounded pride, his quickness to take insult, a quality she’d noticed in several of Papa’s Indian friends, even the ones—especially the ones—who had lived in the States for a long time. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said.

“No, it’s okay. Many people still believe India is a backward country.”

She bit down on her lip, lest the thought that leapt into her mind escaped her lips—It sure was, when I lived here. “The new airport is gorgeous,” she said as a peace offering. “Light-years better than most American airports.”

“Yah. It’s like a five-star hotel.”

They walked up to a small red car, and Mohan unlocked it. He heaved her suitcase into the trunk and then asked, “Would you like to sit in the back or front?”

She glanced at him, startled. “I’ll ride in the front if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” Even though his face was deadpan, Smita heard the quiver of laughter in his voice. “I just thought . . . Since you thought I’m Shannon’s driver, maybe you wish to ride in the back.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, vaguely.

He pulled out of the parking lot, eased the car into the lane, then swore quietly at the bumper-to-bumper traffic heading out of the airport.

“Lots of cars, even at this time,” Smita said.

He made a clucking, exasperated sound. “Don’t ask, yaar. The traffic in this city has gone from bad to worse.” He glanced at her. “But don’t worry. Once we get on the main road, it will get better. I’ll have you at your hotel in no time.”

“Do you live near the Taj?”

“Me? No. I live in Dadar. Closer to the airport than to your hotel.”

“Oh,” she cried. “That’s ridiculous. I . . . I could’ve just taken a cab.”

“No, no. It’s not safe, for a woman to get in a cab at this hour. Besides, this is India. We would never allow a guest to take a taxi from the airport.”

She remembered her parents driving to Columbus Airport through the sleet and storms of Ohio winters, to pick up visitors. Indian hospitality. It was real. “Thank you,” she said.

“No mention.” He fiddled with the dial for the air-conditioning. “Are you comfortable? Hot? Cold?”

“Maybe turn up the air a notch? I can’t believe how hot it is here, even in January.”

Mohan gave her a quick glance. “The joys of global warming. Imported to poor countries like India from rich countries like yours.”

Was he one of those nationalist types, like Papa’s friend Rakesh, a man who railed against the West and had plotted his imminent return to India for the past forty years? And yet, Mohan wasn’t wrong, was he? She had often argued the same point herself. “Yup,” she said, too tired to start a political conversation, her eyelids beginning to get heavy with sleep.

Mohan must have sensed her fatigue. “Take a nap if you like,” he said. “We have at least another thirty minutes.”

“I’m fine,” she said, shaking her head, distracting herself by looking at the long line of shanties built on the sidewalk. Even at this late hour, a few men in shirtsleeves and lungis lounged near the open mouths of the huts, kerosene lamps burning inside some of them. Smita chewed on her lower lip. She was no stranger to third world poverty, but the tableau they were driving past was so unchanged from what she remembered from her childhood. It was if she had passed these very same slums and the same men the last time she and her family had driven to the airport twenty years before, in 1998. So much for the new, globalized India that she kept reading about.

“The government paid these people to vacate and go into government housing,” Mohan was saying. “But they refused.”

“Is that so?”

“So I’ve heard. But in a democratic country, how can you force people to relocate?”

There was a short silence, and Smita had the feeling that simply by staring so openly at the slums they were passing, she had made Mohan feel defensive about his city. She had seen this phenomenon often in her job, how middle-class people in poor countries bristled against the judgment of people in the West. Once, while she was in Haiti, a local official had almost spat in her face and cursed American imperialism when she’d tried questioning him about the corruption in his district. “I suppose you can’t blame them,” she said. “This is their home.”

“Exactly. This is what I try to tell my friends and coworkers. But they don’t understand what took you less than ten minutes to understand.”

Smita felt unexpectedly warmed by Mohan’s words, as if he’d presented her with a small trophy. “Thanks. But I used to live here, you know. So I get it.”

“You lived here? When?”

“When I was young. We left India when I was fourteen.”

“Wah. I had no idea. Even though Shannon told me you were Indian, I just assumed you were born abroad. You sound like a pucca American.”

She shrugged. “Thanks. I guess.”

“And you have family here?”

“Not really.” And before he could ask another question, she said, “And you? What do you do? Are you a journalist, also?”

“Ha. That’s a joke. I could never do what you and Shannon do. I’m not a good writer. No, I’m an IT guy. I work with computers. For Tata Consultancy. Have you heard of the Tatas?”

“Yes, of course. Didn’t they buy Jaguar and Land Rover several years ago?”

“That’s right. Tata makes everything, from cars to soap to power plants.” He rolled down his window a bit. “So, we’re going over the new Sea Link, which connects Bandra to Worli. It wasn’t here when you were living here, obviously. But it will cut down on our driving time a great deal.”

Smita took in the lights of the city as the car climbed up the cable bridge that spanned the dark waters of the Arabian Sea below them. “Wow. Mumbai looks like any other city in the world. We could be in New York or Singapore.” Except, she thought, for the acidic smell of the warm air blowing into the car. She was about to ask Mohan about the smell but thought better of it. She was a guest in his city and the truth was, the knot in her stomach was growing as they got closer to their destination. The truth was, she didn’t want to be in Mumbai. No matter how many beautiful bridges the city threw up, no matter how beguiling its new, bejeweled skyline, she didn’t want to be there. She would spend a few days with Shannon in the hospital, and then, as soon as she could, she would clear out. It would be too late to rejoin the others in the Maldives, of course, but that was okay. It would be nice to return to her brownstone in Brooklyn for the rest of her leave. Maybe take in a movie or two. But there she was, in a car speeding toward her hotel room at the Taj. Speeding toward her old neighborhood.

Smita Agarwal looked out of the car window onto the streets of a city she had once loved, a city she’d spent the last twenty years trying to forget.

CHAPTER TWO

SMITA WOKE UP early the next morning and for a moment, as she lay in an unknown bed, she thought she was still at the Sun Aqua Resort in the Maldives. She heard the sound of the waves lapping against the shore and felt her body sinking into sand the color of sugar. But then she remembered where she was, and her body tensed.

She rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom. When she returned, she made her way to the window and pulled open the heavy drapes to the brightness of the day, the sun alive on the dull, perennially brown waters of the sea. She remembered the first time she saw the Atlantic Ocean, how its pristine blue had astounded her, used as she was to the murky waters of the Arabian Sea. She remembered how Papa used to yell at the servants of the denizens in the buildings around the seaside when they flung bags of trash into the water and at the young men who urinated in the sea at Juhu or Chowpatty Beach. Poor Papa. How much he’d loved this city that, ultimately, didn’t love him back.

She looked toward the Gateway of India, the beautiful yellow basalt monument, with its four turrets and arch, that sat across the street from her hotel window. How solid and rooted it was, much like her childhood in India had once appeared to be. When she had played under its arch, had she ever imagined that she would someday be staying at this iconic grand hotel, one of the most opulent hotels in the world? Hell, everyone from George Harrison to President Obama had stayed there. She and her parents had celebrated birthdays and other happy occasions at the Taj’s many restaurants, of course. But staying at the Taj was a different matter.

She glanced at her watch and saw that it was 8:00 a.m. Should she phone Shannon? Or would she still be sleeping? Just then, her stomach growled, and she realized she had not eaten since the afternoon the day before, her nervousness stronger than her appetite. She decided to get breakfast.

Half an hour later, she was at the Sea Lounge. The restaurant was fairly crowded even at this hour. The young hostess, radiant in a blue sari, approached her. “How many people in your party, ma’am?” she asked and, when Smita held up her index finger, led her to a small table by a window. Smita looked around the room, remembering its understated elegance from her childhood visits there with her parents, the hushed, impeccable service, the large windows overlooking the sea. She was pleased to see that the beauty of the restaurant remained unchanged. She caught the eye of the man at the next table, his face broiled red by the Mumbai sun. He gave her a crooked smile that she pretended not to notice. Instead, she looked out the window, blinking away the tears that filled her eyes. It was hard to be at the Sea Lounge and not think of her soft-spoken, genteel mother. Smita had been in Portugal covering a women’s conference at the time of Mummy’s death, and when Rohit, her older brother, had called to give her the news, she had yelled and sworn at him, made him a target for her wild grief. But sitting in her mother’s favorite restaurant, Smita was warmed by memories of going to the Sea Lounge on Saturday afternoons, her mother ordering her favorite chicken club sandwich while her father sipped his Kingfisher beer.

She half wished she could order a club sandwich at this hour, in memory of Mummy. Instead, she ordered coffee and a spinach omelet. The waiter set the plate down in front of her with the care and precision of a mechanic setting down an engine part. “Can I get you anything else, ma’am?” he asked in a respectful voice. He was probably just a year or two older than her, but his obsequious manner, so typical of how working-class Indians addressed the rich, made her grit her teeth. But then, a quick look around this beautiful room told her that nobody else—not the many Germans and Brits in the room, nor the paunchy Indian businessmen out with their clients—seemed to mind the sycophantic manner of the members of the waitstaff; in fact, they seemed to expect and demand it. She had already noticed the snapping of fingers for service and the dismissive tone with which the other diners spoke to the servers.

“No, thank you,” she said. “This looks delicious.”

Her reward was a sincere, delighted smile. “Enjoy, ma’am,” he said, and edged away, silent as a ghost.

She took a sip of the coffee and then licked the froth from her upper lip. She had tasted coffee all around the world, but God, how wonderful this cup of Nescafé tasted. She knew it would be an object of derision back home—“It’s instant coffee, for Christ’s sake, Smita,” she could hear Jenna trill as they ate brunch at the Rose Water café in Park Slope—but what could she say? It was only in the last year of her time in India that her parents had allowed her to drink coffee, and that, too, just a few sips from her father’s cup as he sat grading papers. One taste and she was transported to their large, sunlit apartment in Colaba, a short walk from the Taj, and to Sunday mornings as her parents bickered good-naturedly about whether to play his Bach and Beethoven CDs or her mother’s ghazals on the living room stereo. Rohit would be in his room, still in bed as he listened to Green Day or U2 on his Walkman. Their cook, Reshma, would be making the South Indian medhu vadas and upma that was their Sunday morning breakfast treat.

Where was Reshma now? Surely, she was still living in this city of twenty million, working for another family? Smita would like to find her during this trip, but how, she hadn’t a clue. Had Mummy stayed in touch with Reshma after they’d left? She didn’t know. They had all worked so hard to forget what they’d left behind and to build a new life in America. Maybe it was just as well that she didn’t know their old cook’s whereabouts.

Reshma often used to accompany them to the Gateway, watching over Smita as she played under its arch. Every evening it seemed as if half the metropolis emptied out onto the promenade near the seaside, the smell of roasted corn on the cob wafting over them all. Smita remembered tugging on her father’s tunic, asking him to buy her the mix of sand-roasted peanuts and chana. She’d watch as the street vendor filled a paper cone with the snack, twisting the bottom point of the cone into a tail before handing it to her with a flourish. As for those twilight evenings during the rainy season, when the spattering sun flung its embers across the sky and painted the city a luminescent orange? In all her travels, had any twilight ever compared with the twilights of her childhood?

The waiter cleared his throat, trying to get her attention. “May I clear this plate for you, ma’am?” he asked. “Was everything satisfactory?”

She turned around to face him. “Yes, thank you.” She smiled. “Do you suppose I could order another coffee?”

“Of course, ma’am. You liked it?”

She heard the pride—no, it was more than that, the ownership, in his voice—and was touched by it. She longed to ask him about his life, how much he earned, what his living conditions were like, but noticed that the restaurant was getting even more crowded. “Yes, very much,” she replied. “There’s no coffee quite like this anywhere.”

He nodded. “Where are you residing, ma’am?” he asked shyly.

“America.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Although most of our tourists are from Europe.”

“Is that so?” she asked, having no interest in discussing her life. This was the great thing about being a reporter—you got to ask questions instead of answering them. She hoped he would get her that second cup of coffee soon. She glanced at her watch, but the waiter didn’t pick up on the hint.

“It is my lifelong dream,” he said, “to study hospitality management in America.”

Smita heard some version of this wherever she traveled. The details varied, but the bones of the dream were the same—to get a tourist visa and gain a toehold into America. Then, to do whatever it took—drive a cab sixteen hours a day or work hard in a sweaty restaurant kitchen or have an employer sponsor you or marry an American. The goal was to someday get a much-coveted green card, the twenty-first century’s version of the Holy Grail.

She looked at the thin, pigeon-chested waiter, and the eagerness in his face made her look away. “I need to get going soon,” she said pointedly. “But I wish you well.”

He flushed. “Yes, of course, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” He hurried away and returned almost immediately with another cup of coffee.

She charged the expense to her room, leaving a 30 percent tip. She was getting up to leave when the waiter came rushing back. He was carrying a white rose. “For you, ma’am. Welcome to the Taj.”

She took the single flower from him, unsure if this was their custom or not. “Thank you,” she said. “Tell me your name again?”

He giggled. “I never told you the first time, ma’am. It’s Joseph.”

“It was nice meeting you, Joseph.” She stepped away from him, then stopped. “Can you help me? Would you know how far it is to Breach Candy Hospital from here?”

“Sure, sure, ma’am,” he said. “Not too far by cab. It all depends on the traffic, you know? The front reception can order a private cab with A/C for you. It will be costing you a little bit extra, ma’am, but what to do? It’s worth it.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE FIRST THING Smita noticed when she entered the hospital were the paan streaks on the walls of the lobby. She was stunned. Breach Candy had been the city’s finest hospital when she was a child, the place where movie stars went for surgery, and so she was surprised to see the streaks of betel juice. She swallowed her distaste and made her way to the information desk, where a tired-looking woman sat. “Can I help you?” the woman said.

“Hi. I need the room number for a patient. Shannon Carpenter?”

The woman spoke to a spot past Smita’s shoulder. “Visiting hours start at eleven. No one is allowed up until then.”

Smita swallowed. “I see. I just got into Mumbai late last night, and . . .”

“Eleven o’clock. No exceptions.”

Smita’s irritation showed on her face. “All right. But can I have the room number so that—”

“Eleven o’clock.”

“Ma’am, I heard you. I’m just asking for the number so I don’t have to disturb you again.”

The woman glared at Smita. “Room number 209. Now, please take a seat.”

And like a chastised schoolgirl, Smita had no choice except to wait in the lobby, under the woman’s watchful gaze. She kept an eye on the clock, thankful that she didn’t have a long wait. As the stroke of eleven, she got up and headed to the elevators, where a line had already formed. She looked for the stairway. Shannon’s room was only two floors up—she’d take the stairs.

A kindly nurse pointed her toward Shannon’s room when she got to the second floor. As she walked the hallway, she could see a small knot of people at the far end and heard a man’s raised voice. She looked away, concentrating on reading the room numbers. She peered into an empty room, caught a glimpse of the sea outside the window, and was suddenly assailed by a memory of accompanying her father to Breach Candy when he was visiting a sick colleague. The sea appeared to be so close that she had thought the hospital was built on a ship. Papa had laughed at that, squeezing her shoulder as they’d walked.

She drew closer to the group in the hallway and was about to look away, not wanting to eavesdrop on what was obviously an impassioned argument, when she noticed that one of them was Mohan. But whereas he had been languid last evening, he now looked tense and angry as he glared at the nurse and a young man in a white coat. “I’m telling you, get Dr. Pal here immediately. The patient needs better pain control than this.”

“But, sir, I told you . . .” the young resident said.

“Arre, yaar, how many times are we going to go round and round? I told you, we are not happy with her treatment. Now, go tell your supervisor to come talk to us.”

“As you wish.” The young man walked away briskly, the nurse following.

“Hi,” Smita said, and Mohan looked up at her, startled.

“Oh, hi,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t expect you to get here on your own. I was just getting ready to come pick you up.”

“I’m glad to have saved you a trip.” Smita glanced at the woman standing next to Mohan. “Hello. I’m Smita.”

The woman, who appeared to be in her twenties, gave her a broad smile. “Oh, hello, madam. I spoke to you on the phone yesterday. I’m Nandini. Shannon’s translator.”

“Nice to meet you,” Smita said. But a small part of her was resentful. Shannon obviously had all these people here to help. Had she really needed to interrupt her vacation? “Where’s her room? Can I see her?”

“Yes, madam. Just a minute, madam.” Nandini gave Mohan a flustered glance and walked away.

“They’re giving her a bedpan,” Mohan explained, following Smita’s puzzled gaze.

“Oh.” Smita shuddered. “How do they even . . .”

“Very, very carefully. Even though Shannon doesn’t think so. I don’t think these nurses have ever heard anyone curse like she does.”

She saw that he was trying to keep a straight face. “I know what you mean. She’s a legend in the newsroom, too.” She cocked her head. “You’re not working today?”

“No. I was supposed to be on vacation in Singapore this week,” he said. “But the friend I was going with came down with dengue fever. So I canceled. Now, I’m off for two weeks.”

“You didn’t go by yourself?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He peered down at her and made a rueful face. “I’m not like you and Shannon. Independent. I hate traveling alone. In fact, I hate being alone, to be honest. I guess I’m a typical Mumbai boy in that respect.”

Mohan’s tone was ironic, as if he was mocking himself. Still, no self-respecting American male would have admitted to such a thing. If one of the Indian American men her mother had tried setting her up with when she was younger had made such a confession to her, she would have been contemptuous. But as she stood there in the hospital hallway, Mohan’s admission felt normal. Human. She could see his point of view.

Smita sighed. “Well,” she said, “looks like we both had our vacation plans upended.”

A ward boy exited the room, and a moment later Nandini rushed up to them. “Come in, madam,” she said. “Shannon is anxious to see you.”

Shannon was lying down with the head of the bed slightly raised, her hair flowing on the pillow. Even though she mustered a smile, Smita could see the sweat on her forehead, her gray eyes hazy with pain. “Hi, sweetheart,” Smita said, bending down to kiss her cheek.

“Hey. You came.”

Nandini pulled up a chair. “Sit, madam,” she said.

Smita held Shannon’s hand as she sat. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Which side is it?”

“It’s the right hip. And it’s my own goddamned fault, for reading on my phone while walking. I tripped over a curb.”

“Sorry.” Smita looked up to see Mohan and Nandini talking at the other end of the room. “When are they saying they’ll operate? Mohan said they’re waiting on a particular surgeon. But surely there are other doctors who are equally skilled?”

Shannon grimaced. “It’s a complicated surgery. I broke this same hip when I was in my twenties. Don’t even ask. So they first have to remove the old prosthesis and then put in the new one. The bone has grown all around the old hardware. It’s a mess. And this guy, Dr. Shahani, is apparently very experienced.”

“Oh my God, Shannon. I had no idea.”

“Yep.” Shannon turned her head. “Mohan. Did you ask them to call for the fucking doctor or what?”

“I did. The resident said he would . . .” He looked up. “Actually, here he is.”

Dr. Pal was a tall but stooped man. His glasses were smudged, and the eyes behind them, weary. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “How can I help?”

Shannon was immediately deferential. “Sorry to trouble you, doctor,” she said. “I . . . I just wanted to ask some questions. First of all, when exactly does Dr. Shahani get into town? And secondly, the pain is unbearable. Can’t you give me something stronger?”

The elderly doctor’s face was impassive. “You have a broken hip, Miss Carpenter. What you need is surgery to get out of pain. Unfortunately, Dr. Shahani doesn’t come back until day after tomorrow.”

Shannon winced. “Jesus.”

“I’m sorry.” Dr. Pal’s face softened a little. “Maybe we can come up with a different drug cocktail for the pain. Or, if you’re willing, we can schedule surgery with someone else for tomorrow.”

Shannon glanced helplessly at Mohan. “What do you think?”

A muscle moved in Mohan’s jaw. “Is this other fellow as good?”

Dr. Pal was silent for a moment. “Shahani is our best surgeon. And this is a complicated case because of the old prosthesis.”

“Can you check with the pain team, immediately?” Mohan said. “To see if they can make her more comfortable? Only then can we make a proper decision, correct?”

Smita looked at Shannon from the corner of her eye, wondering if, despite what Mohan had said, there was something going on between him and her. She had never known Shannon to rely on a man like this. Then again, she’d never known Shannon to be in such pain, either.

Dr. Pal bowed. “I will report back,” he said, and left the room.

“Thanks, Mohan,” Shannon said. She turned back to face Smita. “Smits,” she said, “this is why I asked you to come.”

“I’ll stay through your surgery and after,” Smita said immediately. “I have tons of vacation time accrued, so it doesn’t matter how long you need me.”

Shannon shook her head. “No, don’t worry about that. I have Mohan here with me.” She shut her eyes briefly and then opened them. “Have you been reading my stories about Meena, the woman who is suing her brothers? For burning her husband alive?”

“What? Yeah, sure,” Smita said, remembering a few details. She had not paid much attention, her distaste for India triggered by the story.

“Great,” Shannon said. “Well, the verdict will be coming soon, and we need someone to cover it. You need to go to Birwad—that’s the name of Meena’s village.”

Smita stared at Shannon. “I don’t understand?” she said at last.

“The verdict will be coming,” Shannon repeated. “We need the story.”

There was a sudden, heavy tension in the room, fueled by the anger sluicing through Smita. She was aware that Mohan and Nandini were both staring at her. Biting down on her lower lip, she tried to recall the details of the phone conversation from the day before. Had Shannon mentioned the reason for summoning her to Mumbai? Come to think of it, she hadn’t. Why didn’t Shannon make things clearer? Smita thought, unable to shake the feeling of being manipulated into coming back to the one city she’d vowed never to see again.

“Why can’t a stringer cover the story?” Smita said. “I thought you asked me here to help you.” She saw Mohan’s head jerk up and noticed the look of understanding that spread across his face.

“I did,” Shannon said, puzzled. And then, Smita realized that pain was blocking her friend’s perceptions.

“So, here’s the deal,” Shannon was saying, oblivious to Smita’s anger. “I don’t know how much you remember of the story. This woman, Meena, was set on fire by her brothers for marrying a Muslim guy. They killed her husband. She almost died, too. Because of the lawyer who took her case pro bono, the police were forced to reopen their investigation.” Shannon’s eyes kept opening and shutting, as if she was battling both sleep and pain. “In any case, the court is expected to rule soon. And if you know how slowly the courts work in India”—she cast a quick glance at Mohan—“you’ll know what a miracle that is. We need to be there when the ruling comes, Smits.”

“Of course,” Smita said. “But why didn’t you get someone from the Delhi bureau to follow up?”

Shannon reached over and pressed the call button. “Sorry. My hip hurts like a son of a bitch. I think I’m due for more meds.”

“I’ll go get a nurse,” Mohan said immediately, but Shannon shook her head. “Nah. We’ve bugged them enough. Someone will be here right away. They’re pretty good.”

Shannon turned back to Smita. “James would’ve normally covered the verdict, but he is in Norway. His wife’s about to have a baby. And Rakesh . . . he’s taking over the story I’m working on right now. In any case, I’m not sure Meena will even talk to a male reporter, Smits. She’s living in an all-Muslim village. It’s a pretty conservative area.”

“She’s right,” Mohan said. “I—my parents are from Surat, which is not too far away from Birwad. Just across the Maharashtra-Gujarat border. I know those people. No way would a woman be allowed to talk to a male.”

A nurse came into the room, and Shannon asked for her pills. “Shukriya,” Shannon said, and Smita watched the nurse’s startled smile that her American patient had thanked her in Hindi. “No mention, madam,” the nurse said.

Shannon moaned softly and squeezed Smita’s hand as she waited for a spasm to pass.

“Why don’t they have you on a morphine drip?” Smita demanded.

Shannon looked at her wryly. “They don’t use it as freely in India the way we do back home. I’m going to write about this issue as soon as I’m better.”

“That’s crazy.”

There was a sudden silence in the room, as if they’d all run out of things to say. Smita turned to Nandini. “Have you been there? To Birwad? How far is it from here?”

“Yes. It’s about a five-hour drive from here.” Nandini’s tone was so sullen that Smita was surprised.

“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.

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.”