Honor: A Novel(2)

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.”