Honor: A Novel(5)

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.