Honor: A Novel(9)

“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.”