“Beta, Mummy has died. We will not get to see her again. Not in this life. But hopefully in the next one.”
Sophie considered his words. “How will we find her in the next life?” she asked.
Papa looked surprised by her question. “I don’t know, beta.”
“How will she know it’s us?”
His face was strained. “She will know. Especially you. She cannot forget her daughter. She loves you very much.”
Papa’s eyes flooded, and a single stream escaped from each, slowly trailing down his cheeks. He looked to the seat by the window where Nita’s easel still rested. Her paints that were usually strewn around it had been gone since Nita went to Ba’s, and Sophie’s colored pencils were there now. Papa clutched Sophie to him so hard that she could barely breathe, but she didn’t protest. Later that day, she packed up her colored pencils and never brought them out again.
In the weeks afterward, Sophie remained quiet as her fois organized the pujas for Nita’s passing. They both seemed mad, but they took a framed photo of Nita and added it to the mandir inside their home with a small garland of flowers. Sophie sat quietly behind them as they chanted the prayers and dotted Nita’s photo with vermilion and a few grains of basmati rice and laid the flowers around it. Papa was not present for those ceremonies.
Each morning since, Sophie has gone to the mandir and said her daily pujas and touched the bottom of her mummy’s framed photo to show her respect. Papa had never commented on her ritual, nor did he join her for it. Sophie had always believed it was all too painful for him. And she never wanted to burden him with that pain, so she bore hers alone, just as he did his.
Sophie now reels as she considers how many of these memories had been a lie. She has so much sorrow over Papa’s passing, but rage fills her as she thinks about how much she did to protect Papa from his sadness. That they could not grieve Nita’s death together because Papa knew there had not been one. Why would he tell her that when it wasn’t true? She could not fathom what would justify such a lie and knows she will never have the answer from him. She is bereft thinking about how his love and lies existed so seamlessly. Sharmila and Vaishali Foi obviously knew as well, based on the conversation she overheard. She clenches her teeth, wondering if everyone in her life knew and only she had been taken for a fool. She must learn why she was kept in the dark, but how can she trust those in her life who have maintained the lies for so long?
4
NITA
1998
The room was filled with sunlight when Nita woke up the next day. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, feeling as though she had just awoken from the dead. She took in her surroundings and remembered she was not at home in Ahmedabad. She glanced at her watch face on the inside of her wrist. It was the middle of the afternoon. She had been asleep for fifteen hours. Never had she slept this many hours straight, not even during her pregnancy or after giving birth. But she had never traveled before. She now understood better the jet lag Rajiv had always suffered upon his return from his business trips abroad and that it wasn’t simply a matter of discipline to get over the exhaustion.
She felt she could lie in that bed, rickety and uncomfortable as it was, for another day, but she needed to use the toilet, so she sat herself upright, slipped on her champals, and padded down to the communal restroom. As she drew near, she heard a female voice humming. Inside at the sink was the source of the melody: a young, upbeat Asian woman with thick, silky black hair and large, wide-set brown eyes. She leaned close to the mirror and applied bright-pink lipstick.
“Bonjour.” She nodded in Nita’s direction. “You have risen, have you?” she said, making eye contact with Nita through the mirror. She spoke with the British accent that Nita was used to hearing on the television programs she had watched in Ahmedabad, but Nita had only ever seen white people speaking it there, so it seemed misplaced coming from this woman.
“It was my first day here,” Nita said shyly as she made her way to the farthest stall in the corner.
She wasn’t accustomed to sharing this type of space with another person and sought the most privacy possible. When she exited the stall, the girl had moved from her lips to painting her eyelids a bold shade of blue—the type that an upper-caste woman in India would never have worn.
“You want some?” the girl said, holding out the compact.
“Oh, no,” Nita stammered, surprised that the girl would offer to share such a personal item with a stranger she had just met. Did she not worry about passing germs?
Nita turned on the sink, and warm water spilled over her hands. She had learned yesterday that hot water flowed from the plumbing in a seemingly endless, almost wasteful, stream. There was none of the planning involved that was needed in India. There, she or the servants had to turn on the Gizzard to heat the water twenty minutes before she intended to use it, and then, because there was a limited amount, use it to fill up buckets to mix with cold water to get the right temperature. And that was for the privileged upper caste, who had an option of having any hot water flowing through the pipes at all. Here, it seemed everyone had access to it, whether wealthy or poor.
“Where are you from?” Nita asked.
“London. And you?” She leaned toward the mirror and puckered her lips, admiring her handiwork.
“Ahmedabad.”
She scrunched her nose. “Where’s that?”
“India.”
She nodded. “My flatmate in Islington was from there. India, anyway. Not sure where exactly. Good spicy food, that stuff. Like the Thai food my mum makes. You won’t find that here! It’s all cream and butter.” She smoothed her hair into a ponytail. “So, what’s your name?”
“Nita.”
“Cool. They call me Dao. Sangdao when I’m misbehaving,” she said with a glimmer in her eyes. “So, what have you got on today?”
“I need to look for a job. Do you work?” Nita said.
“I’ve been bartending a bit in the Marais. Gets me by. Can you mix drinks? Shall I put in a good word for you?”
Nita was again taken aback by her friendly nature. The two had just met. Didn’t she want to know about Nita’s family history and upbringing before recommending her for a job? That was the way it would have worked in India. A person’s reputation was everything, and recommending someone for a job was an extension of that. It was no matter, though. She had never even had a sip of alcohol. It was banned in Gujarat, and Rajiv was a rules follower who never let it cross their threshold even though some of their friends had access to it via foreign relatives who used their liquor licenses to stock up for their families. She knew she would not be skilled at anything involving alcohol.
Nita shook her head. “I think I’m going to look for work as a shop teller or something like that,” she said. It was the first time in her life she had even considered getting any job, let alone such a menial one, but she had not been trained in the ways that would matter for employment. She could prepare a perfect Gujarati meal, as cooking was one of the few things that had come naturally to her as a wife and mummy, but there would be no need for that here. This was a city of croissants and crêpes, not rotlis and shaak.