“Thank you,” she said, burrowing her face into Mohan’s chest. They sat like this, Mohan murmuring something against Smita’s ear.
“What did you say?” she said, raising her head.
“I said, would it be so bad to stay?” Mohan repeated.
“Stay where?”
His eyes flickered with impatience. “You know where. Stay in Mumbai. With me.”
“Oh, Mohan,” Smita said regretfully. “You know that’s impossible.”
His grip around her tightened. “It’s impossible?” he asked. “It’s more impossible than it was for your papa to move his whole family to America?”
“Oh, but that’s not fair. That’s not the same thing.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is, we did it out of desperation. We didn’t really have a choice.”
“I see. So desperation is a better reason to move to a country than love?”
She stared at him openmouthed. Love? Had he just used the L-word? “Mohan, we barely know each other,” she began. She stopped. Was this some bizarre test? A prank? “Are you . . . are you just positing some theoretical . . .”
“No. I’m really suggesting it.”
“That I give up everything in the US, give up my whole life there, to be here with you?”
He smiled. “You don’t have to make it sound so terrible, yaar.”
It had been a mistake, she realized, sleeping with him. This was precisely the kind of entanglement and heartache she had wished to avoid. “Mohan. Sweetie. Come on. You must know how preposterous this sounds.”
“Does it?” He played with her hair absentmindedly. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. Take a leave of absence. And then, if you are not happy here—if you miss America too much—I will follow you there.”
Move to America? Mohan was suggesting it as if he were proposing buying a new tie. This was a side of him she didn’t know. Did he have a clue how complicated such a move would be? Smita thought of her friends back home. What would they say? Would they be aghast at his presumptuousness?
“I thought you loved your job,” she said.
“I do.”
“Then why would you give it up?”
“Because I love you more.”
“Come on, Mohan. You have no idea what a bitch I am.” She forced a laugh, trying desperately to lighten the mood. But despite herself, Smita was moved. “Because I love you more”—would any of her previous boyfriends have been willing to give up their careers for her? Of course not. A month before, she would have been contemptuous of any man who said such a thing—would have considered him needy and pathetic. Now, she was touched. Somehow, India had worked its spell on her, had made her vulnerable to such sentimentality. When she returned to New York, she wouldn’t be the same person she’d been when she’d left.
She studied Mohan’s face, suddenly so dear to her. “In any case, where would I stay?” she said. “I can’t afford to stay at the Taj indefinitely.”
“You could stay in my room.”
“At Zarine Auntie’s apartment? She wouldn’t care?”
“I don’t think so,” Mohan said. “And if she minds, I can always buy a small flat.”
“For six months or so?” Smita said incredulously. “Until we decide what happens with Abru?”
“Those are all just details, yaar.”
There she was, sitting in a posh bungalow, beside a man who was spreading out a banquet of options for her. Smita thought suddenly of Meena’s life, its parsimoniousness, the lack of choice. What had she ever done to deserve such good fortune?
“Don’t,” Mohan said. “It will only make you sad.”
“What are you, a mind reader?”
“Yes,” he said. “But that’s only because you have the most delightfully transparent face.”
Smita shook her head, bemused. “We have both lost our fucking minds. You realize how crazy this whole conversation sounds, right? We barely know each other.”
“How long did your papa and mummy know each other before they eloped?”
“That was different. The wrote letters back and forth for a long time.”
“So, I will write you a letter. Every day.”
“Very funny. They also didn’t have visas and passports and shit to deal with.”
“So? They had other difficulties, na?”
Smita closed her eyes, beginning to get irritated by his persistence. “Mohan, please let’s drop the subject. I care about you, but this is making me uncomfortable.”