They laughed, and the chill in the room dissipated. “I will go warm the custard in the oven,” Zarine said. “Do you want to show Smita your room? I will call when it’s ready.”
They were both shy as they entered Mohan’s bedroom. Smita took in the bare walls, the neatly made double bed, the single chair with a pair of jeans draped on it. Mohan’s room looked as spare and impersonal as her own condo. Somehow, despite his friendly nature and the fact that he lived with other people, his was as monastic an existence as her own. The thought made her emotional, a fact that he noticed immediately. “What is it?” he said.
“Nothing. I’m just happy to see your room. To know where you live.”
He got the embittered look that she’d begun to dread, the look that came over his face each time he was reminded of her imminent departure—and she braced herself for a caustic remark. But he said nothing, and she walked toward his dresser and picked up a framed photo. “Your parents?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You look a lot like your father.”
“That’s what everybody says.”
She set the picture back down, absentmindedly flicking off the lint from the frame as she did so. He noticed. “It’s so dusty here,” he said. “You clean, and a half hour later, bas, it’s dirty again.”
“And yet, it’s your beloved city,” she teased.
But Mohan’s face remained unsmiling. “It is. Of course it is.” He gazed at her for another moment. “Come. We should keep Zarine Auntie company.”
“Can I help you?” Smita asked in the kitchen.
“You want to make the tea?” Zarine said.
Smita hesitated. “Do you . . . I just use tea bags?”
“Tea bags? Nonsense. We use real tea leaves. And mint leaves. And lemongrass.” She turned to Mohan. “Take this American girl and go sit in the living room. I will bring us a nice hot-pot cup of tea.”
As Smita and Mohan entered the living room, they walked past the old teakwood armoire. Half of the cupboard was faced with a full-length mirror, and Smita glanced at it. But instead of seeing her reflection, she saw an older couple. They were rushing around a kitchen, assembling a school lunch. Smita recognized the couple immediately—it was Mohan and her, ten years older. The temporal distortion made her woozy, and she stumbled.
“Smita? What’s the matter?” Mohan asked, steadying her.
She turned to him, disoriented, confused. “The bathroom?” she said. “I feel a little faint.”
Smita held on to the sink as she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Relax, she told herself. You’re under a lot of pressure. So you had a weird . . . But what exactly was it? A hallucination? A premonition? A feeling of déjà vu?
Then, she knew: It was wishful thinking, a moment’s indulgence, a case of the If Onlys. A phantom image created by intense longing. All she had to do was wait it out, and the moment would pass. In fact, it had already passed. She knew from experience that no matter how much she loved a place or a person, she just had to wait for the fever to break. It always did. During her first year in the States, she had refused to eat any of Mummy’s Indian dishes, had been adamant about learning to love mac and cheese and hamburgers and pizza. It was her way of forgetting India. Yes, she determined, she would simply wait out her love for Mohan, allow it to subside into affection.
Smita splashed cold water on her face, dried herself, and stepped out of the bathroom. Mohan was perched on the edge of his bed, but he rose immediately. “Are you sick?” he asked. “Do you need to lie down?”
“I’m okay.” She forced a smile. “I’m much better.”
They walked back into the dining room. “Come, beta,” Zarine said, patting the chair beside her. “Nothing like a good cup of tea to chase away all ailments.”
“Is it time to wake up Abru?” Smita asked as she sat down. The thought of leaving Zarine’s flat without seeing the child awake was too depressing.
“Sure,” Mohan said. “I’ll go get her.”
“I’m sorry,” Zarine said as soon as Mohan was out of the room. “I forgot my manners. What to do? I love that boy so much. I cannot bear to see him hurt.”
“It’s okay, Auntie,” Smita said. “It means a lot to me that he has someone like you who cares for him.”
Zarine shook her head in wonder. “Accha?” she murmured. “You love him that much?”