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.”
“Good.” She nodded, finishing the last of her coffee. “How old is your sister?”
“She’s twenty-four.”
“And she goes to college in Mumbai?”
“Shoba? No, she’s married. She’s settled in Bangalore. I’m the only one here in Mumbai.”
“You are here in the city alone?” she said.
“Yes. Even though I hate being alone.”
He looked so sheepish that Smita burst out laughing. Something about him reminded her of her brother, Rohit.
“If you don’t mind, I want to order a sandwich for Nandini,” Mohan said. “You know, she takes two buses to get here. I’m sure she has not eaten today.”
Yup. He was very much like Rohit. “That’s great,” she said. And she didn’t even offer to pick up the tab. He was a Mumbai boy, and Mumbai boys didn’t allow guests to pick up the check. That much she still knew.
Chapter Four
They could hear loud voices coming from Shannon’s room as they approached.
“Oh God, she’s awake,” Mohan said. “The pain pills didn’t work.”
“Where the hell have the two of you been?” Shannon snapped as they entered her room, and Smita froze, transfixed by the distress she saw on Shannon’s face.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “We just got a bite to eat.” She took in Nandini’s pinched, teary face, and felt sorry for the younger woman.
“Well, I’ve had it,” Shannon said in the same, harsh tone. She turned to Mohan. “Dr. Pal stopped by while you were away. Turns out they can’t give me any fucking drugs stronger than what I’m on.”
“I’ll talk to him—”
“No. It’s okay. He’s convinced me. I’m going under the knife tomorrow. Pal says this other guy’s pretty good. I can’t wait another goddamned day.”
“Shannon, are you sure?” Mohan’s voice was low, his brow furrowed with worry.
“Yeah. I’m sure,” Shannon said, dissolving into tears. “I can’t take another moment of this pain.”
Mohan took in a sharp breath. “Okay,” he said. “This is a good idea.”
Shannon pulled her hand out from under the sheet and held it out to Mohan. “And you’ll be with me? After Smita and Nan leave?”
“Yes, of course.”
There was a sound from the corner of the room, and they all startled as Nandini rushed out. Shannon looked at Mohan. “I can’t deal with her theatrics,” she said. “Go talk some sense into her.”
“What’s going on?” Smita asked, but Mohan shook his head and left the room.