Mohan would be one of those people, she thought, and she felt a sudden yearning to see that side of him, to discover Mohan not in the charged, explosive, compressed amount of time that they’d shared, but in ordinary ways: What were his favorite movies? Was he handy? What were his favorite foods? What size shoes did he wear? Mohan, as the ordinary hero of his everyday life. Mohan, who was waiting outside and would wait until even the contrails of her plane had dissipated. Smita knew—there was no way to love Mohan and not love India; there was no way to love India and not love Mohan. Because he was the best of what it had to offer. It was almost as though, by introducing Mohan to her, the country was trying to make up for what it had once taken away.
Smita caught herself. Enough of this sentimental claptrap, she thought. You are not one of those women who give up their jobs and identities to be with a man. This is the dangerous part of India—feudal, traditional, patriarchal India—that is messing with your head. You have worked too hard to get to where you are to risk losing it for someone you barely know.
But surely, she argued with herself, life was more than this relentless getting ahead? Surely, there was more to life than self-actualization and ambition and success? What was wrong with linking one’s happiness to that of another human being? Why should fifty years of peak capitalism eradicate something that the Eastern philosophers had taught for thousands of years—that life is about interconnectedness, interdependence, and yes, even sacrifice? Smita remembered how she used to try to boost Mummy’s spirits during the radiation sessions by telling her stories about her travels and adventures. Mummy, of course, was always proud of her achievements. But once in a while, she’d get a sad, embarrassed look on her face, as if she saw through the bravado to the loneliness at Smita’s core.
Maybe there were other options. Her first-person account about Meena’s death had generated a lot of buzz and earned her tremendous goodwill within the newsroom. Shannon was still incapacitated. She could ask Cliff to let her use India as her base for a few months while Shannon recovered. This would give her a chance to get to know Mohan better, and she could spend more time with little Abru. Because the fact remained that Meena had bequeathed Abru to her. Even Mohan knew this. She had allowed herself to believe Mohan’s beautiful lie about Meena intending him to be an equal partner.
Could this be a way to give the twelve-year-old who had cowered in her apartment in Colaba for three months after the assault a second chance to walk the public streets of Mumbai with her head held high? A chance to realize that the shame she had embraced didn’t belong to her? A chance to remember all that she had loved about India, unsullied by what had followed?
She and Mohan could pour into Abru, a child born out of Meena and Abdul’s improbable love, everything that was good and courageous about themselves.
The four of them could raise this child together.
Smita could try to set aside her own insecurities, her wariness of the old India—and instead believe in Abdul’s brave, idealistic dream of the new India.
Yes, that would be a way to honor the memory of that fine man Abdul. That would be a good way to avenge Meena’s melted face, her one good eye, the bloody pulp of her body.
Smita’s heart beat faster as she realized something: If Abdul and Meena could have foreseen the opportunities she and Mohan could provide for Abru, they would have sacrificed their very lives for their daughter. They would have embraced every moment of misery and suffering for the sake of that happy ending.
She imagined retracing her steps and walking out of the airport to where Mohan stood. She allowed herself to picture the delight spreading on his face as she hurried toward him. But then she thought of all the complications that would ensue, and her heart sank at the bureaucracy and the paperwork and the other hurdles involved: Cliff might refuse her request to be stationed in India; Mohan might prove to be disappointing; Papa might not support her temporary move to India. Humans were not migratory birds, able to fly from one country to another, she reminded herself. Homo sapiens had feet, not wings. Above all, there was the irrefutable fact that she barely knew Mohan, outside of the cauldron they’d found themselves in for the past month.
Oh, Mummy, she thought with a groan. Help me. Tell me what to do.
She turned her eyes upward, to the ceiling, as if she half expected to see her mother float down toward her, like some descending angel. Her eyes fell on a wooden sign that hung on the wall above the sliding doors of the lounge. you are here, the sign read.
Smita blinked. You Are Here. Here, in Mumbai, with only the length of the airport separating her from the man she loved. And half a city away from Abru, a child she could grow to love as dearly as her own.