Abru. If she abandoned Abru, wouldn’t she be proving Sushil right? The man had considered her family subhuman because of its faith, and there she was, acting as if she weren’t human. Because what sentient being could abandon an orphaned child as blithely as she had? She remembered the contempt she’d seen in Zarine Auntie’s eyes and realized that it wasn’t just because she was breaking Mohan’s heart. It was because a person who could abandon a child without so much as a backward glance was in fact beneath contempt.
She thought of Mohan, standing at his lonely post outside the airport until her plane took off. Waiting, along with thousands of others, all of them choosing to do the hard, inconvenient thing. Why? Because that’s what you did for your loved ones. She used to think it quaint that her parents drove to the Columbus airport to pick up their visitors, even though the guests could have taken a taxi. But Mohan was cut from the same cloth as Mummy and Papa. She remembered him heaving the bags of rice and sugar and dal into Ammi’s hut. At every step, Mohan had done the difficult thing, and had done so matter-of-factly, as if there were no other choice. Maybe, in the end, that’s all that love was—doing the hard thing. Not roses and valentines and walks on the beach, but simply being present, day after ordinary day. The extraordinary romanticism of ordinary life.
But what if, in the end, she and Mohan couldn’t make it work? What if her greatest fear came true—that Mohan would prove to be disappointing? The men she’d dated had been smart, talented, hard charging, and high achieving. But after a while, they had become ordinary, too. Their feet stunk when they removed their boots or shoes at the end of the day; they had bad breath in the morning. They told the same damn jokes and stories over and over again. Spinach got stuck between their teeth. They had issues with their fathers. And her unfortunate tendency to focus on the small, irritating things, rather than keeping her eyes on the big picture, eventually made her lose interest.
Smita had never forgotten something Bryan had once said when things were still sweet between them. She’d been at his apartment in Brooklyn, complaining about his couch being covered with cat hair. Bryan had taken her face in his hands and said, “You know what your problem is, Smita? You focus on the cat hair. Try focusing on the cat.”
Perhaps that’s what love was—an embrace of the commonplace? Perhaps that’s where wisdom lay—in recognizing the grandeur of everyday domestic life? If so, she had a lot of learning to do.
Smita dialed Mohan’s number again. Say something, she thought, say something, Mohan, that will help me decide one way or the other. He answered on the fifth ring, sounding breathless, as if he’d been sprinting. “Are you boarding?” he asked.
“What? No. No, I just . . . I just wanted to hear your voice again.”
“Oh, okay.” He was silent for a moment. Then, he said, “Hold on a second. It’s so crowded and noisy here, I can barely hear myself.”
She waited until Mohan came back on the line, but it was obvious that he was distracted by the jostling of the crowd around him. They had a desultory exchange, and then Mohan said, “I’m sorry. I can’t hear a word. Can you call back in a few minutes?”
She hung up. The whole conversation had been so disjointed, and she was no closer to making a decision than before. And then she thought: First Mummy and now Mohan. Since when had she started relying on others to help her decide what to do? At this rate, she figured she may as well draw straws or flip a coin. Surely, she thought, Mohan deserves better than someone this unsteady in her love for him.
Smita thought back to something that Rohit had said when he’d quit his job to start his own business: “Look, I know it’s a risk. But at some point, you have to jump. I’ll either land on my feet or I’ll land on my face. But either way, I’ll own the fall. You see what I’m saying?”
Rohit’s words had inspired her to go skydiving the summer after, despite her fear of heights. She had landed on her feet.
Smita paced up and down the lounge, trying to control her agitation. She returned to her seat and sat down. The other passengers looked at her curiously. A moment later, she rose again. The woman across from her smiled. “Bathroom?” she said. “I will watch your luggage.”
“It’s okay,” Smita said. “I—I am leaving.”
The woman looked at her, confused. “Leaving, madam?” she said. “The plane will be departing soonly.”
“I know. But I will not be on it.” Smita turned around, then looked back. “Give Meena a kiss from me.”