“Oh, sorry,” Smita replied. “How much in advance will you know?”
Anjali clucked, then added, “Hard to say. At least the day before, hopefully.” She paused. “So? Are you hanging around in Mumbai?”
Smita thought for a moment, then came to a decision. “I think we’ll take a start the day after tomorrow,” she said. “That way, I can stay at the hospital all day tomorrow if I have to.”
“But the verdict may not come until the day after . . .”
“That’s okay. I’ll go meet with Meena. And I’ll interview the brothers, too.”
“Good idea. But be careful. The older brother especially can be very belligerent. You should see how he behaves in court. But the worst of the lot is Rupal Bhosle. He’s the head of their village council. The brothers worship him like he’s some kind of god. Too bad I couldn’t sue him.”
“It’s hard to believe that someone could sanction such barbaric . . .”
“Male entitlement, my dear. Bullshit notions of family honor.”
Smita heard the anger in Anjali’s voice.
The cab driver pressed on his horn, blasting in Smita’s ear. She looked around, bewildered. They were sitting in a massive traffic jam. “God,” Anjali said. “What’s going on?”
Smita leaned forward and tapped the driver on his shoulder. “Oi, bhai,” she said in her stilted Hindi. “What use blowing the horn? Nobody is moving, na?”
The man looked over his shoulder and grinned sheepishly. “Right you are, miss,” he said. “What to do? Just a bad habit.”
She smiled, disarmed by his sheepishness. “Sorry,” she said to Anjali. “We’re stuck in traffic.”
“Okay, tell you what,” Anjali said briskly. “Let’s stay in touch the next few days. I’m assuming you’re going to stay at the same motel where Shannon stays when she goes to Birwad?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“And you’re traveling with her assistant? What’s her name? Nandita?”
“Nandini.”
“Ah yes, Nandini. She’s good. You’re in good hands with her.”
Smita looked glumly out of the cab window after they’d hung up. She took in the stalks of the ugly new skyscrapers that had sprouted all over the city. She saw the older buildings, all of which needed a fresh coat of paint. And everywhere, there was the bewildering crush of humanity—people pouring onto the roads from the crowded sidewalks, darting into traffic, squeezing past the cars and buses and trucks. Unable to bear the heat in the closed vehicle, she rolled down her window and was immediately assailed by the deafening beeps of the vehicles around her. It was like listening to a demented, cacophonous orchestra; she had the strange sensation that the cars were communicating to one another, like in some science-fictional, postapocalyptic movie. She fought the urge to plug her fingers into her ears. It was not as if she was a stranger to the third world. But India wasn’t a country so much as an unstoppable force of nature. Everything about it bewildered her—the paan-stained walls in a renowned hospital, the insane traffic, the masses of people everywhere, Mohan’s idiotic insistence that she claim India as her homeland. At this moment, India felt inexpressibly large—as well as small and provincial enough to choke her. Well, she’d just have to grit it out. You didn’t cover the kind of stories and go to the remote parts of the world that she did because you sought comfort. What had Papa said to her during those early, hard months in Ohio? “Being uncomfortable is good, beta. It’s in discomfort that growth happens.”
Papa. She had not told him that she was back in the city that no member of her family had visited since they’d left. As far as her father knew, she was still vacationing in the Maldives. She’d have to call him that night, but she saw no reason to inform him about her change in plans. He’d only fret until she returned home.
Smita turned her head and saw the driver staring at her in the cab’s rearview mirror. He looked away as soon as their eyes met, but she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She glanced down at her T-shirt and noticed that a bit of her cleavage was showing. In Manhattan, the shirt would be so ordinary as to go unnoticed—but in Mumbai, it was enough to attract the attention of men like the taxi driver. There was no question that she would need to buy more modest attire before she left for Meena’s village. She leaned forward in her seat, pulling up the neckline of her T-shirt as she spoke to the driver. “Oh, bhai,” she said. “I need to buy some outfits. Do they still sell clothes at Colaba Causeway?”