Smita was about to snap back, but Mohan squeezed her arm and stepped in front of her. “Arre, bhai sahib,” he said, smoothly. “This is my fiancée. I told her that we could stay in one room and save some money. But what to do? She is a girl from a good family. She insists on having her own room. Until the wedding.”
Smita rolled her eyes, but the clerk’s face had begun to soften. “I understand,” he said nodding. “For you, sir, I will make an exception. I applaud your modesty, madam. You may have the rooms. For how many days will you be staying?”
Smita hesitated, but Mohan had begun to reach for his wallet and was pulling out a few hundred-rupee notes. “This is for being so understanding,” he said. “We will pay separately for the rooms, of course. But this is just because of the extra trouble. Because we don’t know yet how long we’ll be staying.”
“No problem,” the clerk said, sticking the bills in his shirt pocket. “You are visiting for family reasons?”
“Ah, yes and no,” Mohan said evasively, his smile filtering any insult.
“I see,” the clerk said. He pulled out a pen and pushed a sheet of yellowing paper toward their end of the table. “You please fill out these forms.”
Smita reached for the offered pen. The clerk froze. He stared intently at Mohan. “Sir,” he said, “only your signature is valid.”
There was a short, painful silence. Then, Mohan mustered a strangled laugh. “Oh yes, of course,” he said. “Forgive my fiancée. She’s a city girl and . . .”
The clerk appraised Smita gravely. “Madam is a foreigner,” he said softly. “Not familiar with our customs.”
Smita flushed, then walked away as Mohan filled out the form. A foreigner. That was exactly what she was. In this moment, she wanted nothing to do with this provincial country in which she found herself trapped.
Even as she fumed at the clerk’s casual misogyny, her thoughts turned to Meena. The damage done to Meena was far too grievous for comparison, of course, but it stemmed from a similar mindset, one that saw women as the property of men. She would get out of India in a few days, but someone like Meena probably never would.
A heavy feeling gripped Smita. This was the real India, revealing itself to her in small slights and grave tragedies. She turned her head slightly to give Mohan a sidelong glance, thankful for his presence but also envious of his male privilege. She looked out the window into the parking lot. It was getting late in the day. They would have to wait until the next morning to meet Meena.
“Come,” Mohan said quietly. He was at her side, holding a suitcase in each hand. Without thinking, she reached for hers. But he threw her a cautioning look, and she retracted her hand and lowered her eyes, for the benefit of the clerk. She bristled inwardly as she followed Mohan down the long hallway to their side-by-side rooms. He unlocked her door and motioned for her to enter. They looked around the sparse room with whitewashed walls. “It will do?” Mohan asked, and she heard the anxiety in his voice.
“Yes, of course,” Smita said. “It’s fine.” She poked her head into the bathroom and was relieved to see the Western-style toilet. To the right was a shower, with a plastic bucket and mug nearby on the tiled floor. The wall tile looked reasonably clean. “The bathroom is nice,” she added.
“Good,” Mohan said. He covered his mouth and yawned. “Sorry,” he said. “Do you want to go see Meena today? It will be—”
“No. There’s no point. We’ll go in the morning.”
Smita saw the relief on his face.
“Listen, the manager said they have a kitchen and dining room here,” Mohan said. “He said they can prepare us any meal we want. Do you know what . . . ?”
“I don’t care,” Smita said. “You order whatever you want. I’m not even that hungry. All I really want is an ice-cold beer.”
Mohan looked pained, and she immediately realized her gaffe. Of course. In a place like this, they probably would frown on a woman drinking alcohol in public. “It’s okay,” she said hastily. “I don’t have to drink.”
“No, no,” he said, frowning. “Tell you what. Let me go place our dinner order. And then, I’ll have him deliver two bottles of beer to my room. You can come drink it there. Or . . . I can just drop off a bottle for you?”
It was Mohan’s hesitancy, his thoughtfulness in not foisting his company on her, that helped her decide. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’ll come have a beer with you, okay?”