“Yes. Why?”
“Only because you haven’t argued with me in the last three minutes or so.”
“I guess I’m slipping.”
“Yah, you’re probably pining away for that fat baniya who sat at the dinner table next to ours last night. Maybe you liked the way he was licking his fingers?” And he did such an exaggerated pantomime of the man that Smita burst out laughing.
“You know, you have a great laugh,” Mohan said.
“Everybody tells me it’s too mannish.”
He frowned. “Who?”
Truth be told, it was only Bryan who had said that to her once, when they were having problems. But the comment had stuck, the way insults always did. “Everybody,” she said vaguely.
Mohan fiddled with the car radio, trying to pick up a station. “Do you have any favorite Hindi film songs? From your childhood?”
“Not really,” she said. “Rohit and I were more into rock and roll anyway. But my mom used to listen to ghazals.”
“Not your papa?”
“Nah. He was more into Western classical.”
“What? Almost every member of your family listened to something different?”
“Pretty much.” She glanced at him. “How was it in your family?”
“My father is a huge Hindi film fan. So mostly, we grew up on that music. They’re pretty traditional people, you know? Teetotalers. Vegetarians. Proud to be Gujarati.”
“Did they have an arranged marriage?”
“Yes, of course. In their time, nothing else was possible.”
She nodded, suppressing the urge to tell him that her mother had eloped with her father. “So, will they find a bride for you?”
He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “They’ve tried. But I told them I wasn’t interested.”
“Not interested in what? Marriage? Or an arranged marriage?”
“I’m not sure. Probably both at this point. At my age.”
“How old are you? Sixty-four?”
“Ha ha.” Mohan honked at a car that came too close. “I’m thirty-two,” he said. “Getting too old to marry.”
“What nonsense,” she said. “I’m thirty-four. You’re just a spring chicken.” She looked at him curiously. “You’ve never come close? To marrying?”
He was quiet for so long that the silence began to feel uncomfortable. “Hey, I’m sorry,” Smita began. “It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s okay.” He paused. “I came close once. But it was many years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. She was with me in college. She wanted to marry while we were students. But I—I wanted to make something of myself before we settled down. In those days, I had an old-fashioned notion that the man had to support the woman. My upbringing, you know? So I hesitated. And she got tired of waiting. She married another classmate.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget it, yaar. It was a long time ago.” Mohan shook his head. “Besides, she wasn’t a Gujarati. So my parents would’ve probably had a heart attack. It’s just as well.”
“You wouldn’t have defied them?” Smita heard the judgment in her voice and knew that he had heard it, too.
“Yah, probably,” he said. “If it had come to that.”
They fell into another silence. After a few moments, Mohan said, “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You never married?”
She shrugged. “No. It never took.”
He made a small, enigmatic motion with his head, the meaning of which she didn’t get. “Did you ever date a desi guy?” he asked after a moment.
“No,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “That is, I went on a few dates that my folks set up. But in my line of work, you know, I don’t meet too many Indians.”
“Huh. And you don’t meet boys outside of your line of work? Like, at parties and all?”
She smiled, acknowledging the dig. But how to explain her nomadic existence to Mohan, rooted, steady Mohan? What would he make of the packed suitcases in her austere Brooklyn apartment? Would he disapprove of the hook-ups she had with the correspondents she met in far-flung places? What would he think of the expensive Sunday brunches she shared with her single friends in New York, during which they lingered over mimosas, complaining incessantly about how all the good guys were married or gay? Would he be bemused or impressed by their chatter, the fact that they talked almost exclusively about indie films and politics and the latest exhibit at the Met? God, how stereotypical her life in Brooklyn was. How American.