She half wished she could order a club sandwich at this hour, in memory of Mummy. Instead, she ordered coffee and a spinach omelet. The waiter set the plate down in front of her with the care and precision of a mechanic setting down an engine part. “Can I get you anything else, ma’am?” he asked in a respectful voice. He was probably just a year or two older than her, but his obsequious manner, so typical of how working-class Indians addressed the rich, made her grit her teeth. But then, a quick look around this beautiful room told her that nobody else—not the many Germans and Brits in the room, nor the paunchy Indian businessmen out with their clients—seemed to mind the sycophantic manner of the members of the waitstaff; in fact, they seemed to expect and demand it. She had already noticed the snapping of fingers for service and the dismissive tone with which the other diners spoke to the servers.
“No, thank you,” she said. “This looks delicious.”
Her reward was a sincere, delighted smile. “Enjoy, ma’am,” he said, and edged away, silent as a ghost.
She took a sip of the coffee and then licked the froth from her upper lip. She had tasted coffee all around the world, but God, how wonderful this cup of Nescafé tasted. She knew it would be an object of derision back home—“It’s instant coffee, for Christ’s sake, Smita,” she could hear Jenna trill as they ate brunch at the Rose Water café in Park Slope—but what could she say? It was only in the last year of her time in India that her parents had allowed her to drink coffee, and that, too, just a few sips from her father’s cup as he sat grading papers. One taste and she was transported to their large, sunlit apartment in Colaba, a short walk from the Taj, and to Sunday mornings as her parents bickered good-naturedly about whether to play his Bach and Beethoven CDs or her mother’s ghazals on the living room stereo. Rohit would be in his room, still in bed as he listened to Green Day or U2 on his Walkman. Their cook, Reshma, would be making the South Indian medhu vadas and upma that was their Sunday morning breakfast treat.
Where was Reshma now? Surely, she was still living in this city of twenty million, working for another family? Smita would like to find her during this trip, but how, she hadn’t a clue. Had Mummy stayed in touch with Reshma after they’d left? She didn’t know. They had all worked so hard to forget what they’d left behind and to build a new life in America. Maybe it was just as well that she didn’t know their old cook’s whereabouts.
Reshma often used to accompany them to the Gateway, watching over Smita as she played under its arch. Every evening it seemed as if half the metropolis emptied out onto the promenade near the seaside, the smell of roasted corn on the cob wafting over them all. Smita remembered tugging on her father’s tunic, asking him to buy her the mix of sand-roasted peanuts and chana. She’d watch as the street vendor filled a paper cone with the snack, twisting the bottom point of the cone into a tail before handing it to her with a flourish. As for those twilight evenings during the rainy season, when the spattering sun flung its embers across the sky and painted the city a luminescent orange? In all her travels, had any twilight ever compared with the twilights of her childhood?
The waiter cleared his throat, trying to get her attention. “May I clear this plate for you, ma’am?” he asked. “Was everything satisfactory?”
She turned around to face him. “Yes, thank you.” She smiled. “Do you suppose I could order another coffee?”
“Of course, ma’am. You liked it?”
She heard the pride—no, it was more than that, the ownership, in his voice—and was touched by it. She longed to ask him about his life, how much he earned, what his living conditions were like, but noticed that the restaurant was getting even more crowded. “Yes, very much,” she replied. “There’s no coffee quite like this anywhere.”
He nodded. “Where are you residing, ma’am?” he asked shyly.
“America.”
“I thought so,” he said. “Although most of our tourists are from Europe.”
“Is that so?” she asked, having no interest in discussing her life. This was the great thing about being a reporter—you got to ask questions instead of answering them. She hoped he would get her that second cup of coffee soon. She glanced at her watch, but the waiter didn’t pick up on the hint.
“It is my lifelong dream,” he said, “to study hospitality management in America.”
Smita heard some version of this wherever she traveled. The details varied, but the bones of the dream were the same—to get a tourist visa and gain a toehold into America. Then, to do whatever it took—drive a cab sixteen hours a day or work hard in a sweaty restaurant kitchen or have an employer sponsor you or marry an American. The goal was to someday get a much-coveted green card, the twenty-first century’s version of the Holy Grail.