Ramdas folded his hands. “Namaste, memsahib,” he said with supreme dignity. “Welcome.”
In the enormous living room, Smita took in the beautiful Indian artwork on the walls, the expensive furniture, the marble floor. So this was what a diamond merchant’s home looked like. As she stood examining one of the paintings, she could hear Ramdas and Mohan chatting in the kitchen. The chowkidar appeared before her. “You’ll take something, memsahib? Coca-Cola? Tea? Lime water?”
Smita didn’t want to offend him by asking whether they boiled their drinking water. As if he’d read her mind, Ramdas smiled. “Or pani? Filtered water, we are having,” he said.
She nodded. “Thank you. But I can help myself.”
“You take rest, memsahib. I will bring.” Ramdas looked around. “Has young sahib shown you the guest bedroom?”
“Not yet.”
Ramdas picked up her suitcase. “I will show,” he said in a proprietary tone that told Smita he had worked for Mohan’s family for a long time. “This way.”
Her room opened up to a small garden. A single handloom print hung on the wall behind the bed.
Ramdas pulled out a small stool and stood on it to turn on the air conditioner. “Room is a little hot,” he said. “When they are away, I keep everything shut off. No point in wasting money.”
“You stay here by yourself? When they are gone?”
“Yes, memsahib. The cook travels with them. But I stay here to watch the house. Too many ruffians around these days. Not good to leave a house unoccupied for too long.”
She heard the protectiveness in his voice. “And your own family?” she asked. “Do they—”
“They are back in the village. Wife and two children. Big seth built a house for them many years ago. They are comfortable there.”
“How often do you get to see them?”
“When big seth and his wife are away, I come and go as I like.” Ramdas suddenly looked sheepish. “I was telling Mohan seth, just now only—I was planning on leaving for my home village today or tomorrow. My younger brother’s boy is getting married. Naturally, as the elder, my presence is required. But if you wish for me to remain to serve you, I will cancel.”
It took her a minute to realize that Ramdas was asking for her permission. “Oh,” she said, “that’s between you and Mohan. But we will manage fine, I’m sure.”
Ramdas appeared relieved. But the next moment, his face fell. “But what about your meals?” he said, as if a new obstacle had presented itself.
“I’m sure we’ll be okay. Mohan must know of some nearby restaurants.”
He bowed his head. “If you are sure. But . . . let me fetch you the glass of water, memsahib.”
Smita had intended to take a short nap, but when she awoke, the clock said 5:00 p.m. She got up and, in her bare feet, went to look for Mohan. She found him on the living room sofa, snoring softly, the magazine on his chest rising and falling with each breath. She stood watching him for a moment, then turned away. But her knee knocked against the crystal fruit bowl on the table nearby, and the sound woke him. He sat up almost immediately, running his hand through his hair.
“I guess we both zonked out,” she said.
“We?” He cocked his right eyebrow. “I already dropped Ramdas off at the train station and stopped to buy a few provisions. I must’ve dozed off for less than ten minutes.”
“Sorry, yaar,” she said, adopting his favorite slang.
“Be careful,” Mohan said. “Or else you’ll turn into a pucca Indian.” He stifled a yawn. “Listen, I thought we would eat at home tonight,” he said. “We can make pasta if you want.”
Pasta? After the spicy Indian dinners they’d been eating all this time, Smita felt as if she’d give her right arm for pasta.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Sunday I found out that I was pregnant, Abdul had gone to the factory to work an extra shift. Soon after he left that morning I vomited, just as I had the previous night. I blamed it on the food I’d eaten the night before. I went to my cot to lie down and didn’t wake up until Ammi came in. “Kya huya?” she said. “It’s eleven in the morning, and you are still sleeping?”
I forced myself to rise. “Sorry, Ammi,” I said. “I’ll make your breakfast.”
“Shoo—” She waved me away. “Forget breakfast now. I had a chapati with ghee at my house.”
Sick as I was, I took pride in Ammi’s words. With the wages Abdul and I were earning, we were giving Ammi a good life. Now, she could afford to spread ghee on her chapati.