As always, Abdul waited until I ate the first mouthful. Even then, this ritual felt fresh and new to me. Before our wedding, Abdul made me promise: Everything we did, we did equal. He wanted a wife, he said, not a maid. He only made one request—that I would take care of Ammi, just as he did. “Did Ammi eat?” he asked.
“I dropped off her dinner. Same as usual.” I said. Every Sunday, Abdul and I ate alone in our house. The rest of the week, we cooked in Ammi’s hut and took our meals with her and Kabir.
“I will stop by and see her after we are done here.”
I took his hand. “Not tonight. I have some news.”
“What?”
“You eat while the food is hot-pot. I will tell you afterwards.”
He frowned. “Is it your brothers? Are they harassing you?”
“No, no.” Then, I saw the worry in his eyes and felt sorry for him. “It’s not that. It’s good news.”
“Good news? Arre, Meena, didn’t anyone teach you? Bad news can wait. But good news you must share immediately. Tell me.”
I placed one finger on my lips. “Shoo. I will tell after you finish eating.”
A strange look came over Abdul’s face. He stared at me while chewing his food. He swallowed. “Meena,” he said, his voice sounding as if the food was stuck in his throat, “tell me now. Are you carrying our baby?”
I screamed and made a fist to hit him. “You spoiled my surprise!” I said. “How did you know?”
But Abdul was unable to speak. He sat looking at me, and then he began to cry. Suddenly, I was terrified. “Are you not happy?” I asked.
He got up and washed his hands. Then, he came up to me, took my face in his hands, and kissed my lips, my eyes, my nose, my forehead. “My wife,” he whispered, “what a foolish question. Today is the happiest day in my life.”
He sat next to me, rocking me like a baby, and I thought, Whatever Abdul does to me, he’s doing to our baby. If he kisses me, he is kissing our son. If he rocks me, he is rocking our baby. The thought made me shiver. “Shall we go give Ammi the news?” I asked.
Abdul looked deep into my eyes. “Later,” he said. “Tomorrow. Tonight, I want to be alone with my wife. And my daughter.”
“Daughter?” I said. “I pray that it is a boy.”
“It can be a boy or a girl—it makes no difference to me. I love the baby already because my wife made it for me.”
“You helped,” I said.
Abdul’s eyes were bright. “Let me help some more,” he said, and untied my sari.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Smita looked up from the newspaper and wondered where the past two days had gone. It was a mellow Sunday morning, and she and Mohan were sitting on the patio, sipping tea and reading different sections of the Times of India.
What was Meena doing at this moment? Smita wondered. Was Ammi berating her for this reason or that, or had the groceries brought by Mohan cut some of the tension between them? How on earth did Meena spend her days? Was there even a radio in that dismal shack? Smita gazed at the lush garden around her—the fruit trees, the flowering bushes—and thought of Meena’s barren patch of earth.
Mohan looked up from the newspaper and stretched lazily. He caught Smita’s eye and smiled. She smiled back. This is nice, she thought. I could get used to this.
She sat up taller, bewildered by that complacent sentiment. She supposed it was a measure of how close a friendship she and Mohan had formed in the cauldron of a hectic, emotional week that such a thought had crossed her mind. They had already promised to stay in touch, but Smita knew how impossible that would prove to be. They would exchange emails for a few weeks; he would write a wry reminiscence that would make her feel briefly nostalgic. And then she’d shut her laptop and resume whatever task she was doing in New York.
If the verdict came the next day, as she hoped, they’d return to Mumbai by midweek, after she’d completed a few more interviews. Once back at the Taj, she would finish writing her story while Mohan spent time with Shannon at the rehab center. Smita had already resolved that she wouldn’t fly home without trying to contact Chiku Patel. They had once been close friends; surely, he would not greet her with the hostility that his mother had. Maybe he could add some fresh perspective. Of course Chiku would defend his mother. But still . . . All she wanted was a plausible explanation for that day in 1996. Chiku had been thirteen at the time—old enough to remember.
Smita then remembered that she hadn’t phoned Papa in several days. Ever since Mummy’s death, she had done her best to call him regularly from wherever she was traveling. She glanced at her watch—it was nighttime in the US, the perfect time to reach him.