But Mohan had woken up at six this morning with someone else’s name on his lips:
Abru’s.
Anjali called at eight. Smita heard the exhaustion in her voice and knew that she hadn’t slept. She wanted to offer her sympathies but couldn’t bring herself to console Anjali. In a few days she might, but right then, she couldn’t escape the thought that Anjali had fucked up. If she and Mohan had not arrived when they did, Ammi and Abru would have been killed, also. The thought of the child being harmed landed like bloody lashes on Smita’s skin.
At Anjali’s behest, Smita and Mohan went to the police station nearest to Birwad later that morning, leaving Abru at home with Ammi. The inspector who took their complaint looked so disinterested as he picked at his teeth and kept his eyes glued to Smita’s chest, it took all her willpower to not ask him how much he’d been paid off by Rupal. The only time the man showed the slightest passion was when Smita mentioned that she was writing a story for an American newspaper. Then, he met her eyes and accused her of maligning India’s reputation abroad.
Her anger fueled by the police inspector’s disinterest, Smita longed to start work on her article. Maybe she could persuade an Indian newspaper to pick up the story? She had spoken to Shannon on her way to the police station, even though she’d hated giving her the news about Meena while she was in rehab. Shannon had promised to follow up on the story when she returned to work.
“Do you want to go back to Birwad?” Mohan asked as they left the police station. “To, you know, see about giving Meena a proper funeral?”
Smita considered his suggestion. “I want to get back to Abru,” she said. “And I need to begin work on my story.” She hesitated. “I know that sounds awful. I don’t mean to be callous. But honestly, under the circumstances, I think Meena would want us to focus on her daughter, not on her remains.”
Mohan nodded as he put the car in reverse. “You don’t sound callous. Besides, didn’t you tell me that Meena said the four months she shared with her husband were the happiest days of her life?”
“Yes?”
“Then we will leave her where she was at her happiest.”
They had not yet discussed what had happened between them the night before. Smita didn’t regret it, just the circumstances that had led to such intimacy—and the fact that there had been no opportunity to distinguish love from need, pleasure from grief, desire from solace. Would any warm body have done last night? she asked herself, but she knew the answer immediately. It was only Mohan who could have consoled her; it was only Mohan that she wanted to console. Their lovemaking had been solemn, tinged with desperation, but also extremely sensual. She had slept deeply for a few hours—and when she’d startled awake, hearing Meena’s voice in her ear, Mohan was right there, his arm around her, holding her in place, keeping her from splitting in two. All morning, she hadn’t wanted to be away from him for even a moment—and it was taking all her control to not stroke his cheek as he drove or take his hand in her lap. He was allowing her to take the lead, to decide whether their night together was an aberration, something they would never mention—or something of consequence. Of course it was this decency, the very Mohanness of it all, that made her want him even more. But it was also a measure of the warmth she felt toward him that made Smita decide she couldn’t risk hurting him. She would help him settle Ammi and Abru; she would file her story; and then, she would leave. She had to get out of India before either of them got too entangled. Their lovemaking may have been born of circumstance, but one thing she was sure of—one of them would get hurt if they continued, and that person would be Mohan. Smita was willing to risk heartbreak. Their intimacy the night before had opened up a hunger in her that felt as big and complicated as India itself. That hunger made her want to pull Mohan into the deepest part of her and hold him there; it also made her want to push him away. It was what had made her so good at her job, this ability to walk away without a look back, to not get pinned down to places or people. But with Mohan, walking away would not be so easy. It was best if she left him the hell alone.
“Everything okay?” Mohan said quietly, looking straight ahead, and Smita knew that he was aware of her agitation.
“No,” she said, pretending to misunderstand his question. “Meena is still dead.”
They went out that evening to purchase a large bottle of Grey Goose and drank it from cups in Mohan’s bedroom after Ammi and Abru had fallen asleep. “I feel like I sleepwalked through this day,” Smita said, feeling a little light-headed.