Honor: A Novel(36)

“Let me talk to him,” I said. “But if he says no . . .”

Radha shook her head impatiently, as if my words were mosquitoes she had to squat away. “If he says no, I’m still applying. I don’t care.”

“Little sister,” I said, raising my voice, “this is our older brother. His word is law.”

“No. Even if Narendra Modi prohibits me, I’m still applying.”

If Radha could have seen all the way to where her stubbornness would take us, maybe she would have buried her desire, and we would have never taken a step out of our village. Because traditions are like eggs—once you break one, it is impossible to put it back inside its shell.





Chapter Fourteen





“I’ll say one thing about this motel,” Smita said with her mouth full. “They sure have a great kitchen.”

Mohan stared at her, an expression on his face she couldn’t read.

“What?” she asked.

“Just that—I like seeing you eat. So many women . . . I don’t know, yaar. They eat like birds or mice in front of men. You don’t have such hang-ups.”

“In my line of work, when there’s food, you eat.” Smita checked her watch and then set her fork down. “Having said that, we should probably get going soon, right?”

“Right.”

They had pulled out of the motel compound and dodged a sudden flock of chickens crossing the street—the old joke made Smita smile—when she thought of something. “You don’t think the front desk guy has been suspicious about the beer bottles you’ve been bringing to your room the last two nights?” she asked.

Mohan’s lips were set in a straight line. “One thing you have to understand about India, Smita,” he said, “is that half of these customs exist just to save face. As long as you don’t rub it in their faces, nobody cares.”

“So, it’s a country of hypocrites.”

He smiled as if he was wise to her. “No. It’s a country that puts a premium on saving face.”

“Just like Meena’s brothers.” Her tone was bitter. “That’s what they were doing, right? Saving their family honor.”

Mohan nodded but didn’t reply. He had come to her room before dinner the evening before with two bottles of beer and a bag of cashews. He had made her splutter with laughter as he told her, in his droll, deadpan fashion, story after story about the pranks he and his friends used to play on their schoolteachers.

Now, he glanced at her. “Everything okay with you?”

“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.”