Honor: A Novel(62)

“Hi, Papa,” Smita said. “It’s me.”

“Arre, beta, how are you? Why no phone call in several days? I have been going mad with worry.”

Smita’s heart sank. Despite Papa’s reassurances that he was coping better with his grief, he had clearly slipped some. She had hoped that he had turned a corner. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Ah, forget it. But tell me. Are you enjoying yourself? How is your holiday going?”

“Oh, it’s just fantastic.”

“And the weather in the Maldives?”

She would soon have to tell Papa the truth. The less she lied, the better off she’d be. And yet, hearing the eagerness in his voice, she heard herself say, “I tell you, Papa, it is just so wonderful. Blue skies, clear water, white sand. It’s heaven on earth. It’s like a perfect day today. I’m having a great time.”

“Accha?” She could hear the lightness in her father’s voice and was gratified.

But the next moment, Papa’s worry resurfaced. “Listen, beta. You stay away from those cafés where the Western tourists hang out, okay? Those are the places that the terrorists target, you know?”

Smita’s mind flashed to her visit to the Leopold Cafe. Was that really just around ten days ago? “Oh, Papa,” she said, laughing. “The Maldives are pretty safe. Don’t worry. I’m fine. In any case, we are hardly leaving the resort.”

Papa told her about Alex’s latest escapades and then about the dinner party he’d attended earlier in the evening. Even though he kept up a lively conversation, Smita’s heart ached at the loneliness she heard in his voice. He misses Mummy, she thought. She knew how hard it was for him to attend parties by himself. She would go visit him soon after she got back.

“Chalo,” her father said after a while. “This phone call must be costing you a great deal.”

“It’s not. Don’t worry.”

“Well, beta, to be honest, I’m pretty tired. That party was difficult for me, you know?”

“I know you miss her, Papa,” Smita said. “I do, too.”

Papa sighed. “What to do, Smita? She had everything but the gift of years. Nothing we can do. What cannot be cured must be endured.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“Well, good night, my darling,” he finally said. “Khuda hafiz.”

“Khuda hafiz, Papa. You take care,” she replied as she hung up.

Smita lingered in the bedroom for a moment. Should she call Rohit to ask him to check on Papa? Not tonight, she thought, turning to leave the room. Mohan was standing in the hallway, holding the newspaper in his hand. From the expression on his face, Smita knew that he had overheard at least part of her conversation.

Smita shifted from one foot to the other. “What’re you doing here?” she said at last.

“I came in to make us more tea.”

“Oh.” There was a silence, painfully awkward, and Smita felt herself flush.

“How is your father?” Mohan said.

“Fine,” she said cautiously. “Sounds like you heard part of my conversation.”

“Yup. I heard. Something about you still being in the Maldives? Instead of in India?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to worry him.”

“Why would he worry about you being in India?” And before she could think of an answer, Mohan added slowly, “Also, you said ‘Khuda hafiz’ before hanging up.”

“So what?”

“So . . . It’s a Muslim greeting, right?”

The suspicion in his voice ignited her anger. “I don’t appreciate you snooping on my conversation with my dad.”

“Snooping? I was simply crossing the hallway to go toward the kitchen when . . .”

“Then you should’ve kept moving along.”

Mohan’s face turned red. “Excuse me? You’re going to tell me how to behave in my own house? What I should do and not do?”

“I’ll leave,” Smita said immediately. “Just call me a taxi, and I’ll leave. I don’t have to take this.”

Mohan stared at her, as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Smita, what is going on?” he said, bewildered. “What just happened? Why does your father think you’re in the Maldives? Why are you lying to him? And to me?”

She shook her head, stiffening, unable to respond. Could she trust Mohan? Could she count on him to understand? And then she thought: When has he been anything but kind and trustworthy?

Still, she hesitated, her heart racing. She wiped her clammy hands on her pants, trying to slow down her thoughts.

“Smita?” Mohan said.

Then, relief nipped on the heels of her apprehension. Relief at the thought of untying the secret that had stayed knotted for over twenty years. She had carried the burden of a double life for as long as she could. Here, at last, was the thing she’d welcomed and dreaded—the end of the road.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you.” She moved toward the living room couch.

Mohan followed her slowly and sat across from her. Smita’s heart hurt at the wariness she saw on his face. “Who are you?” he said. “Why did you lie . . . ?”

She held up her hand to stop him. “I’m trying to tell you. I’m going to tell you.”