Honor: A Novel(87)

“So why did you say what you did? About me taking her?”

Mohan’s eyes flashed. “Because, Smita, I’m trying to do what’s best for the child. And you made it sound like it was a bloody custody battle.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just surprised, is all. I mean, you don’t even have your own apartment. How can you manage a child?”

“What does one have to do with the other? Zarine Auntie can watch her while I’m at work. I mean, where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

How effortlessly, Smita thought, Mohan has carved me out of his life with Abru.

“Smita,” Mohan said, looking exasperated. “What is it? Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know. I just feel sad. And confused. Meena put her in my charge. With her final breath. I feel as if I’m failing her.”

They stared helplessly at each other.

“The papers,” Smita said after a few minutes. “The ones that Ammi signed. Who did she name as the guardian?”

“She didn’t. She left it blank.” Mohan exhaled. “But, Smita. This is going to be a bastard of a process. First of all, we have to make sure there are no other claims on Abru. We’ll have to track down Meena’s sister and make sure—”

“She’s most likely in no position to take in a child,” Smita interrupted.

“Right. But the courts may insist we find her. As for the brothers—” Mohan stopped briefly. “Look. If you really want to take her to America, I’ll help you. I would be delighted. I just won’t put her in an orphanage.”

“But that’s just it, Mohan. There’s no way I can. I travel most weeks out of the year. My lifestyle just wouldn’t allow me to be a single parent.”

He grinned mirthlessly.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Just that, when did it become a lifestyle instead of simply life? It sounds like a fashion parade or something.”

“Yeah, well. That’s Brooklyn for you,” Smita said vaguely. “But really, I also can’t stay in India long enough to get through the red tape.”

“You could leave her with me,” Mohan said. “I can do all the paperwork for you. That’s what all the rich Americans do, right?”

“And you would do this? You wouldn’t get too attached to her?”

“I’m already attached to her.” Mohan’s tone was rueful. “But I would do this. For you. If you needed a child that badly.”

Smita was suddenly irritated. This sounded too much like their arguments about India being her homeland. Motherhood was another box that Mohan was placing her in. “I don’t need a child. This is not about me. I just feel a sense of responsibility for this particular child.”

“That’s a bad reason to wish to become a mother, Smita. Because you feel responsible.”

“Dear God, Mohan. Who said anything about becoming a mother? I just said—”

“So how are you going to adopt Abru? As your sister?”

“Okay. Touché. But if you were to keep her, what would you be? Her father?”

Mohan cocked his head, puzzled. “Yes, of course.”

“I see,” she said. “And that . . . that doesn’t scare you?”

His eyes widened slightly, as if he finally understood what she was asking—as if he had figured out what made her tick. “Yah. It scares me. All the important things in life are supposed to scare you. My first day in graduate school, I was scared. Same thing the day I started at my job at Tata. Hell, the first time I met you, I was scared.”

“You were scared of me?” She laughed. “Why?”

“Because I knew within minutes that I wanted to spend more time with you. And I didn’t know how or why.”

Mohan was looking at her with such vulnerability, Smita’s breath caught. Unable to bear the beating of her own heart, she looked away. “Well,” she said, “I’m sure you would’ve run for the hills if you could’ve seen into the future.”

“Not really,” he said. “I’m not saying any of this has been easy. And I would’ve given my right arm to have been able to save poor Meena. But I don’t regret a moment.”

“Thank you,” she said, burrowing her face into Mohan’s chest. They sat like this, Mohan murmuring something against Smita’s ear.

“What did you say?” she said, raising her head.

“I said, would it be so bad to stay?” Mohan repeated.

“Stay where?”

His eyes flickered with impatience. “You know where. Stay in Mumbai. With me.”

“Oh, Mohan,” Smita said regretfully. “You know that’s impossible.”

His grip around her tightened. “It’s impossible?” he asked. “It’s more impossible than it was for your papa to move his whole family to America?”

“Oh, but that’s not fair. That’s not the same thing.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is, we did it out of desperation. We didn’t really have a choice.”

“I see. So desperation is a better reason to move to a country than love?”

She stared at him openmouthed. Love? Had he just used the L-word? “Mohan, we barely know each other,” she began. She stopped. Was this some bizarre test? A prank? “Are you . . . are you just positing some theoretical . . .”