Honor: A Novel(97)

She hung up. The whole conversation had been so disjointed, and she was no closer to making a decision than before. And then she thought: First Mummy and now Mohan. Since when had she started relying on others to help her decide what to do? At this rate, she figured she may as well draw straws or flip a coin. Surely, she thought, Mohan deserves better than someone this unsteady in her love for him.

Smita thought back to something that Rohit had said when he’d quit his job to start his own business: “Look, I know it’s a risk. But at some point, you have to jump. I’ll either land on my feet or I’ll land on my face. But either way, I’ll own the fall. You see what I’m saying?”

Rohit’s words had inspired her to go skydiving the summer after, despite her fear of heights. She had landed on her feet.

Smita paced up and down the lounge, trying to control her agitation. She returned to her seat and sat down. The other passengers looked at her curiously. A moment later, she rose again. The woman across from her smiled. “Bathroom?” she said. “I will watch your luggage.”

“It’s okay,” Smita said. “I—I am leaving.”

The woman looked at her, confused. “Leaving, madam?” she said. “The plane will be departing soonly.”

“I know. But I will not be on it.” Smita turned around, then looked back. “Give Meena a kiss from me.”

A long line had formed at the counter where the gate agent stood. Since Smita had not checked a suitcase, she could simply walk away. But in a country already on edge after several terrorist attacks, Smita knew the consternation and delays her unexplained absence would cause. She pushed her way to the head of the queue, ignoring the howls of protest behind her.

The gate agent glared at her. “Madam, please go back and wait your turn,” she said.

“I’m leaving,” Smita replied, and she felt an immediate lightness of spirit. “My name is Smita Agarwal. I don’t have a checked bag, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You’re leaving for what? The flight is on time.”

“I’m not boarding the flight. I’m—I’m going back.”

The agent blinked at her in incomprehension. “Going back where?”

“Home. I’m going home.”

Smita tried dialing Mohan’s number again as she hurried across the terminal, but for some unfathomable reason, Mohan’s line was busy. Smita bit down on her lip in frustration. She’d promised to phone Mohan from the plane—why on earth was he on another call? Then, she realized that they wouldn’t be boarding her flight for another half hour. If she knew Mohan, he was probably talking to Zarine, checking up on Abru. The child had intuitively known that something was amiss when Smita had kissed her goodbye earlier that day and had started wailing inconsolably. Zarine had glared at Smita, picked up Abru, and taken her to the balcony to calm her down. Smita, overcome with guilt, had barely been able to make eye contact with Mohan as they’d walked to his car.

She dialed again. This time it rang but, when Mohan answered, there was so much static that she hung up. When she redialed, the call went directly into voice mail.

Smita was almost to the exit door. Another minute, and she would be outside. She debated whether to continue trying Mohan’s phone from the air-conditioned refuge of the terminal or step into the sultry, humid night. But even as she asked herself the question, she knew that her excitement was too great. She walked outdoors and was immediately hit by the familiar blare of traffic horns, the acrid smell of diesel fumes, and the chatter of people waiting for their loved ones. She panicked, wondering how she would possibly find Mohan. A man broke through from the crowd and approached her. “Taxi, madam? I fetch a taxi? Where you going?” he asked. “Good rate I’m giving.”

She tried shaking him off, knowing that any eye contact would only encourage him. But the man was persistent, following her as she walked along the sidewalk, peering into the crowd. In desperation, she dialed Mohan’s number again, and this time he answered.

“Mohan!” she yelled. “Where are you?”

“Still here, just like I said . . .”

“I know. But where are you? I’m outside looking for you.”

There was a sudden silence. “You’re here? You . . . you didn’t go?”

She smiled at the wonder she heard in his voice. “Jaan,” she said. “I’m here. Where are you?”

“I . . . I . . . Tell me where you are, and I’ll find you,” Mohan said. “Which way did you exit?”

After she told him, Mohan said, “Okay. Stay where you are. I’ll be there in two minutes. I’m walking there now. Don’t move.”

“Okay, but . . .”

“Smita, stay put. I will spot you in a minute. Just wait there.”

She scanned the crowd for him, but she saw only a wall of unfamiliar faces, all of them straining against the barrier, searching for their own families. Her eyes swept from left to right, then back to the left—and there was Mohan, almost directly in front of her, standing still. They were probably twenty feet away from each other, separated by the metal barricades. But the look on Mohan’s face was a homecoming. “Smita!” Mohan called, raising his right hand in greeting and holding it high. There was an expression on his face that she’d never seen before.