Thirty
I never thought of myself as an adventurer before, but by the time the plane’s wheels hit the airport in Mumbai, I’m feeling
pretty damn proud of myself. The South of France, Kenya, and India, the last two on my own! Admittedly, it’s not quite how
I ever pictured myself traveling (when I pictured myself traveling). When I was in college I had wanted to Euro-rail around
Europe on a train, with little more than a backpack and list of youth hostels, but summers ended up being about internships
and family. I never had the time.
I am surprised at what a good time I am having on my own; I have barely had a moment to think about Jerome, let alone miss
him, but once I am in the limo that collects me from the jet to take me to where I’m staying, I wish he were here. I wish
Lucy were here, or my mother, or . . . anyone. I wish I wasn’t experiencing something so extraordinary all by myself. There
is a bottle of champagne in the limousine, and a basket of fruit, but I’m too excited to eat, and I feel guilty opening a
bottle of champagne when I’m alone; it seems like too much of a waste.
I open the bottle of water and swig it as I look out the window, at this world that is so different, so unfamiliar, I cannot tear my eyes away.
The airport is only a few miles outside the city, and soon we are in the thick of it: motorbikes weaving through traffic, black and yellow taxis that honk incessantly, families crammed three to a scooter; women in bright saris balancing shopping bags on their hips, men in loose white kurtas darting between cars.
A cow ambles lazily across the road, ignored by everyone but me.
The background color is a hazy gray, the air heavy with humidity and the faint scent of spice, but everything layered on top
is a riot of movement and color. We pull up outside a tall, elegant white building, almost with a deco feel. Tall, handsome
men in gold-trimmed turbans and crisp white uniforms open the door, wide smiles as they greet me and whisk me inside to a
vast lobby, a sea of marble floors, gilded screens, and velvet sofas, a huge chandelier dripping crystal from above. There
is a distinctive smell, the hotel’s signature scent—a mix of sandalwood, rose, and jasmine, sprays and candles of it glowing
in glass cases. I make a note to buy some for Lucy.
I can appreciate the beauty, the cool silence of the lobby, but as I’m led to a sofa and given a glass of cold nimbu pani—lemonade
spiced with salt and cumin, and a small silver tray of sweets, jewel-like squares of pistachio burfi, I’m also instantly intimidated.
It is delicious, but I’m desperate to get up to my room, to have a quick shower and get changed, ready for Nasreen’s visit.
My suite has swathes of silk hanging over the bed, pretty double doors opening onto a balcony that overlooks the vast garden,
palm trees towering above lawns, and stone pathways warmed by the afternoon sun. In the distance I can see the domes and tiled
rooftops of the city, and I sit for a while on the balcony, enjoying the sunshine before I jump in the shower.
Nasreen is late. It makes me smile, because Nasreen was always late. I remember my mother always telling Nasreen that things started half an hour earlier than they actually did. Even then, she would arrive after everyone else.
I’m wearing one of the outfits Lucy has loaned me. I feel slightly ridiculous, in this floor-length Johanna Ortiz silk caftan,
teamed with flat Valentino Rockstud sandals and huge Mercedes Salazar earrings that look like colorful glittery parrots hanging
from my ears. This is nothing I would have chosen for myself. This is the outfit Lucy deemed perfect for India, and I relax
as I wander into the hotel boutique, and the women who are in there, all unquestionably chic and beautiful, eye me up and
down, checking out what I am wearing.
“Johanna Ortiz?” says the woman with the streaky blond hair with a smile, and I nod. She knows the brand. “I love it,” she
says. “I have tons of her clothes, but I didn’t get that caftan. I should have.” I’m flattered, but uncomfortable. I wonder
if I stood here in my usual clothes, my jeans and sneakers, if she would deign to talk to me. She probably wouldn’t even look
at me. I would sail through this boutique invisible to all.
I look through the clothes rack halfheartedly, pulling things out every now and then, as if I am considering them, as the
women pile things on the register. I notice that one of them is shockingly young. Maybe twenty, twenty-one? She’s wearing
a miniskirt, thigh-length sheers, high heels. She is spectacularly beautiful. Wide, almond-shaped eyes, a tiny upturned nose,
lips a perfect lush pout. Her hair looks as if it has just been blow-dried, a wave of brown silk streaked with gold. She must
be a model, surely, but for the fact I realize her heels are at least four inches and she cannot be tall enough to be a model.
The women murmur to each other in Russian. Ah, I think. The girlfriends of Russian oligarchs. Or perhaps the young one is a girlfriend, the older one her mother? Sister-in-law?
“Are you here on vacation?” I venture, curiosity getting the better of me.
“It is my baby gift,” says the younger one. I look at her, confused. A baby herself, what can she mean?
“My daughter is two months old,” she says proudly.
“Congratulations.” Why is she in the hotel boutique shopping and where is the two-month-old baby, I wonder.
“She is asleep with the baby nurse,” offers the older woman, perhaps sensing my question.
“Lucky you that she’s sleeping,” I say pleasantly, as the sales assistant rings up their charges. Twelve lakh rupees. I make
a quick calculation. Sixteen thousand dollars. But who am I to judge, I quickly tell myself, given that I just spent almost
six figures on a watch for my father.
I leave without buying anything, and as I step outside the hotel, a dented old Maruti hatchback zooms up. It’s filthy dirty,
covered in dust, with the front bumper hanging off. The doormen exchange a look, immediately going over to the car and barking
something in Hindi, which I presume means either move on, or get out of here. The woman winds down the window and shouts back at them in Hindi, waving her arms, her hennaed hair bouncing as she shouts.
I start to laugh, and she looks at me then, her face contorted in irritation, suddenly breaking into delight as she flings
the car door open (it almost falls off), and runs toward me, pausing only to fling the keys at the doorman, now appearing
thoroughly confused, as she continues toward me, almost knocking me over in the hurricane of her affection, her old rubber
chappals slapping the ground as she runs.
“Babycakes!” My childhood nickname bursts from her mouth in her lilting accent, echoing off the stone steps as she flings her arms around me and hugs me properly, tightly, her whole body squeezed up against mine.
I lean into her softness. She smells of coconut oil and sandalwood soap, waves of maternal warmth emanating from every pore in her body, and I remember what I have always felt when I have been with Nasreen, what I still feel, even after all these years: what it is to feel loved.