Mission Mumbai

by Mahtab Narsimhan

  “Sorry, Ma.” Ro’s grateful eyes met mine.

  “Sorry, Mrs. L,” I said, and really meant it.

  “I had to call your parents, Dylan,” said Mrs. Lal. “They’re out of their minds with worry. We have to call them right away to let them know you’re safe.”

  I felt strangely elated and terrible hearing that. “Sure.”

  “I still don’t understand why you boys didn’t think of calling us from a public—”

  “That’s enough, Priya,” Mr. Lal said, gently but firmly. “The important thing is that the boys are safe. Let’s go home. We could all do with breakfast, a shower, and some sleep.”

  “You’re right, Arun,” said Mrs. Lal, her voice shaky. “But last night proved to me that family is everything, and without it money means nothing. We’ll sell the Deolali flat immediately and use the money to get us through the next few months. I’ll get a job as soon as we go back. But after today we’re not taking a cent from your sister and she’s never going to dictate terms to me or my family ever again. In fact, I’ve decided that we should leave as soon as the wedding is over.”

  Mr. Lal opened his mouth to speak but Mrs. Lal held up her hand, silencing him. “This is not open to discussion, Arun. My decision is final.”

  My faith in Mrs. Lal was justified. When this lady went to battle, she won. Always.

  And that was that. Rohit and I exchanged excited grins. The horrible night hadn’t turned out so badly after all. His parents were alive, I had my best friend back, and I’d taken some amazing pictures, too. There was just one thing left to do and that was to call Mom and Dad. I wasn’t even upset that we were heading home earlier!

  Shakuntala had been standing to the side quietly observing the entire exchange between the Lals and me. I hugged her goodbye and thanked her. “I’d like to mail you copies of the pictures I took,” I said. “Will you please give me your address?”

  “The municipal authorities are planning to tear down the huts by the end of the year. I won’t have an address. You are a kind boy but I already have a picture of you, here.” She touched her heart. “And why would I need a picture of Moti when I have the real thing?” Then she kissed my forehead (I had to stoop for it), and Rohit’s, too. With Moti at her side, she walked away.

  I took one last picture. Not for the competition but for me.

  MOM! IT’S ME,” I SAID.

  “Dylan!” Mom’s panicked voice burst into my ear. “Thank God you’re all right. We’ve been out of our minds with worry. Your dad and I booked tickets to come to Mumbai. We leave tonight, New York time.”

  I was so choked up I could barely speak. I turned away from the Lals, who stood outside the telephone booth watching me, and slyly wiped my eyes.

  “Mom, cancel your tickets. I’m okay. Really!” I said, as calmly as I could manage. “We were lost after we got separated from Rohit’s parents. An old lady gave us shelter from the rain. We all met up in the morning and everyone’s good.” I omitted mentioning Rafiq, sure she’d grab her purse and head to the airport now if I told her. “How are you and Dad doing?”

  “Here, he wants to talk to you,” she said.

  There was muffled conversation in the background and then Dad came on the line.

  “Son, you okay?” His voice was shaky. “I was so worried.”

  “I’m fine, Dad. I know you’re busy so please cancel your tickets. I’ll be home in a few days, anyway.”

  Silence.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah. I … I just wanted to say that you’re more important than any contract. And if you need us, we’ll be there.”

  That was a first from him and it felt good. It was almost worth the horrible night just to hear him say that. “Thanks, Dad, but really, there’s no need. I’m safe. We’re heading back to Mumbai tomorrow. The wedding’s the day after and then we’re all leaving early for home. The Lals have some urgent work to take care of in New York.”

  “Great, son. I’ll take the day off and pick you up at the airport,” he said. “We’ll spend it together as a family. We haven’t done that in a long time.”

  Another first that I was going to hold him to. “Thanks, Dad. I’d like that. I got some great pictures I’d love to show you. I’m sure one of them will win something in the National Geographic competition I’m entering.”

  Silence.

  “And, Dad?” I said, gathering the courage to go on.

  “Yes, I heard you.”

  “I’m not signing up for soccer when I get back, whether I win something or not.”

  “Can we discuss it when you get here?”

  “Sure,” I said. This time I wasn’t upset or even angry. I’d seen Mrs. Lal stand up to Mr. Lal about Boa, and Shakuntala survive her family’s betrayal and a harsh life with only a dog as her friend. They’d been brave when things were tough and I guess I felt inspired and encouraged by them. I was going to convince Dad to see my side of things and I was going to stand my ground no matter what. “All I’ll say is that you’ve made the choice to do something you’re good at and that makes you happy, and I want that same choice.”

  There was a long silence and I wondered if we’d end up arguing again. “Fair enough,” said Dad, surprising me.

  “Thanks. Um … can I talk to Mom, please?”

  “Rosemary?” Dad said. “Here.”

  Mom came back on the line. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, Mom, I’m fine. Just promise me you and Dad won’t make any decisions about our family till I get back. You know … I mean—”

  “I know what you mean, Dylan,” she cut in. Mom was quiet for a minute before she spoke. “I can’t promise anything but we’ll have a discussion, all three of us, when you get back. I think it’s long overdue.”

  I could live with that. “Sounds good.”

  The numbers in red, displaying the cost of the call, climbed rapidly and I was sure Mrs. Lal would insist on paying. I had to end the call soon if I didn’t want her to pay a small fortune.

  “Have to go, Mom,” I said. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” she said softly. “Don’t you ever doubt that.”

  Smiling, I put down the phone. If she and Dad were going to try at making our family work, so would I. Shakuntala’s words came back to me: Just forgive and forget. Sometimes it’s the only thing in your control.

  VT STATION WAS EVEN MORE PACKED WHEN WE got to Mumbai, as if the population had multiplied exponentially while we’d been away.

  We were sucked into a whirlpool of sweaty humanity as soon as we stepped off the train. I stayed close to Rohit as a fat porter (the only one I’d seen in India) grabbed all our luggage in one go, waddled out of the station, and put us in the taxi line. Sweat dripped off his beet-red face but he somehow moved with ease.

  As we stood on the curb waiting, a guy with bright-red lips sauntered past. He was chewing something and as I watched he spat straight onto the road. I jumped back as something that looked like red vomit hit the grate at our feet and splattered the sidewalk. It looked exactly like blood. I slowly turned to Ro.

  “You liar! That’s the bloodshed you’ve seen?” I said, elbowing him hard in the ribs.

  Rohit smiled. “I promised you’d see it before you left Mumbai, and I kept my word.”

  “Chewing paan in public should be banned,” Mrs. Lal said, her face screwed up in disgust. “And all these people should be made to scrub the walls and streets as punishment.”

  Now that I knew what the red stains really were, I noticed them everywhere. That was a lot of spit. Gross! New York didn’t seem quite so bad now.

  We reached the front of the cab line and piled into a waiting taxi.

  “I wonder how the wedding preparations are coming on,” Mr. Lal said calmly as the cabdriver narrowly missed mowing down a cyclist.

  “Watch out!” I yelled from the backseat.

  “Gora baba, shut mouth please,” the driver said, glaring at me through the rearview mirror. “Every day, I do this.
”

  I wondered if he meant he avoided decapitating a cyclist or drove like a blindfolded maniac every day. I stayed quiet but squinched my eyes closed as we hurtled through the narrow streets of Mumbai toward the Lals’ flat.

  “Nisha’s parents are very well organized,” said Mrs. Lal. “I’m sure the preparations will be superb in spite of the monsoons. It’ll be good to attend a wedding in the family after so long.”

  “Can’t wait for the biryani and mithai,” said Mr. Lal. “Tasty food at last.”

  “You mean mine isn’t?” said Mrs. Lal in mock anger.

  Mr. Lal backtracked immediately. “No one could beat your food, my dear. I only meant in the time since you were gone. I’ve been eating out and the food was terrible.”

  Placated, Mrs. Lal nodded. Mr. Lal was one smart dude. Most times. How would Boa react to Mrs. Lal’s decision about Rohit and the knowledge that her days of bullying the Lals were over? That would make an awesome Bollywood scene.

  The phone was ringing when we entered the flat, its tinny sound echoing in the stuffy room. Mr. Lal raced to answer it while Mrs. Lal surveyed the contents of the fridge.

  I stepped into the bathroom and eyed the toilet with deep affection. Lolly-land had been an exciting adventure but crouching over an Indian-style toilet was like trying to keep your balance over a gaping hole and trying to go while someone squeezed you tightly around the waist. Peeing was hard, too, because I always ended up in the splash zone. I’ve never thought so much about using the bathroom before!

  Note to Self: Value the ordinary. Especially the Western crapper.

  “I’ve ordered food from a restaurant,” said Mrs. Lal as I emerged from the bathroom. “You boys have lunch and relax. All the activity starts again tomorrow.”

  “Won’t you be eating with us?” asked Rohit.

  “No, we’re going to meet Bua first and then a few others,” said Mrs. Lal, her voice firm, eyes steely. “We’ll be back late at night. It won’t be fun for either of you so stay here and chill.”

  “Cool, Mrs. L,” I said, glad Rohit and I wouldn’t be anywhere in the vicinity when Boa got the news.

  “Thanks, Ma,” Rohit said. “Bua’s going to be really mad. You sure you don’t need backup? Dylan and I can go with you.”

  Mrs. Lal shook her head. “It’s best if you weren’t there but thanks, Beta. This is our family and we decide what happens to it. If she doesn’t like it, that’s too bad. We’re better off getting this unpleasantness out of the way before the wedding.”

  “We’ll need to be a bit subtle, Priya,” said Mr. Lal, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “After all, she only wants the best for us. It’s not as if she’s trying to boss us around.”

  “Yes, she is,” snapped Mrs. Lal. “You weren’t there at the reception but that is exactly what she tried.”

  Mr. Lal looked skeptical. I knew it was the right time for the video I’d taken of Boa threatening Mrs. L at the engagement party.

  “If it’s any help, I’d like to show you both something,” I said.

  The Lals looked at me in surprise. I grabbed my camera, scrolled through the archives, and pressed play. They watched in complete silence and then it was Mr. Lal’s turn to look grim.

  “I had no idea,” he said, sitting down heavily on a chair. “I had no idea at all. You leave her to me, Priya. It’s time I showed her who runs my family.”

  Mrs. Lal threw me a grateful look and Rohit thumped me on the back. Who said photography didn’t pay? My camera had just helped save a family.

  There was a knock on the door. I went over and opened it. A boy stood on the landing with two plastic bags. “Four hundred rupees, please,” he said politely.

  Mr. Lal paid him while Rohit and I laid out the food on the table. There was saffron rice, chicken curry swimming in a golden-orange pool of oil, cauliflower with potatoes and peas sprinkled liberally with cilantro, and hot naans, glistening with butter. My mouth watered.

  I ladled hot rice and chicken curry onto my plate, then added a handful of raw onions and a generous squeeze of lemon juice all over it. My time with the Lals had taught me that this was the best way to eat curry and rice. The fresh lemon juice added just the right amount of tang and the onions gave it a bit of kick to jazz it up. I was really going to miss eating like this every day.

  The phone rang again. Mr. Lal picked it up. “Yes, we just got in from Deolali. Priya is getting dressed and then we’ll be right over. I know, I know. Lots of people to see.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Lal quickly got ready and hurried off to meet the clan, starting with the snake. Outside, the sky was almost black with rain clouds. Ominous rumbles echoed through the sticky air.

  I downloaded all my pictures onto my laptop. The one with Shakuntala and Moti eating from the same plate was perfect. The lighting (I’d used a soft filter for that one), the composition, even the clarity had turned out exactly the way I’d wanted. Just looking at it gave me goose bumps. Another good one was of the time when they’d been asleep, noses touching. But I also really liked the last one I’d taken as they’d walked away. An old lady and her dog, a strange and sweet friendship that didn’t require words.

  “I love these,” said Rohit. “You’re definitely going to win something if not first prize!”

  I’d been so lost in the images, I hadn’t noticed he’d pulled up a chair next to me and was peering at the screen intently. “You think so?”

  “I know so!” he said. “I lied when I said earlier that you weren’t good. Sorry.”

  “Forget it.”

  We sipped hot chocolate as the monsoons unleashed their annual fury on Mumbai. Huddled at the dining table, we discussed the pictures some more and finally agreed that the one with Shakuntala and Moti eating off of one plate best captured the friendship theme. I uploaded the picture to the National Geographic website.

  Though I really wanted to win, I knew it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I didn’t. Ro and I were friends again. Even though it had taken a scary situation, I knew my parents cared about me. And on top of it all, I knew I was going to be able to stand up to Dad when we got back. After Boa, the near-death experience with the fire, and being chased by Rafiq, handling a stubborn dad didn’t seem that hard.

  I looked out the window. The rain had let up and the sun shone from behind the thunderclouds, outlining them in gold.

  THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE UP TO THE SOUND OF heavy rain and the scent of tea and aloo parathas. What a swag way to wake up—and way more effective than an alarm clock. If only I could patent paratha-flavored instant oatmeal in the States, I’d be rich and famous.

  I hurried to the window. The narrow lane looked dismal through a curtain of rain. The road was submerged in at least two feet of water. Plastic bags, bottles, banana peels, and other unidentifiable debris floated on the floodwater’s pockmarked surface. Everything was soggy and limp in the relentless downpour.

  “OMG!” I said, aghast. “We’ll need a boat to get through this.”

  Rohit joined me at the window, yawning. “Close, but not yet. Give it a couple more hours.”

  “Do we have enough food if we get rained in?” I asked, staring at the blurry world beyond the window. “Do people actually go out in these conditions?”

  Rohit laughed and slipped an arm around my shoulders. “Looks like I might win my bet after all … that is, if you survive this mess.”

  I was about to object when I saw his glinting eyes and his grin. “Keep your money ready, Ro. You’ll be handing it over soon.”

  “Boys, breakfast!” Mrs. Lal called out.

  We were at the table in under a minute. I sipped hot chocolate and munched on aloo parathas smothered in ghee. The taste was pure heaven. I finished my second paratha and sat back stuffed and in a very good mood.

  “How did Bua take the news that I wasn’t staying?” asked Rohit.

  Mr. Lal’s expression turned stony; Mrs. Lal smiled. “Not well,” she said. “Bua refused to believe I was serious. She’ll d
efinitely try and corner you at the wedding today, Rohit. Just be polite and tell her to talk to me. Better yet, try and avoid her altogether.”

  “Papa, she’s your sister. Why don’t you tell her to leave us alone?”

  He shrugged. “She likes to be in control. She hates it that I am actually refusing to do as she asks. I don’t think it’s sunk in completely yet.”

  Rohit and I exchanged glances. So, this wasn’t over. Not till we were on the plane to New York would Ro be safe.

  “Too bad,” Mrs. Lal said. “You’re no longer a kid, Arun, and you have to live life on your own terms.”

  “I did tell her, didn’t I?” said Mr. Lal. “Can we just drop this now?”

  “WTF,” said Mrs. L. “Right, guys?”

  “Ma!”

  “Mrs. L?”

  “Priya?”

  “What?” she said, looking at our shocked expressions.

  “I can’t believe you would swear at me in front of the kids,” said Mr. Lal, looking really hurt.

  “All I said was ‘Well That’s Fine.’ How’s that swearing?”

  “Ma, that’s not what WTF stands for,” said Rohit. He whispered the correct meaning to her and I watched her face turn red. “Stick with the full forms, okay, Ma?”

  “Okay,” she replied. “Sorry, Arun. Boys. I think abbreviations are most confusing and should be banned.”

  “How are we going to get to the banquet hall for the wedding?” I asked, staring out the window. “This is not looking good.”

  “We’ll manage,” said Mrs. Lal.

  But apparently the hundreds of other wedding guests were worried about it, too. The phone rang nonstop as plans were made and remade. Yes, the wedding was still on. Would someone be able to send a car for us? Not likely. Most of the roads in Mumbai were flooded. A few buses were running in the suburbs, where the flooding wasn’t too bad, but everything was stalled in the downtown area.

  Finally when there was a lull in the calls, Mr. Lal stood up. “The Baraat arrives at the hotel at noon. It’s already ten. We better start moving.”