Mission Mumbai

by Mahtab Narsimhan

  “I can’t believe it!” I said. “I wonder which movie this scene is from.”

  Rohit shook his head. “The question is, was it the horse who bolted or the groom?”

  “Dulha bhag gaya!” someone yelled. “Dulha bhag gaya!”

  The whisper traveled up and down the line of people peering out the window and echoed through the banquet hall. I didn’t need a translation for that. The shocked whispers and horrified expressions were enough. The groom had run away. Poor Nisha.

  “Wonder if he’ll come back,” someone remarked.

  There were a few sniggers and rude laughs.

  “What do you think made that horse bolt?” Rohit said. “I hope it wasn’t cold feet!”

  “Not funny,” I said. “Did you see anything on the horse’s tail? I’m sure I saw a drowning rat clinging to it.”

  “Probably poop,” Rohit said, waving off my explanation.

  “How do you think Nisha is going to feel when she hears this?” I said softly, still staring at the confusion on the street. The band stood there uncertainly, staring at one another, while relatives sloshed around in the water, shouting instructions. And still the rain came down. The relentless monsoons stopped for nothing. Not even tragedy and heartbreak.

  “How dare he do that?” someone shrieked from the middle of the room. “How could he embarrass me like that?”

  Nisha had just found out about her runaway groom. Everyone raced from the window toward the center of the banquet hall, where Nisha was having a meltdown. She yelled some more and then ran out of the hall, wailing. Sanjay had seemed like a nice guy, so why would he do something like this? The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced something else was going on.

  “Tch, tch, another child with horrible manners,” said a familiar voice behind us.

  It felt as if I’d accidently stuck my finger in an electrical socket. Rohit and I turned around slowly and there was Boa in her danger-red outfit and blood-red lips. Her eyes were gray pebbles. I almost expected her to sway menacingly like Kaa in The Jungle Book. Trust in me … Shut your eyes and trust in me …

  “Hello, Bua,” said Rohit in a strangled whisper.

  “Think you can get away by letting your mother come to your rescue?” she hissed.

  “He’s not staying, Aunty,” I said with false bravado. “You can’t break up my friend’s family. It’s not right.”

  “I don’t need a gora to tell me what’s right and wrong. I cannot stand bad behavior and you are the reason I don’t want him going back. Once he’s here with me, you are banned from communicating with my nephew ever again! Do I make myself clear?”

  My face burned. “How can you be so mean?” I snapped. “You poisonous snake!”

  “I always get my way, dear,” she said, pinching my cheek hard. “Always.”

  My eyes teared up. I raised my hand, ready to pinch her back.

  “Gotta go,” said Rohit as he took my arm and dragged me away. “Not worth it,” he said to me.

  “Not worth it?” I snapped. “She needs someone to teach her a lesson. She can’t get away with being so horrible. Think of something, Rohit, or I will.”

  “For now, let’s go see what’s up with Nisha. She has bigger problems.”

  “You’re right, bro. Let’s see if we can go help.”

  WHISPERS ECHOED THROUGH THE CORRIDOR OUTSIDE the banquet hall. Nisha had locked herself in a bathroom stall and refused to come out. All the guests streamed toward said bathroom to witness the live drama.

  “But … I think I know what happened …” I started to say, when I caught Rohit’s eye. He was frowning and shaking his head.

  “What?” I whispered to him.

  “You’ll make it worse by saying anything, especially since you’re a foreigner. Just shut up and observe. It will work out in the end. Most Indian weddings have a bit of drama. This is part of the tradition, too.”

  A huge crowd had gathered outside the bathroom. Guests from other banquet halls who tried to use it were rudely turned away.

  “What is the problem?” a woman asked, her eyes sparkling in anticipation of hearing some juicy bit of gossip.

  “Emergency,” was all she got. “Go use another one.”

  More came and were denied entry. They hobbled away in pain, searching for another bathroom along the super-long corridor. In the meantime, Nisha’s family was trying to get her to go back to the banquet hall, promising that everything would be all right.

  Anyone who could pull rank squeezed into the bathroom. Rohit and I managed to squirm our way in, too. We kept far away from Boa, who, as always, had bullied her way in. It was hot and stuffy and the air reeked of perfumes clashing with bathroom air freshener. But no one budged an inch.

  “Nisha, come out now,” her mother pleaded. “Your groom’s not run away. There has to be a rational explanation and we will get to the bottom of this as soon as you come out. Please, my darling. Come out and I’ll find you someone better than Sanjay. Today.”

  Silence.

  “Nisha, this is your father. I command you to get out right now or I’ll break the door down.”

  More silence.

  A burly hotel security guard pushed his way in.

  “Sir, this is a ladies’ washroom, gents are not allowed in. Please leave now.”

  “Then what are you doing in here?” he bellowed. “My daughter’s in there. I have to get her out and get her married. Go away and leave me alone.”

  “Brilliant logic in the face of pressure,” I said, nudging Rohit.

  He shushed me. The atmosphere was tense. Nisha’s quiet sobbing was the only sound. I felt really sorry for her.

  “But, sir, this is a ladies’ room,” the security guy persisted. “Let your wife talk to her.”

  “If you don’t leave now,” said Nisha’s dad in a very quiet yet menacing voice, “I will stuff your head down the nearest toilet and then I will pull the flush. This is a matter of my family’s honor and I’m not leaving. Get out!”

  The security man retreated, muttering under his breath about crazy guests and how they were giving him ulcers, and how he wasn’t paid enough for all the lunatics he had to deal with every day.

  Nothing anyone said would get Nisha out.

  “Go away,” she wailed. “How could he humiliate me like this? It will be all over Facebook and Twitter by now. I’d rather die than show my face again.”

  Screams and gasps filled the bathroom. I couldn’t stay quiet for a minute longer. As a photographer I prided myself in observing every little detail. I had to save this situation and speak up, now, no matter what. Sam hadn’t hesitated to lay down his life for Frodo, nor Ron Weasley for Harry Potter, nor Grover for Percy Jackson. We saviors had no choice—we had to do what we had to do.

  “A rat!” I yelled out over the din.

  Thirty pairs of eyes swiveled in my direction. Nisha’s father advanced, pushing aside the spectators. “Are you calling my son-in-law a rat, you ignorant boy?”

  “Rohit … help …” I squeaked as Nisha’s dad towered over me. “Don’t let him kill me.”

  Rohit gulped. His hands twitched like crazy as he positioned himself between me and imminent death for the second time in one afternoon. “Uncle, my friend Dylan is a photographer.”

  I waved my camera under his nose.

  “He has an excellent eye for detail,” Rohit continued. “And what he is trying to say is he thinks he saw a rat on the horse’s tail—”

  “Shut up!” Nisha’s mom said. “What do you know? Sanjay’s family has always considered us beneath them. This was just a ploy to humiliate us. They must have found a bride who can give them more dowry.”

  Another agonized wail from the bathroom stall. “I hate him, I hate him. Please let me die in peace.”

  The crowd gasped as one. Someone fainted and had to be carried out. Another guest quickly snuck in to take her place.

  “NISHA!” a familiar voice called out.

  The crowd parted again
as someone came rushing into the bathroom. This was the best Bollywood movie I’d watched since I’d landed in Mumbai and I was in it! If only I’d been able to record it all.

  “Nisha, what are you doing in there? I refuse to get married in a bathroom stall. You better get out,” said Sanjay. He was sopping wet, his turban askew, making a large puddle on the marble floor. He stank of salt water and seaweed.

  “Get lost!” she screamed.

  “I love you!” he yelled back, approaching the stall door. “If you’re planning to die in this stall, I’ll do the same in the next one. Or you could come out now and we could get married in the hall.”

  For a moment you could have heard a fly fart. Sanjay turned around to glare at all of us and went to pound on the door just as it flew open. His fist landed on Nisha’s nose with a horrible crunch.

  “Ahhhhh,” she screamed as blood cascaded over her mouth and dripped from her chin onto her red-and-gold saree.

  “You monster!” shrieked Nisha’s mother.

  “I’ll break your bloody teeth!” roared her father. “Mistreating my darling child and you’re not even married yet.”

  “Nisha,” Sanjay said, ignoring them. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Ogay,” she said, dabbing her nose with a handful of toilet paper while her mother fussed over her. “Why did you run away?”

  “I didn’t. I think something spooked my horse. It bolted and dropped me into the water just around the corner. Thank God it wasn’t on the tetrapods or in the sea! I love you, Nisha … How could you even think I’d run away?”

  “Thank you,” I said, taking a little bow.

  Everyone ignored me.

  Nisha wrapped her arms around him and everyone in the room clapped. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and then I’m going to marry you,” Sanjay murmured. “I want to change out of these wet clothes as soon as possible.”

  The cheering crowd followed the bride and groom out of the bathroom. The disheveled band, which had regrouped outside, struck up a merry tune again and everyone headed back to the banquet hall.

  Boa stayed behind till we were the only ones left. “As soon as you see your parents, send them to me,” she said to Rohit before diving into the nearest stall.

  Rohit stared at me in desperation. His twitch started up and I knew he was stressed all over again. Enough was enough with this bullying!

  I looked around and saw a closet. Inside there was a maintenance sign along with a mop and janitor’s bucket. I stared at it and then at Rohit. He caught on immediately. He grabbed the sign and the mop. I grabbed the bucket and we raced for the door. We switched off the lights and ducked out as Boa’s screech filled the dark bathroom.

  “Rohit Lal, you are the worst child I have ever met. And, Dylan, you are forever banned from India. I’ll have you arrested if you ever set foot on Indian soil again. I know the police commissioner and the presi—”

  We shut the bathroom door and jammed the mop and bucket against it so that the door could only be opened from the outside. Rohit put up the sign: UNDER MAINTENANCE. DO NOT ENTER.

  Then we galloped away to the banquet hall, where the wet groom and bleeding bride sat before a gaunt priest wearing only a bedsheet wrapped around his waist. The priest was wringing his hands, muttering to himself. “The shubh mahurat is over. Now that the auspicious time for the wedding has passed, you cannot get married for ninety-seven years. Please pay me my dues and goodnight.”

  “Are you mad, Punditji?” asked Sanjay. “The shubh mahurat is when I say it is. Marry us right now.”

  And the wedding finally began, two hours late. Nisha and Sanjay were married without any other Bollywood moments. I was happy to have played a small part in it. Nisha came up to me later and kissed me on both cheeks. Even with a swollen nose, she looked beautiful.

  “You are a wonderful boy, Dylan. I will always remember you and your timely help. Thank you.”

  Rohit and I stood side by side at the glass windows overlooking the Arabian Sea. He handed me a piece of paper. It read: IOU $100.

  “Since we’re leaving early, you won the bet,” Rohit said with a smile.

  I tore up the paper and shoved the bits into my pocket. “Couldn’t have done it without you, bro. This was the best vacation of my life!”

  Rohit was quiet for a moment. He twitched, shoved his glasses up his nose, and then said, “Ditto, but only because you were with me.”

  He punched me. I punched back, lightly. Then I turned to face the sea of people in the banquet hall, eating, laughing, and enjoying themselves.

  Note to Self: Life is very good.

  SINCERE THANKS TO MY WONDERFUL EDITORS, Emellia Zamani and Anne Shone, who “got” me and my story, and Emily Seife, who continues to champion the Mission; my super-agent, Molly Jaffa, who encouraged me every step of the way; my insightful critique partner, Karen Krossing, who asked tough questions during an early draft; and to my family—especially my mom, Kety—and friends for your unwavering support. And finally, love and heartfelt thanks to Rahul, Aftab, and Coby, who continue to inspire me to greater heights with each successive novel.

  MAHTAB NARSIMHAN IS THE AUTHOR OF SEVERAL critically acclaimed books, including Silver Birch Award winner The Third Eye. Her novel The Tiffin was nominated for numerous awards in Canada and was recently published in the United Kingdom and Taiwan. Mission Mumbai is her publishing debut in the United States. Mahtab is a native of Mumbai, India, and lives in Toronto, Canada. Visit her online at www.mahtabnarsimhan.com.

  Copyright © 2016 by Mahtab Narsimhan

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Narsimhan, Mahtab, author.

  Mission Mumbai : a novel of sacred cows, snakes, and stolen toilets / by Mahtab Narsimhan.—First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: Dylan, an aspiring photographer, is spending a month in Mumbai with his friend Rohit Lal and his family, but knowing nothing of Indian culture, he cannot seem to do anything right (do not hit cows!)—and the situation is made worse by the tensions within the Lal family over whether Rohit should be raised in India, which Mr. Lal’s wealthy sister is pushing for.

  ISBN 978-0-545-74651-9

  1. Culture shock—Juvenile fiction. 2. Manners and customs—Juvenile fiction. 3. Friendship—Juvenile fiction. 4. Families—India—Mumbai—Juvenile fiction. 5. India—Social life and customs—Juvenile fiction. 6. Mumbai (India)—Juvenile fiction. [1. Culture shock—Fiction. 2. Manners and customs—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Family life—India—Mumbai—Fiction. 5. India—Social life and customs—Fiction. 6. Mumbai (India)—Fiction. 7. India—Fiction. 8. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.N1634Mi 2016

  [Fic]—dc23

  2015024673

  First edition, April 2016

  Cover art by Kelley McMorris, © 2016 Scholastic Inc.

  Cover design by Carol Ly

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-74652-6

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Att
ention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.