Page 70 of Six Days in Bombay

I sighed and turned on my side to face him. “She surprised me, Amit. She said I lived too small a life. That I needed to leave her, that I should go see the world. I’d always thought I stayed because I needed to take care of her. I think it was more thatI was hiding. My mother wasn’t the only one who saw that. I think Mira did too.”

He moved his hand to my hip and stroked my leg. “She did. She told me once that she meant to take you out of yourself.”

I thought of Mira in her hospital bed. “I miss her. Her stories. Her laugh.” I traced his eyebrow with my finger. “What happened to your position at Wadia’s?”

He took my hand and kissed my palm, making my groin tingle. I draped my leg over his thigh. “I made up my mind to resign when I was in Shimla. Then I received a most interesting offer. From one of the men I met at Dev’s party. He invited me to a gathering with a man called Ambedkar.” Amit’s face was alight with excitement. “Have you heard of him?”

I nodded. “In theBombay Chronicle.”

Amit sat up to face me, gesturing enthusiastically with his arms, the way the college students did when they spoke of Indian independence. “Ambedkar’s a Dalit. Whip smart. Because of his low caste, he might never have had the opportunity to become a lawyer were it not for support of the Maharaja of Baroda. Ambedkar may even end up writing India’s constitution when we get independence. He’s all for getting rid of the caste system.”

I loved how animated Amit became, how passionate.

“I got so fired up at the gathering I asked how I could help. Well, the gentlemen I met at Dev’s is putting together a global hygiene consortium to help poorer communities—many of whom come from lower castes. He asked me to join them. We’re in Paris meeting for the first time. We’re organizing and formulating a plan. It’s important work, and it affords me a lot more respect than men like Holbrook will ever give me.”

I tapped him on the nose. “You look like a boy on his first visit to a sweet shop.”

He grinned. “And I want everyjalebiI see! England has left us so poverty-stricken. But their departure gives us opportunity. Just think, Sona! We can design better health practices. Buildroads and railways. Strengthen our economy instead of theirs. I want to help with that.”

His enthusiasm made me feel it was possible, that it would happen as he said. I pulled him down to lie next to me again.

“It’ll take time, Sona, but if we start now, we’ll be ready.”

I ran a finger along his earlobe. “How did you find me? Here, at Madame Renaud’s?”

He placed his hand on my back, drawing my body to meet his. “You think you’re the only one with connections to the wife of the ambassador?” He reached for my mouth again, making me forget what I was about to say.

***

My fingers brushed my lips where Amit’s mouth had been. I smoothed the sheets, still warm from our bodies. I lay on my back, going over every lovely moment with him, sometimes smiling, sometimes sighing. Tomorrow, Amit would take the Night Ferry to London and the morning flight to Bombay the following day. I would be moving on to Florence. I marveled at my new life. How had I gone from a woman who took no chances to one who traipsed around the world, sleeping with men she wasn’t married to?

By the time Madame Renaud returned, everything in the apartment was in order. As she took off her hat, she said, smiling, “Did you have a nice time,chérie?”

I kissed her powdered cheek. “You are a romantic, madame.”

“So are you, mademoiselle.” She laughed.

***

The next morning, Amit and I met at the Louvre. I told him I wanted to see the paintings Mira had talked about. In Cézanne’sApples and OrangesI saw the vibrant yellows and rusts of Mira’sMan in Abundance.The look on the faces ofThe Waitingbore an uncanny resemblance to the subject of Manet’sA Bar at the Folies-Bergère.Mira had captured the somber atmosphere of Gauguin’sWhen Will You Marry?in herThe Acceptance. AsI stood in front of these paintings, so full of color, I could feel Mira by my side, whispering in my ear what she most admired about them.

Afterward, we walked hand in hand to the Tuileries, looking down the elegant pathway to the Place de la Concorde. To our left, old men played boule, clapping when one of them bested the ball of another. To our right, men and women sat on lawn chairs listening to a violin concerto. Children chased each other among the horse chestnut trees. Amit stopped walking and turned to me. With a finger on my chin, he tilted my face up and leaned in to kiss me.

We peeked in the Jeu de Paume, a former tennis court that recently had been turned into an art museum with Picassos and Matisses and the female artists Josephine represented. In front of a colorful Léger, I smiled, remembering the painter with the battered nose at La Rotonde.

By the time we reached the Musée de l’Orangerie, where Monet’sWater Liliesawaited us, we were famished. On Rue Saint-Honoré, we found a bistro with a table so small our knees touched. Amit ran his hand along the length of my thigh, sending lovely tremors up my spine. The waiter placed a potage of potato and anomelette aux fines herbeswithharicots vertsin front of me. I missed the strong spices of India, but I began to love the subtle seasoning of French food. The white wine, cool and crisp, went to my head. Amit was telling me he’d like to show me Notre Dame and Sainte-Chapelle, that he’d loved coming to Paris while he was studying in England, but all I could think about was that he would be leaving tonight. My body wanted as much of him as I could get. I pressed my lips together, trying to suppress my craving, wondering what Mira would say about my brazen desires.

Picking up his glass, he smiled back, puzzled. “What?”

“How far is your hotel?” I asked.

Amit raised his brows. He paid the bill and took my hand,practically lifting me off my chair. We ran along the Seine, crossing the Pont Neuf to the left bank and arrived at his hotel. The receptionist glanced at me as Amit picked up his key. Had we been in India, he would have asked if we were married and told half a dozen relatives what we’d been up to the moment we left the foyer. This gentleman merely smiled and wished usbonne journée.

Amit had barely closed the door to his room when I placed a palm on his neck and brought him down on the bed with me.

I can’t believe it’s me either, Mira.

***

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