‘Ah, you’re up,’ her father said. She stood in front of him, blinking and yawning. He was sitting in one of the cane chairs; his face broke into a smile. ‘Ma’s gone to get a few things, she has someone coming over, but not for a while. Have some coffee? Do you want me to make you juice?’
‘I’m okay,’ Leela said. She wanted juice. She waited. ‘I can make it,’ she said.
‘I’ll make it for you.’ He went to the fridge and removed three large smooth citrus fruit.
‘Oh, mosambi?’
‘Yes, these are good ones.’
‘Is it the season?’ she asked.
Her father sliced each mosambi in half. He took out the juicer, reassembled it, and plugged it in. She watched his hands, small and long-fingered, as they pushed each halved fruit on the rotating press. The motor hummed. Outside a bird sang. In loose cotton pyjamas, she was warm, even mildly perspiring. She became aware of the back of her neck, warm and at peace.
She sat eating quietly, cross-legged on one of the dining-table chairs. To her left, the balcony door was open, a curtain waving in the space.
The newspaper was full of unfamiliar usages – encroachment (meaning an illegal building), gift (as a verb), incidentally (meaning importantly), hutment. In the colour supplement were bad photos of people who appeared to be famous. Some looked plump; they were dressed in spangles, at parties; after that came a horoscope, the TV section, and the classifieds. She read them: rooms in South Mumbai, Rs 4,000 onwards! Call centre interviews. OPEN INTERVIEW.
‘It doesn’t seem that difficult to get a job,’ she said.
Her father looked disparaging. ‘Depends on the type of job you want. And have you any idea how many people would go for one of those things?’
‘Right.’ She closed the paper, looked at her coffee mug and considered whether to make more coffee.
‘Have you put your geyser on?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It might be a good idea to have a bath now,’ her father said. ‘The power often goes around one o’clock.’
Leela went and washed her plate and mug and shambled past him. She passed the front door which opened. Her mother had returned.
‘Ah, you’re up?’ she said. ‘Not that it matters, but Priya and Elizabeth are coming over for coffee later. I’m just telling you.’
Leela went back to her room and shut the door as an initial precaution. She lay on the bed.
At the end of the afternoon, she set out for a walk up their quiet lane, with trees all around, and the sounds of birds. Vehicles came at her from three directions as she crossed the main road; behind, a motorbike turned in, a man called out, and in front were cars, and a bicycle coming the wrong way. She stepped onto the high pavement. Under some trees, a fat woman in a nine-yard sari sat behind a cigarette stall. Leela picked her way past. Then the lone but busy mochi, mending someone’s sandal as he smoked; she had to get off the pavement because of the knot of people near the tea stall. Thin men, who looked at her, and she strode past trying to appear indigenous, and au fait.