The messages sign was blinking on Jezmeen’s phone. “YOUR CREDIT IS VERY LOW—PLEASE CALL 8801 TO TOP-UP NOW.”
That made no sense. Jezmeen had hardly even used her phone here, besides that recent conversation with Cameron and the call she made to Rajni from the police station. The hotel’s wireless internet was a bit patchy and she had been in the middle of downloading her emails when she lost her connection. There was an email from Cameron, the subject line reading: “Have another potential role for you . . .” But when she clicked on it, a notice popped up reminding her that she was no longer connected.
She dialed the number and fished her credit card out from her purse, tapping it against the dresser as she sat through the recorded options. Her heart thrummed in her chest. Cameron’s email could mean something, or it could be another dead end. It was the hope that kept her going. The slightest flicker of interest from a producer, or a role that might just be the one—this was why Jezmeen hadn’t quit yet.
“For recharge, please wait while we connect you to an operator.” Jezmeen sighed and picked up the remote control. She flipped through the channels on the television, settling finally on BBC Lifestyle. A woman wearing a yellow-and-green caftan strolled across a pebbled path cut through a sprawling garden lit with tiki torches before the camera zoomed in on a table that looked as if it had been carved out of a felled tree. The host picked up a glass of white wine. Jezmeen’s throat felt parched—the wine looked so deliciously refreshing. The host nodded at the camera, her brilliant smile flashing at Jezmeen before she took a small sip and closed her eyes in appreciation.
“I hate you,” Jezmeen muttered.
“Ma’am?”
“Oh sorry,” Jezmeen said to the operator. “Not you. The woman on the telly.”
“You are calling for a recharge, ma’am?”
“Yes—but I also want to know why my credit has run out so quickly?”
There was some typing in the background. “Ma’am, you’ve used up all your data in four days.”
“Yes, I know that. I’m wondering how? Is there a breakdown of how much I’ve used?”
“For that, I have to connect you to our usage specialists. Please hold—”
“Ugh, never mind. Can I just get a recharge?”
It was too late. She was placed on hold. A recorded advertisement in Hindi blared into her ears, followed by an upbeat chorus singing about upgrading to a family package.
“Hello, this is Krishna, how can I assist you?”
“Hi. I’m curious as to why my phone data has run out so quickly,” Jezmeen said. “I’ve only had it for four days.”
“Let me check. Your name, please?”
“Jezmeen Shergill. Father’s name is Devinder Singh Shergill.”
“Your identification number?”
“What would that be? My passport number?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jezmeen reached for her passport and flipped open the case. A small card flipped out and fell to her feet. She recited the numbers to the man on the phone.
“I will check for you, ma’am, please give me one minute.”
The recorded chorus burst into life again. “Save more time with family time,” they sang. Jezmeen picked up the card. It was folded neatly in the center and when she opened it, she had a distinct feeling that she was infringing on somebody’s privacy, even though the card contained just a name and an address.
Tejpal “Lucky” Singh, ACC Car Hire
Dr. Wadhwa, Restoration Road Clinic
S.CO. 01-36, Sector 9-C, Madhya Marg, Chandigarh
It was written in a careful hand, each letter round and deliberate. Jezmeen flipped it over. It was blank. She looked at the words again. Clearly, this was important to someone.
“Madam Jezmeen Shergill?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“I’m looking at your records and it appears that your internet usage is very high.”
“I don’t think it is,” Jezmeen said. “I’m only checking emails and surfing the internet . . .” Her voice trailed off when she remembered downloading the first three episodes of The Boathouse during her drunken evening in the hotel in Delhi. She had fallen asleep with the crushing realization that Polly Mishra was indeed a fine actress.
“Okay, never mind. I think I know where it’s gone.”
“Anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes. Can you recharge my credit, please?”
“Ma’am, please hold while I reconnect you to the recharge department.”
Jezmeen sighed and sat through another string of recorded advertisements. She looked at the card again and decided there was no point in trying to find its owner—she didn’t know how it had got into her passport case in the first place but it seemed this whole trip was about things going missing and reappearing. After returning from the border, she had taken a foamy, luxurious shower only to realize that her hair dryer wasn’t in the depths of her suitcase. Good thing it was just a cheap travel hair dryer. Her salon dryer with seven settings and possibly the same horsepower as a small car remained in London.
After the loop of recorded ads timed out, the line disconnected. “Thanks for the service,” Jezmeen said sarcastically. She took out her frustration on the card and ripped it up. Just as she tossed the pieces into the bin, her phone rang and Cameron’s name appeared on her screen. Jezmeen wasn’t sure if she had the energy to hear about another Asian cliché that Cameron thought she’d be perfect for, so she let the phone ring while she took a deep breath. She was channeling the wine lady on BBC Lifestyle, who was now carrying a wicker basket and wandering down a cobblestoned path somewhere in France.
“Hello, Cameron.”
“Hi there, Jezmeen, how are things?”
He sounded very upbeat, a good sign. “I’m well,” Jezmeen said.
“I’m glad,” Cameron said. “Not Googling yourself too much, then?” He laughed a bit too hard at his own comment while Jezmeen stayed silent. He cleared his throat. “Actually, you’ll be happy to know that the backlash is dying down now.”
“Really.” Jezmeen said. Cameron probably considered it good news that the online Jezmeen-bashing had tempered down to only a few “off-with-her-head” comments a day.
“Oh yes. There’s that scandal in America right now about that singing contest finalist searching for Simpsons pornography. Did you hear about this? The internet’s ablaze.”
“No,” Jezmeen said.
“Presumably he was drunk while searching, because he put all the search terms—raunchy fantasies about Marge Simpson in particular—into Twitter, and just kept on pressing enter. There were about seventeen tweets before he realized what he was doing.”
Jezmeen wanted to feel sorry for this man, but she was too relieved that the internet’s focus had shifted away from her. She was even just the tiniest bit offended to be forgotten so quickly. If Polly Mishra kicked a fish to death, I bet people would hate her for weeks! she thought, before turning her attention back to the conversation with Cameron. “So you might have something for me?” she asked hopefully.
“I think you’ll be pleased with this one. It’s not a definite role, it’s a meeting with a casting director for a film he’s shooting in India.”
“A meeting?” Jezmeen asked. “Not an audition?” This could suggest that the director was so certain about Jezmeen’s potential casting that he was willing to bypass auditions altogether. The meeting could just be a formality to check that she wasn’t insane. Or it could be nothing, a noncommittal chat over coffee: let’s think about working together in the future, and then she’d never hear from him again.
“A meeting,” Cameron confirmed. “But he’s very keen to have you in his next project. The director’s name is HC Kumar. Not sure if you’ve heard of him but his next project is a bilingual Hindi and English series set in Mumbai. A noir crime thriller with a strong female lead—I thought it would be right up your alley and he’s very interested in you as well.”
Jezmeen barely heard anything after “HC Kumar.” She wanted to toss the phone into the air and scream. Had she heard of him? She’d only seen all of his films growing up. “When does he want to meet?” Jezmeen asked.
“I told him you’re in India at the moment, and willing to meet. Can you make it back to Delhi on Tuesday?”
“Tuesday,” Jezmeen said. Her mind raced. She and Rajni would be in the mountains on Tuesday. “Can he do Wednesday instead?” She squeezed her eyes shut, aware that she had just asked if her dream director could wait a day to meet her.
“I’m not sure, Jezmeen. He’s got quite a busy schedule. I’ve got Tuesday at four P.M. written down here.”
Jezmeen Shergill in HC Kumar’s latest film. She allowed a moment’s indulgence in the fantasy and in a flash, she was transported to a bright and exciting future. Her face printed on glossy posters, audiences wondering where she came from and why they hadn’t noticed her before. Move over, Polly Mishra, the critics would declare.
“You still there?” Cameron asked. “I’ll need to let him know quickly. If you can’t make it, then—”
“I’ll be there,” Jezmeen said quickly. She didn’t want Cameron to finish that thought.
Somebody was knocking on the door. “Coming,” Shirina called. Room service was very prompt at this hotel. She had only placed her order five minutes ago. She scrambled to find clothes to put on. Since returning to the hotel after her fight with Rajni in McDonald’s, Shirina had moped about the room in various states of undress, wishing the heat would seep away from her body. Anything against her skin, even a cotton nightie, felt oppressive.
“It’s me.”
Shirina found a T-shirt and threw it on. She opened the door to see Jezmeen standing in the hallway. “Can I come in?” she asked.
“Sure,” Shirina said, stepping aside. Jezmeen came in and stood awkwardly near the bathroom door. “You can sit over here,” Shirina said. She pushed aside the pile of clothes that she’d rejected earlier when she returned to the hotel. Nothing fitted the way it used to and it bothered her even more after ordering two ice creams and watching Rajni’s eyes widen as she ate them.
“You wouldn’t believe who wants to meet me,” Jezmeen said.
“Who?” Shirina asked.
“Movie director. I’ll give you three guesses.”
Shirina was too tired to guess. She just wanted answers. “Umm . . .” she said, pretending to think about it. Jezmeen bounced impatiently on her feet.
“HC Kumar!” The name burst from Jezmeen’s lips.
“Wow. Really? That’s wonderful.”
“I know, I know. I just got off the phone with my agent and he wants to schedule a meeting. No guarantees, of course, but it’s still a huge step in the right direction.”
“He’s not the one involved in that actress scandal, is he? The guy who was caught on tape bragging to a production assistant about promising roles to young actresses if they slept with him?”
Jezmeen’s face fell for a moment. “Where did you hear about that?”
“It was all over the news. The guy who directed that blockbuster that came out recently.”
“Oh no, no. That’s HR Sharma. Different director.” Jezmeen laughed. “Phew, Shirina, you were starting to make me nervous. So anyway, he thinks I might be suitable for his next film, and he wants to meet me. Isn’t that amazing?”
“So amazing,” Shirina said. Her mind was still on the director she had read about. Shirina recalled seeing a story that somebody had re-posted from a Bollywood celebrity news site about the scandal. The post on the message board attracted many views and comments—the reply rated most popular was: “A) do you believe everything reported on this trashy site? B) it’s not exactly unheard of in the industry. C) did she get the role in the end? I’ve never heard of her. Could be sour grapes. D) what constitutes ‘feeling up’ anyway?”
The last question started a heated debate about what was considered inappropriate touching, and the moderators eventually turned off comments, putting up a strict notice about community standards and the purpose of the message board. Shirina hadn’t commented, but she was most curious about the posts that claimed that the world was becoming too sensitive these days. “Everything’s abuse or assault these days,” one person had written. “Where does it stop?”
Hearing the exasperation in that woman’s tone, Shirina felt strangely relieved. Only the day before, her mother-in-law had given her a hard jab in the rib for letting a pot of pasta boil over. While wiping the starchy liquid off the stove, Shirina’s eyes had filled with tears, more from shock than anything else. By bedtime, she managed to convince herself that Mother meant no offense—it was an attempt to alert Shirina, not hurt her. She was lucky that Mother’s reaction had been so swift.
Jezmeen had let herself into the bathroom and was examining her pores in the magnified round mirror. She raked her fingers through her wet hair. “Hey, can I borrow your hair dryer?” Moments later, the dryer was roaring.
“How was the border?” Shirina asked when Jezmeen was done.
“It was fun,” Jezmeen said, helping herself to a generous dose of Shirina’s leave-in conditioner. “They put on quite a performance out there—beating their chests and kicking their legs. I did some dancing for the motherland.”
“That’s very patriotic of you,” Shirina said.
“Well, might as well get into the spirit of things,” Jezmeen said. “It would have been fun if you’d been there too.”
Shirina nodded. “I just didn’t feel like being in another huge crowd, that’s all.”
“I know,” Jezmeen said.
“Is Rajni still upset?”
“She’ll get over it.”
“I’m taking this trip as seriously as she is,” Shirina said. “I hope she realizes that.”
“She knows. She just gets on her high horse sometimes—I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Okay,” Shirina said. She wasn’t worried exactly, but she did not want to leave for Chandigarh tomorrow on bad terms with her sister. Who knew when they would see each other again? She didn’t have any visits planned to London for the near future, and having her sisters visit her in Melbourne was out of the question. They’d know in an instant that she had left her job and that her marital home was her world. They would judge her for it.
Somebody knocked on the door. “Room service,” the bellboy’s voice called. Shirina opened the door and let him in. He brought the tray to the small coffee table in the corner of the room and lifted off each lid with a theatrical flourish—fluffy basmati rice, a bowl of vegetable korma, a small serving of raita, and two gulab jamuns, courtesy of the hotel.
“I hope the dessert makes you feel better, madam,” he said, nodding at the gulab jamun bowl. “The manager informed me you were unwell. Were you able to get through to the hospital?”
“No,” Shirina said quickly. “I mean—yes. No. I didn’t need to go after all. I’m fine.” She was aware that Jezmeen had gone quiet in the bathroom and could hear the conversation. “Okay then, thank you,” Shirina said, ushering the bellboy out the door. She grabbed some notes from her purse and pushed them into his hand—far too much for a tip but she didn’t want him to say another word.
Jezmeen stood in the bathroom doorway, surveying the platter of food. “Want some?” Shirina asked. “There’s plenty.” She was aware that it was a bit early for dinner but if they all went out tonight, she’d probably be hungry enough to eat again.
“No, thank you.”
Shirina avoided Jezmeen’s gaze and sat down on the armchair. As she scooped the rice into the bowl and topped it with a generous serving of korma, she wondered how she’d explain the hospital to Jezmeen.
“I overreacted,” Shirina said, trying her best to look embarrassed. “You know how I fell in the baths today? It hurt so much, I thought I had broken my tailbone.”
“Oh,” Jezmeen said.
“I get nervous about falls,” Shirina continued. “Especially the older we get. When we were little, it was like our bones were made out of rubber. But now I think about Dad and how he slipped in the shower and then walked around for days without knowing that it had begun to kill him.”
This, Jezmeen would understand. After Mum’s funeral, she had confided to Shirina that she had been losing sleep obsessing about the hidden dangers that could kill her before her time was up.
Jezmeen nodded but she still looked concerned. She looked around the room as if searching for the next thing to say. Shirina might have just imagined it, but she thought she saw Jezmeen’s gaze flick at her stomach, which protruded slightly beneath the T-shirt. She drew her shoulders back and tucked in her tummy. Warmth rushed into her cheeks.
“I’ve had a hard couple of months,” Shirina said. She decided she had to say something, or Jezmeen wouldn’t leave her alone. Anyway, what would Jezmeen be able to guess from a small admission that Shirina was having trouble settling into her marital home? Maybe it was good to be a little honest, so her sisters thought that all her problems were just a matter of adjustment. Sometimes Shirina could still fool herself into thinking this way too.
“Work has been stressful and I have a lot waiting for me when I get back.” If only Jezmeen knew how Shirina was counting the days till she was on the plane again to Melbourne. By then, everything would be done and she could go back to her life as planned.
“And things at home?” Jezmeen persisted. “Things with Sehaj, your mother-in-law—all good?”
“Yeah,” Shirina said. “Of course.” She said it too quickly, though. Jezmeen looked at her with curiosity. “I mean, there’s always an adjustment period, right? We’ve been married a few years,” she said lightly. She thought about the American sitcoms—the mother crinkling her nose at her daughter-in-law’s casserole dish and offering a sugary Thank you, dear, as the audience giggled. It’s funny, Shirina told herself when Mother tipped her roast chicken into the rubbish bin because there were a few burned patches and Shirina had suggested just scraping them off. The memory stung. Sehaj hadn’t thrown his meal away but he had only eaten half of it, his loyalty divided.
“It’s hard sometimes, you know?” Shirina said. She decided she could afford to say this much. It had been a long time since she spoke to Lauren about what it was like living with Sehaj and Mother in that huge, quiet house. “My mother-in-law isn’t always the easiest person to get along with.” Even this admission made Shirina feel guilty. You should be grateful.
“She seemed quite reserved,” Jezmeen offered. “I only met her once at the wedding, though.”
Shirina nodded. “She means well, but she’s got some old-fashioned ways about her. And it’s really not her fault.” This was where Lauren would raise an eyebrow and say something about everybody taking responsibility for their own actions. She was half expecting this reaction from Jezmeen as well, but to her surprise, Jezmeen just listened. Shirina pushed away the guilt, the voice telling her that she was disrespecting her in-laws.
“It’s little things, like she expects me to get the cooking just right and the laundry has to be pressed a certain way.” And she hurts me. This, Shirina would never say, because it was going too far. It was all right to complain about the little things. On the message boards, there were threads dedicated to abuse, but Shirina never let herself go there. It was indulgent, calling her problems abuse. She didn’t have bruises, she wasn’t living in a small village hut with a mother-in-law who beat her.
“What does Sehaj say about all of it?”
“He doesn’t really get involved.”
“He’s aware of what’s happening and he chooses not to get involved, or he doesn’t know?”
“He doesn’t know,” Shirina lied. She thought about Sehaj glowering while Mother prattled on at the dinner table about another girl that she’d liked on the matrimonial websites. Of course, in the end, it’s up to your son to choose, isn’t it? she had said, reaching across the table to pat Shirina’s hand. And he chose you. She’d said it so sweetly, so kindly, that Shirina wasn’t certain if she was right to be insulted until later, when she was lying awake and the words churned in her mind. Why didn’t you say something? she asked Sehaj, shaking him by the shoulders. He sat up, startled, his eyes glassy from being woken so abruptly, and then mumbled something about how it wasn’t worth the fight.
“Is it something you can talk about with him?” Jezmeen asked.
“Not really,” Shirina said carefully. “It’s difficult getting in the way of a man and his mother, especially when he’s the only person she’s depended on for so long.”
“It’s unfair to you, though,” Jezmeen pointed out. “And to him.”
“I know,” Shirina said, closing her eyes. If Jezmeen knew how much she was sacrificing for the sake of keeping the peace, imagine how outraged she would be. The concern had already evaporated from her face and been replaced with anger on Shirina’s behalf. “It’s a delicate thing. She’s been ill, you know.”
“Has she? What’s wrong?”
“She had surgery on her hip,” Shirina said. “The recovery has been slow and painful. I’ve had to help out a lot. She needs me to help her up the stairs, and she can’t stand for very long, so there’s a lot of housework that piles up.”
On top of your full-time job you’re also playing nurse to your mother-in-law? This was what she expected Jezmeen’s response to be. Incredulous, outraged, positioning her as the fool for accepting so much responsibility. Lauren had looked at Shirina with pity and everything she said afterward sounded so patronizing, as if Shirina wasn’t aware that she had options, that she didn’t have to do this.
But Jezmeen nodded and waited for Shirina to say more. The room was so quiet that Shirina could hear a suitcase being wheeled down the hallway, and the murmurs of new guests as they entered their room. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Shirina said to assure Jezmeen. “It’s been stressful, that’s all, but this is a good break.”
“It’s hardly a break,” Jezmeen reminded her. “We’ve got this itinerary to follow and we’re sequestered in the hotel most evenings because it’s not exactly the friendliest environment for female travelers. This is why I really wanted to take that side trip to Goa—lie on the beach, feel free. It’s not going to happen, though.”
Shirina shrugged as if the idea of lying on a beach didn’t make her want to pack up all her things and flee this instant to the airport. “There will be other holidays. This one is for family,” she said.
“You’re looking forward to meeting Sehaj’s relatives, then? There’s going to be a big welcoming committee and you’re not going to be stuck doing housework with all the other good daughters?”
“It’ll be fine,” Shirina said. “They’re nice people.” In her head, she had invented these extended relatives of Sehaj’s in the same way that she had built up his closer family when they were still getting to know each other online—warm and welcoming, eager to include another one into the flock. Each time she felt a flutter of nerves or anticipation at what awaited her at the doctor’s office in Chandigarh, she replaced the clinic with an image of the family standing outside a sprawling multigenerational home on acres of lush farmland as the car pulled in. They were all waving hello. They couldn’t wait to welcome her home.