Page 128 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

“Almost there. Mumbai traffic. But we have time, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” I snapped, and I could feel her smiling through the phone.

Before Sona arrived, it started to rain. She’d warned me about the Mumbai monsoon. It had the potential to turn into Venice, she had joked. If that happened, we’d have to postpone our meeting. I cursed the weather and myself, and everything around me, knocking my knee against a table while I was at it. Then I cursed aloud some more. When Sona’s knock sounded on the door, I was limping.

She frowned. “Now what?”

“Don’t ask,” I said, closing the door behind her. “I’m worried about the rain.”

“Yes, I am too. The forecast says it shouldn’t last long, but the downpour is heavy enough to clog the roads and back up traffic.”

“Just my luck,” I said with a clenched jaw.

“Don’t be grumpy. We’ll get there, even if it takes us forever to get back. I promise.”

It could’ve been Sona’s prescience or her experience with the city’s weather, but the rain did let up while we drove, very slowly, to the café. As we drew closer, my heartbeat turned erratic. I gripped Sona’s hand and didn’t let go.

“Everything will be alright. Don’t worry,” she said as we entered the café. She paused and turned to me, then brushed the hair from my forehead. “Nothing that happens today will change who you are. You are an arrogant, conceited jerk with a killer smile and great hair. No one can take that away.” She turned before I could reply. “There she is.”

Sona began walking toward a sharp woman in a saree sitting with a straight back, reading on her phone. My heart pumped, thudding so loud, I could feel it in my mouth, in the vein in my forehead.

Sona pulled me along when I stopped walking. “Sharda Tai,” she said softly, and the woman looked up. One glance at me, and she stood promptly.

“This is Mihir,” Sona said in Hindi. “He speaks Hindi.”

The woman nodded.

I brought my palms together and bowed. “Namaste.” I didn’t know of any other greeting. What was a good way to greet the mother one has never met?

She smiled, almost laughed. “No need for that,” she said in Hindi, but it sounded different, accented.

“Shall we sit?” Sona suggested as we continued gazing at each other.

“You are tall,” my mother said with a fond smile.

“How are you?” I asked with all the correct words used for addressing one’s elders. Kaisi hain aap?

“Well. I’m very well.” Her smile, like her posture, suggested poise, a self-assured personality. “How are you?”

“I’m well too.”

“I’ll get us coffee. What can I get you?” Sona asked my mother.

“Regular with milk.”

“Black,” I said, and my eyes followed Sona all the way to the counter. “I found you because of her.”

“She’s a nice girl.”

I nodded. “What can I call you?”

Her back straightened further. “People call me Sharda or Sharda Tai. I’m used to it now.”

I nodded. It sounds formal, I wanted to say, but I didn’t know the Hindi word for formal. “What would I have called you if I had grown up with you?”

She held her head high, but her eyes sank to the table for a moment. “You wouldn’t have. That’s why I gave you up.”

“Yes, my parents told me everything.”

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