The night watchman pauses, then swallows her answer whole, slumping back in his seat with a yawn.

  Tazim leads me outside, through the courtyard and gates. It’s only once we are standing in front of the fuchsia flowers on St. Andrews Road that she lets go of my wrist, leaving behind a stinging red welt.

  “Tell me. How long has this been going on? How long have you been lying to me?”

  “Tazim,” I plead. “Please don’t do this—”

  “I will lose my job if Motiani Sahib finds out you came back and—” She stops herself and wrings her hands.

  “Listen to me.” I raise my palms up in front of me as though I am approaching a pack of growling street dogs. “Nobody will take your job away from you.”

  “Do you understand how hard it was to convince them that you left town? They questioned me for days to make sure I wasn’t lying. They still have all your information, you know.”

  Of course. The background check Mrs. Motiani insisted on before I spent the day scrubbing the grime and dog hair from her Persian rugs. I had to write down my name, phone number, and give them a photocopy of my ID card.

  “Even so, they’re away for the weekend, na? So, what’s the problem? They didn’t see anything.”

  “But I saw you. And if Mrs. Motiani suspects anything happened while she was away, she will ask me, and I will have to answer! And then she will fire me because I told her you left town in January, and also because I am the only reason you are in Pali Hill.”

  “What do you mean, ‘only reason’? I just told you I work with Alex. He’s my friend. I came here to see him, not to see you.”

  “What, is he your boyfriend?” Tazim snorts. “Are you moving in? I see you’ve already helped yourself to Mrs. Motiani’s clothes.”

  “Enough,” I say, wincing. “Nothing happened. We were working late. I just fell asleep, I swear.”

  “If it’s men you need, there are hundreds of them in Behrampada. Better yet, go down to Kamathipura, that way you can get paid for something you just gave away for free.”

  I can see the cords straining in her neck. I never knew this kind of rage simmered inside her.

  I lower my voice, trying to appeal to the Tazim I know. “You told me to make something of myself, didn’t you? You told me I’m the one who has a way out of this life.”

  She throws her head back and cackles. “Accha? And this is how you do it? Using other people to get ahead?” she says. “You were already a chor, but now you’re a randi, too.”

  A head on a bicycle turns at the word she just used, and tires screech. A small crowd begins to gather: other maids reporting for Pali Hill duty; a magazinewala watching us from the awning of his little stand; even his middle-aged customer in her floor-length caftan is gaping at us, eager to take in the scandal erupting in front of her.

  “Enough with the randi nonsense, we’re just friends—” I start.

  “If anything is missing from the flat,” Tazim continues, “anything at all, you’d better tell me now. I know your type. You don’t care about the difference between right and wrong.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re the one who sleeps at my family’s house, as if you own the place!”

  I recoil at the words coming out of her mouth. “They’re not your family! You’re their servant, understand? You clean their shit!”

  She takes in a sharp breath. “If I lose my job because of you, it will be Ayub who suffers. I won’t be able to pay for his school fees until Hanif sends money from—”

  “Your husband’s gone. He’s never coming back. And you’ll always be an overworked bai, and you’ll never have enough time or money to take care of Ayub, and that’s why he’ll never amount to anything. Because of you.”

  That’s when she raises her hand and slaps me across the face.

  Shocked, I touch the spot where she hit me. My ears start to pound. I could tear her to shreds right now. She’s so much weaker than I am. Better suited to chasing a child and swabbing a marble-floored flat than to fighting. Women like her never learn how to defend themselves. They only know how to clench their jaws and bear the pain the rest of the world brings them.

  I take a step toward her and draw my hand back, but she just stands there, her breathing ragged. Tears spill from her clenched eyelids. I watch her lean toward the wall, putting her hand out for support. Quickly, she draws her hand back to avoid crushing the flowers. Even in this state, she has to mind the petals because those flowers matter more than she ever will.

  There’s nothing left to say. I lower my hand, then drive it into the thickest cluster of blooms on the wall and tear them out by their stems, leaving a small, naked patch on the wall that exposes the ugly, blackened stucco underneath.

  Then I turn and sprint down St. Andrews Road.

  26

  When I arrive at the office later that morning, still reeling from my fight with Tazim, Gauri Ma’am has located three extra boxes of Vivek’s papers to be scanned and filed. “I gave Vivek today off,” she says. “I told him you would sort through everything.” Then she disappears into her office to make phone calls.

  At noon, I get an SMS from Alex: just woke up, figured u left.

  Relieved he didn’t hear the fight, I text him back saying I had to go into the office this morning. He responds a few minutes later.

  those days will be far behind u soon. be proud of all your work last night. cant wait to see how high u will fly in a few years!

  I clutch my phone, smiling. I think back to what Babloo told me last night, about Alex only being a tourist. He was probably just jealous Alex chose to see me instead of him.

  I spend the rest of the day scanning Vivek’s extra files, trying to push my fight with Tazim out of my head. A chor and a randi, she called me. As if that’s all I am to her.

  Judging by how long it took Tazim to get over the crystal elephant incident, I’ll have to avoid her for at least a week. As the day goes on, I remember what Gauri Ma’am said to me about Neha. Even when people hurt us, how we respond is a test of our loyalty to them. Maybe I should give Tazim a few weeks to cool down, then tell her she was right. I shouldn’t have been at Pali Hill, even if I was invited. Maybe it doesn’t matter who’s right.

  By the time I’ve sorted and scanned the last three boxes of files, it’s already evening. Why does Vivek have so many files and how come he’s never bothered organizing them? Maybe he thought he’d always be at Justice For All.

  Just then, Alex sends a text.

  if ur still at the office, can u scan/send me the marked up applications? i want to spend some time tomorrow reflecting more about what u wrote.

  I reply yes, return to my desk, and pull out the applications Alex marked up with a red pen last night. As I’m shuffling them into a neat pile, Ma’am pulls a chair up to my desk and sinks into it with a thud, as if her knees have given up on her body. The dark circles under her eyes look greyer than normal. She removes her glasses and wipes them with her dupatta. “It’s hard to imagine this place without Vivek.”

  “Maybe it’s time for him to leave,” I suggest, laying my arm on the applications to conceal the header. “Like he said.”

  She rubs her chin. “Just as things are ramping up. The timing is unfortunate. We could have really used him around here. But I suppose even the most determined people in this field can lose their drive.”

  I grit my teeth, wanting to tell her that she pushed him out and all this is her fault.

  “Anyways,” she says, struggling back to her feet, “call Sai Krishna and order me a dal khichdi. And tell them to go easy on the salt or I’ll be dead by Monday. And order yourself whatever you like.”

  “Ji, Ma’am,” I say, realizing I’ve been too distracted to eat anything all day. I watch her start to walk away before I dial the Sai Krishna number from memory, calling in for two dal khichdis. The first time she said to order whatever I want, I did, but she said I ordered too much and then deducted the cost off my wages to teach me a lesson. So now, if she offers, I order the same thing she does.

  After I hang up the phone, I swivel around in my chair to see Ma’am standing over me, my Sanskriti Institute application in her hand.

  Shit.

  Her brow knots as her eyes move slowly but steadily across the page, as though she’s reading every single word. Finally, she moves the papers away from her face. “So…you are applying to the hospitality program at the Sanskriti Institute of Hotel Management because…” She pauses. “You want to show India to tourists?”

  “No, Ma’am.” My hands are trembling.

  “No, what?” she snaps. “No, you aren’t applying to the hospitality program, or no you don’t want to show India to tourists?”

  How do I explain my way out of this? “I…I—”

  “These papers are yours, are they not?”

  I stare at the pattern of folds and creases in the application clasped in her hand. There’s no way out of this. “Ji, Ma’am,” I say, steeling myself for what’s to come.

  Gauri Ma’am flips the pages over to where Alex has scrawled his comments in red pen. I haven’t even read them yet.

  She starts to read aloud.

  “This is a great start, Rakhi. Take a few days, and focus more on your lived experience and how it makes you unique.” Ma’am looks down at me, then back at the paper, and continues. “Be honest with yourself as to why you want a new career. Talk about how you grew up, what you learned on the streets, and why you feel underutilized in your current role.” Ma’am says “underutilized” as if she is asking a question. “We’ll nail it, I promise. Alex.”

  I feel like a rat caught in one of those sticky traps I set in the corners of the office. I would chew my leg off to escape this situation if I could.

  “Is there something you want to tell me, Rakhi?”

  I gaze up at her. “No, Ma’am, it’s nothing. I wasn’t going to send it in.”

  “If you are so unhappy here, why did you not just come to me?”

  “Ma’am, I am happy. I swear,” I say, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

  She lowers herself down into the chair again, tossing the application onto my desk. “You know, when I met you at the Asha Home, you were the only child who stood out to me. All those wild, chatty girls were only interested in someday marrying the first boy to come along. And the well-behaved ones wanted to pledge their lives to Jesus and rot away in a nunnery. Everyone at the school told me you were hopeless, you know that? Hopeless.”

  I’m too nervous at how calm Ma’am is to care about what the nuns thought of me.

  “But when they told me your story, I saw something in you. A fighting spirit. A fierceness. The people who were supposed to care for you had abandoned you. Every door had been slammed in your face and yet there you were, still surviving. Clawing back so hard that you needed to rein it in so that you didn’t go down the wrong path. You reminded me so much of my Neha. Clever, independent. You deserved another chance. Tell me, Rakhi, isn’t that what I gave you? Another chance at life?”

  I know “yes” is the only answer she wants to hear, so I tell her yes.

  Ma’am stands up, removes her white cotton dupatta, and lets it unfurl. I watch her as she silently folds the translucent fabric twice over until it’s smoothed out and drapes it across her broad chest. Then she speaks again, looming over me. “Tell me, where are your friends from the street now?”

  “Friends?” Does she know about Babloo? “I don’t know, Ma’am.”

  “You know why you don’t know? Because you made it to a place they could never dream of. Do you know where girls from the Asha Home go after they reach eighteen? One or two extraordinary ones a year will get jobs in call centres. The rest of them, the lucky ones, they get work as maids or cooks. And the unlucky ones? They’re in some seedy brothel, wishing their boyfriends hadn’t decided to turn around one day and start pimping them out.” She folds her arms across her chest. “So if you’re not happy here, you would do best to reflect on what else you might be doing.” Her voice is sharp and prickly.

  I take a breath and look up at her. “Ma’am, you said yourself, I can’t be an officewali my whole life. Remember? It’s why you sent me for English lessons.”

  She frowns, her tightly cropped hair catching the glare of the fluorescent lights overhead. “You may not realize it, but good administrative help is what allows us to fight for what is right in this country.”

  “You said it. I’m not lying.” She knows I’m right.

  She waves her hand. “Chalo, put this nonsense away and focus on your work. Not only do you need this office, but this office needs you.” She adjusts her dupatta once more and turns to walk away. “Bring me the dal khichdi when it arrives. It’s been a long day.”

  Is this what big-shot lawyers do—ignore arguments when they know they’re losing? I rise to my feet and, before I can stop myself, the word spills from my lips, loud and strong: “No.”

  She looks at me over her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  “Ma’am, you are wrong. You always…” How to put it? “You always say…”

  “What do I always say?” She’s staring me down now.

  I breathe in and out, trying to untangle the words caught in my mouth.

  Gauri Ma’am nods. “I thought so,” she says, and starts to walk back to her office. I watch her wide hips swaying from side to side, her limp dupatta floating behind her shoulders.

  Somehow, I find the words, and I shout them at her back. “You always say that women should be able to make our own choices in life, that nobody can make them for us. You said that to the Times of India five times, to the Hindustan Times three times, and the Indian Express once. I cut out the articles. Go see them if you don’t believe me.”

  Gauri Ma’am turns toward me. “And how is that relevant?”

  “I am a woman, too, na? What I do is my choice, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, really?” Ma’am speaks with an unnatural stillness and a tight-lipped smile as she walks back to my desk. “Who is going to pay for your college tuition? No, forget that, who is going to pay the application fees? Who is going to take care of you while you study so you can afford to eat? So you can afford a roof over your head?”

  “I will figure it out. I’ve made it this far in life, haven’t I?”

  “Arre, Rakhi. I know exactly what this is about.” She snorts. “It’s this Canadian fellow, isn’t it? You think I haven’t noticed the two of you sneaking around after work? You think I don’t know that he takes you out and pays for your meals and is putting all these naive, half-baked ideas in your head about your future? Smarten up, for God’s sake. He doesn’t know what life is like in India for a girl like you.”

  “Maybe not, but he believes in me. He knows I can do more with my life.”

  “Explain to me how folding hotel linens is more valuable than being a part of a movement to better this country.”

  “That’s your work, not mine. Alex says—”

  “What does a kid like him know? These firanghis, they come here saying they care so much, but tell me, do any of them stay? No. They use their internship experience to get into graduate school, or get jobs in Switzerland or New York, while we’re still here doing the same thankless work for a fraction of the pay. Just look at those bloody Dutch interns. Happy to hobnob with other expatriates in rooftop bars, spending the same kind of money in one evening that someone as senior as Bhavana earns in a week. They live in an alternate reality from you and me.”

  “Alex isn’t like that.”

  Ma’am closes her eyes and sighs. When she opens them again, she gives me an exasperated look. “Rakhi, what exactly is going on between you and this boy?”

  “Nothing. We are friends.” I focus hard on not blinking. “Apart from Vivek, Alex is the only person here who cares to talk to me about something other than making their chai and running their errands.”

  “You’re sure there’s nothing more?”

  I clench and unclench my fists. “I’m not allowed to have a friend now? I’m too hopeless for that, too?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. These people are different. You don’t understand the way they interact, the expectations they have of others, the nuances with which—”

  “What is it? You think I’m not good enough to be friends with a rich person? A firanghi?”

  She holds up a finger, as if to warn me. “Lower your voice or—”

  “Or what? You are the one shouting about equality in the courts, in the papers, na? You are the one who says we should all be treated equal. Rich, poor, street kid, Muslim, Dalit, widow. But you think I shouldn’t be allowed to apply to college because I am poor. You think I can’t be friends with Alex because he’s from Canada. And everyone thinks you are such a big social-justice-wali lawyer! The media, everyone who works here, even that Rubina Mansoor. But you’re just a liar. A fraud.”

  Gauri Ma’am’s face has turned pale but I feel unstoppable.

  “You’re not even qualified to run this office.”

  Ma’am is biting the inside of her cheek the way she does when she’s thinking hard. When she finally speaks up, her voice is as light as the cobwebs in the corners of the office. “If that’s how you feel, Rakhi, then you don’t believe in this organization.”

  “So what if I don’t?” I put my hands on my hips, gripping my flesh hard.

  “I can’t have employees who don’t believe in the work we do, the direction we are going in, or the leader at the helm.”

  We are both silent for a long time, the air filling with the sounds of horns honking and engines revving outside. Finally, Ma’am speaks.

  “If you have nothing left to say, that’s settled. Turn in your mobile phone.”