Mohini was a little uncomfortable with the room she was provided as soon as she entered Jones’ house. It was a huge guest room, and she was not used to such respect or luxury. When Jones brought her and said she could stay, in her mind, she expected a servant’s quarters at the most. She changed into a Tant Saree she had with her in a bundle, trying to appear as decent as possible. She tossed the clothes she was wearing on the neatly made bed and walked up to the huge window to pull the curtains apart. The view was of the garden with the outdoor chairs. A maid walked inside, after knocking, as she glanced over her shoulder, a little alarmed.
“Jones, Sir, asked for you downstairs. The lunch is ready.” She eyed Mohini judgmentally and then the shiny clothes she had tossed away. “If you want, I can get those washed for you.” The maid suggested. Mohini looked alarmed.
“No, I will do it myself.” She shook her head as the maid smiled, amused.
“Nobody does their laundry here. I will take these,” She picked up the clothes and stopped. “Sir also asked us to help you if you need anything, clothes, toiletries…”
“No, thank you.” Mohini shook her head as the maid gave her one last glance and walked out. She braced herself, adjusted her drape and combed her hair to walk out of the room and into the corridor.
The hallways were huge, and without the chatter of a party and the voices of children, the building looked no less than haunted. She was unsure of which way to go, wondering if she should have asked the maid for directions when a door on the farthest end of the corridor was opened, and Jones stepped out in a shirt, trousers and suspenders. His boot made a brisk noise in the hallway as he stopped at her appearance. He had never seen Mohini without her usual shimmer and gaudy jewellery. She looked simple yet beautiful. He smiled at her, directing her downstairs to the dining hall.
“Today we have an English spread, but tomorrow you can tell them what to make for you.” He said politely.
“No, I am fine.” Mohini looked awkward. Jones was happy that she had abandoned the broken English; he was sure Tawaifs and Nautch girls used to impress the Goras they served.
“It is all alright, I will get to taste your cuisine that way,” Jones suggested. “Have you cleaned your wounds?” Mohini nodded. She had found a first aid box in the washroom.
“Thank You, Adham Sa’ab.” She bit her lips as Jones looked amused.
“It’s time you learn to pronounce my name properly.” He suggested.
“You don’t pronounce my name correctly either.” Mohini looked unsure as he laughed, “Well, we will both learn then. Mine is Adam, not Adham.”
“ Mine is Mohini, not Mahinee.” She shrugged, a little embarrassed. “People call me Mohi.”
“Mohi, it is.” Adam Jones nodded. “Come have lunch with me.”
“I can eat later…” Mohini suggested as she stared at the spread and the Butler.
“Why?” Jones frowned. “I am eating alone. Serve her.” He ordered. The butler came forward, eyeing Mohini judgmentally.
Mohini looked unsurely at the cutlery. She had never used a spoon in her life. Jones seemed to read her mind as he smiled inwardly.
“It’s okay, eat with your hands, nobody is watching.” He reassured her.
The moment Mohini dug into the bread and cutlets, she realised she was hungry.
It was in the evening when the dusk set in and the birds were going home that Mohini got up from the soft bed that was made for her, and searched through her belongings for the comb she found to untangle her hair. She stood at the window as she untangled each knot and stared at the river at a distance. The chirping of birds in the branches of the trees near the window had increased. Her eyes travelled to the lawn below, where Adam Jones was seen sitting with a dog lying at his feet as he read the newspaper and sipped tea. The morning Butler was serving him cakes. Mohini turned away from the window and stared at the huge room. Then her eyes travelled to the reflection in the mirror, and her clothes looked shabby and old. She bit her lips, contemplating her choice to bring two of her shabby sarees because she thought she would stay at some dark dungeon Nithercot would provide. Being Jones’s houseguest was embarrassing. The maid appointed to take care of her needs seemed to be dressed better. Mohini wondered how the robe of the white woman would look on her dusky skin. She remembered peeping through the curtains of the first Mehfil she attended with Ustaad Ji and watching the women with hats and fans staring at the girls with disgust in their eyes. Their eyes were neither painted nor drawn with Kohl. Mohini wiped away her smudged kohl with her anchol and now stared at the black mark it left on her saree. That was when the maid stepped in with a knock, asking if she needed anything and caught her staring at her saree. Mohini shook her head at the maid, thanking her in Hindi as she stepped out, and Mohini once again perched herself on the windowsill. She opened a side and let the cool breeze hit her face. She suddenly looked down to watch the maid bowing to Jones and talking to him. Mohini frowned. Was Jones suspicious of her? But why? Nothing was missing. She barely even touched… a louder knock resonated as she stood up and said, “Ke?” out of habit.
The servant with camphor smoke billowing from the utensil he held peeped in and gasped.
“What have you done?” The old man stared as Mohini looked confused, “Close the windows or else the mosquitoes will come in.” Mohini did as she was told, and the old man left the smell and smoke of camphor in the room and switched on the light. Mohini could now see the four-bladed ceiling fan making a design as it whirled.
“The lights come and go…” The old man said. “So, better finish everything before it goes out.” He coughed a little as Mohini nodded.
“Kaka, is your job just switching lights on and off and spreading the camphor?” Mohini asked with a hint of surprise in her voice.
“Just?” The man raised his eyebrows and was irked. “What do you mean, just? I come from the village to do this. Do you know how many people die of mosquito bites? Do you know how scared the white people are…” He stopped as Mohini looked visibly amused.
“I did not know the white people were this scared of mosquitoes.” Mohini thought she would offend the man more, but he gave a toothless smile. “Fair to say, Didimoni, those lads who want freedom can use diseases to drive them away.” Mohini shared a laugh with the man as the maid interrupted again. She eyed the old man leaving as she turned to Mohini.
“Sir doesn’t encourage mixing with the village folks much.” She said plainly. Mohini nodded silently. “Here.” The maid laid out two robes, one in white and another in pink. The robes were tied like Angrakhas and had lace sleeves on them. The material was soft cotton. “Sir said you should have more… decent clothes.” Mohini shot a glance at the maid. Did Sir say so, or did she think so?
“Where are you from?” Mohini’s question startled her.
“I… I am a Rajput, but I was trained to work for the Maharani of Mehrangarh. She gifted me to Mrs Jones on her trip there.” The maid spoke fluent Hindi. Mohini nodded. “Must be different. The Palace and…”
“Majestic.” She smiled. “My sisters still work there. But Mrs Jones is nice too. I am extremely loyal to her.” Mohini knew the intention of the last statement.
“I am sure you are.” She nodded. “I met her, too. She is lovely.” The maid nodded.
“May I help you with the robe?” She asked. Mohini let her. If that kept her scrutinising gaze less on Mohini’s activities, then what was the harm?
Mohini stared at herself in the mirror once they were done, and the woman left. She found herself amused by the new look and twirled to see if it was any good like the dancing clothes. The laces looked stunning. She sat down to braid her hair when she was interrupted by the sound of music. From a young age, Mohini danced and had the habit of moving her feet to the rhythm of the music. The music was from a piano. It was faint but enough to hear on a silent night. She let her braid fall on her hip and moved her feet on the Italian marble floor. She suddenly imagined herself as a lady at the British gala and danced with an imaginary man. The music stopped, and Mohini giggled at her imagination with her hands over her mouth. The music began again, and this time it was followed by a voice. Mohini was curious. She tiptoed out in the empty hallway and travelled where the music took her. A turn in the corridor and she could see the light from an open door of a room, and she tiptoed towards it as the marble felt cold against her feet. She stood at the doorway to find Jones at the Piano. He had his eyes closed as he hummed some English verses she couldn’t decipher. Mohini moved her hand to the rhythm of the music and suddenly became cautious of herself. Perhaps she was not wanted there. Perhaps he expected her to be confined to her room. She turned away as the music stopped, and Jones looked up.
“Mohi…” He made her stop. “Are you leaving without complimenting my singing?” Mohini glanced over her shoulder to find him smiling gently at her, as now he seemed to notice her robe.
“That… suits you…” He said awkwardly.
“Thank you for the clothes and food.” Mohini nodded. “I will leave as soon as…”
“Oh no, please stay… I hope you are comfortable?” Jones asked as she nodded.
“You sing well, Sa’ab.” She managed.
“I thought I taught you to pronounce Adam.” Jones smiled again and went back to playing the piano as she walked out of the room.
Abhaya found herself waiting for the postman every day, even though Swadhin’s letter came on Wednesday or Thursday. She quietly sat through Protima and Bimala’s endless teasing as she did her chores and helped them in the kitchen, but every time someone was at the door, or a cycle was heard, she would jump up, making them giggle.
“We have to tell Thakurpo.” Bimala smiled. “He needs to finish his exams and come home sooner.”
“Ah, let him concentrate on his exams first.” Protima shook her head. “It's the finals.”
“But look at her. She is missing him badly, especially since he could not come home for the last two weeks.” Bimala smiled at a red-faced Abhaya.
“The only thing I miss is my lessons, Mejdibhai. I have read the books and recited them to you. How many more times should I revise the same things?” The women giggled and teased her excuses.
Swadhin had written home to inform Abhaya that she had indeed managed to impress Sharat. The way he wrote about everything Sharat said, Abhaya could sense a hint of pride in his words. She managed to reassure him that the past was over for good. Whatever was left of it, she managed to let the grudge go as soon as she stepped out of the police station. Abhaya emphasised how much the trust of the family meant to her. Swadhin was convinced. But Abhaya wondered if Sharat truly was convinced or whether he was also putting up a show. She needed to find out.
“Then ask Naw Thakurpo to help.” Protima prompted. Abhaya looked unsure. “Are you scared of him?” Abhaya shook her head. Protima got up. “Come with me, I will tell him to teach you while Choto Thakurpo writes letters.” She dragged Abhaya out of the kitchen. They met Renu in the corridor as she skipped down and stopped at the sight of her Boudis. Abhaya could see the ribbons Swadhin brought her, neatly braiding her hair.
“My lessons are done.” She declared. “Master Moshai is angry that Didi is skipping lessons again.”
“Did you tell him Uma is at your Mashi’s house since she is sick?” Protima asked as Renu nodded. She turned to Abhaya. “Mashima is childless, so she takes Uma and Renu as her daughters. Love them to the core. You should tell Thakurpo to take you to Kanthi once his exams are over.” She spoke as Abhaya nodded and followed her to Nawda’s room. Sharat was sitting with a book, leaning on the armchair and looking out of the window at the sky.
“There he is.” Protima made him sit up. “Always lost in his thoughts.”
“What can I do for you, Boudi?” Sharat asked as he eyed Abhaya.
“Teach her till Choto Thakurpo returns.” Protima pushed Abhaya from behind her towards the desk. “She is missing her lessons.”
“Mastermoshai…” Sharat looked up as Protima left, and Abhaya shook her head.
“It is okay if you can’t, Nawda.” She said uncomfortably. Sharat closed the book at hand and smiled at her.
“Come with your books, let's see what the idiot has taught you.” Abhaya did as she was told. Sharat watched her frown over the maths problems sitting on the mat on the floor of his room as he sat in the armchair with a book. Her frowning face looked eerily similar to someone he knew. His heart ached as he closed his eyes and sighed. Abhaya looked up at him suspiciously.
“What is wrong?” She asked as Sharat raised his eyebrows.
“Nothing.”
“You look sad ever since you came back. You barely talk to Renu, also.” Abhaya shook her head. “Is everything okay? Are you sick?” Sharat closed his book and smiled wearily at Abhaya.
“I am sick.”
“What happened to you?” Abhaya sounded worried. It surprised Sharat.
“Are you caring for those you deem responsible for your…”
“I care for those whom Maa cares for. He cares for…” Abhaya stopped.
“Do you like your husband?” Sharat sounded amused. Abhaya frowned.
“What kind of an improper question is that to ask me?” She retorted. Sharat laughed.
“What’s improper in it?” he shrugged. “If you like someone …” He stopped. Abhaya feigned business with her books; her cheeks grew warm and red as she tried to brush away the feeling in her stomach.
“What is your illness, Nawda?” Abhaya asked again after she finished a lesson. He leaned back in his chair and told her to fetch a book from his desk. Abhaya did as she was told.
“Can you read the name?” Sharat asked. Abhaya was learning English words now. She struggled a bit to pronounce “The P… py… psychology: The Briefer Course by William James.” She frowned cluelessly.
“This book says that our emotions are a result of external factors and hence the consequences of what happens to us,” Sharat said as he lit a cigarette. Abhaya frowned.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that emotions are just us losing control, probably.” Sharat shrugged. “We need to reclaim ourselves with willpower.”
“A book talks about… feelings?” Abhaya asked as Sharat nodded.
“Yes, the feelings we have are analysed and studied.” Abhaya was stunned at this discovery as Sharat let her leaf through the book. “Also, people can be emotionally… sick… just like bodily.”
“So it says emotions are weak?” Abhaya frowned “Or are you saying that?”
“It is more complex than that, but yes, I am saying so. Impulsive emotion makes us act irrationally and regret later.”
“I do not agree.” Abhaya shook her head. “Emotions are what make us human. Hurts us. Makes us feel cared for.” Sharat eyed Abhaya.
“And what if your emotions are disrespected or misunderstood?” His question made Abhaya smile faintly. “I guess we try again.” She said it with ease, as she turned back to her books, and Sharat scrutinised her words with narrowed brows in between smoking the cigarette. We try again. He did not have the time to. He would soon leave on the most dangerous mission he had taken up the task of leading.
“So are you sick in the mind?” Abhaya’s framing of her question made Sharat smile, amused.
“I am sick in the mind…” He chuckled. Abhaya looked unsure. He shook his head.
“Are you learning to treat everyone like patients from that Daktar husband of yours?” He said scoldingly. “Concentrate on your studies.” Abhaya grew quiet. Sharat lit another smoke and paced the room, eyeing the maths she was struggling with.
“Have you read any books lately? Novels?”
“Mejhdibhai suggested I read Chokher Bali…” Abhaya said absent-mindedly.
“What do you think of forbidden love?” Sharat sat down on the chair again as he spoke, and Abhaya stared at him.
“Forbidden love?” Abhaya looked a little confused.
“Yes, like in Devdas, Chandramukhi, the dancing girl falls for him. Or in Chokher Bali, Binodini…” Abhaya suddenly remembered a thought she once had. When her mother was getting her decked up in new sarees and jewellery every day for an impending wedding, she wondered why Kalyani Didi could not start her life again. Yes, she was a widow, but not as old as her grandmother's kind. She barely lived with her husband or knew what it was like.
“I guess happiness matters. If two people are…” Abhaya’s voice faded as Sharat looked a little stumped.
“That is not something I expected from you. You seem a little too orthodox for that.” He said truthfully. Abhaya smiled faintly. “I guess our household is rubbing off on you after all.” His words made her heart skip a beat. She concentrated on the maths.
He eyed Abhaya as he absent-mindedly took up one of her literature books to leaf through. His eyes stopped at the letter inside it, acting like a bookmark. It was a small postcard written by Swadhin the previous week, complaining of bad food and good question papers. He wrote about how he could not wait to be home and sleep for long hours. He even hinted at starting practice back home, indirectly telling Abhaya he was there to stay. Although it was a breach of privacy, Sharat could not help but wonder if he was wrong and if his brother and Abhaya could find love in each other. Abhaya jumped up as soon as she saw the letter in his hand and snatched it, a little embarrassed.
“You are not supposed to read others’ letters.” She frowned at Sharat, who looked amused.
“I was looking out for my brother.” He said, “I don’t want you to hurt him.”
“You are strange, Naw Da,” Abhaya exclaimed. “A while ago, you told me we are in control of our own emotions. So if we are hurt, is it not because we allow someone to hurt us?” She asked as Sharat smiled at her intelligence. He nodded.
“Yes, it is true, we give them the power…” He could not finish his sentence as the postman shouted out at the gates, and Abhaya ran downstairs. Sharat sighed as he sank back into his chair.
“Do you have a real name?” Adam Jones asked as he watched Mohini savour the puri sabzi that was made for breakfast.
He had been trying one Indian dish per day and lamenting how his wife would hate it if he fell sick when alone. “I will take care of you,” Mohini reassured her. “I owe you that.” Jones would smile at her reminder.
Over the past few days, he had grown more and more curious about Mohini. This was the first time he was in close quarters with an Indian woman and observed her daily routines. Every day she would wake up, take a bath and wear the saree to step out on the open balcony and pray to the sun. He wondered how many gods these people had.
“As many as there are humans.” Mohini would say. “We believe God is in everyone. Har Har Mahadev, Every human is God.”
He watched her instruct the cook to make Indian dishes less spicy. He had tried some South Indian rice cakes, some Bengali vegetables, and Khichuri. The fish here did not suit him, so he preferred the meat. What he did not expect was for Mohini to be religious enough not to touch beef or pork.
“I pray to the gods who are cowherds and ride the holy bulls and cows.”
The more Jones watched, the more questions he had. He strongly felt that to help the natives, it was important to know them. He started taking notes every day after he came home from work. Jones asked his questions in English while Mohini answered in Bangla. They both understood each other's language, but they could not speak fluently. He shared the tea time with her on the lawn as Mohini sat down like a Memsahib in the etiquette that the maid taught her, much to Jones’ amusement. But she would forget about it as soon as he asked about the village life, the problems she faced, the music, dance and art. The women of India. Mohini felt important. She never knew her life experiences had value until Jones asked her. She never knew she could make any impact other than just exist and entertain, or be used as a pawn in bigger politics.
“What was your real name?” Jones asked again as Mohini stared at the river absent-mindedly. They had travelled a little away from the house, which was visible in the distance, to enjoy the evening breeze by the river. The servant had arranged chairs by the bank.
“I never told that to anyone.” She shook her head, feeling vulnerable.
“I will keep it a secret. I promise.” Jones was taking down so many things in his notebook. He planned to write about it someday. The Life of an Unnamed Indian Woman, he once knew.
“My mother called me Hiranmoyi.” Her eyes were teary. “She took Hiranmoyi away the day she died. Baba started drinking and gambling soon after.”
“Hi..ran… that means deer, right?” Jones looked puzzled. Mohini smiled faintly, wiping away her tears. “Yes, it means doe.” Jones stared at her as if to observe her eyes. Mohini stared back at him unfazed.
“You do have doe eyes.” He commented dryly, making her chuckle. He watched her before asking his next question.
“Have you ever been in love?” Mohini was amused. She leaned in, making Jones a little awkward as he adjusted his reading glasses and looked away, his cheeks flushing.
“Why Adam Sa’ab? Do you want me to?” Mohini chuckled again at her teasing tone as she shook her head. “Look at you all white like a sheet. Don’t worry, Sa’ab, I am grateful you let me stay. Mohini will not pounce on you like a tigress in the Sunderbans.”
“I have hunted tigers at Ranthambore,” Jones stated, trying to divert attention from his question. “Fiery creatures.”
“I have never been in love,” Mohini said abruptly. “But if I could love a man if I was allowed to…” She stopped as Jones looked up at her.
“Then?” He asked as he licked his dry lips, unsurely.
“Then I don’t know.” Mohini shrugged. “I have never been allowed to.”
“Who commands your life?” Jones frowned at her words. Mohini smiled.
“First, it used to be my drunken father. Then my pimp. Now…The society. If I give my heart to a man, I am bound to be heartbroken. No man will dare to love a woman like me.”
“That is not right.” Jones protested. “If they know you… the real you…”
“Who does?” Mohini raised her eyebrows as she played with her hair.
“I do.” Jones stopped as Mohini glared at him. “ I mean… people like me…”
“I will tell you what… Sa’ab.” Mohini leaned in again, and this time Jones did not move away awkwardly as he stared at her mischievous eyes. “If I ever feel like I can love, I will love a man like you.” She got up from her chair without breaking eye contact as she left Jones confused and walked back to the house.
Mohini was in her room about to change back into a saree and say her evening prayers. Now that she was accustomed to the routine, her thoughts travelled first to Kalyani and Sharat, wondering what had happened to the mission. Then guilt hit her. She was flirting with Jones, telling him things he wanted to hear. But was it just that? Did she not mean what she said, for the first time in a long time? That man was part of the enemy. Sharat never believed he was good. He said it was a good act. Kalyani, however, had a different view. Not all of them are bad; some helped us indeed. She would say. Mohini did not know much. The books she read all villainised the white-skinned man, so why was she so attracted to him? She jumped as a hand pulled at her waist from behind and breathed down her neck. She had no idea when he had walked into her room. Mohini was supposed to feel violated, but instead, she breathed in and gathered all her strength to ask in a soft, trembling voice,
“What are you doing, Sa’ab?”
“Testing my courage.” He whispered into her ears as her arms broke into goosebumps. His hand pulled at the robe as she held it at her bosom, alarmed.
“Your wife…” She reminded him as he turned her to face him. The hunger in his eyes was something Mohini was familiar with. It was raw and primitive.
“I always wanted a partner I could learn from. Impart knowledge from. Have conversations about the world. I thought Diana was that until… she is too homely, too caught up in being a mother and a member of a church and with the grooming school.” Mohini stared at Jones, speaking as his hands travelled to cup her breast.
“After a long time, I felt like I had someone who would be there when I needed them…” He breathed heavily on her neck.
“She is the mother of your children who travelled across the world for you, surely that is not easy.” Mohini shook his hand away and stepped back. She was breathing heavily in the darkness of the room. She was alarmed that soon the old man with the camphor would appear and catch them. She tied the robe back firmly as Jones inhaled.
“I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to.” Jones stepped back with a grim face. “And please don’t think you are not welcome to stay.” He walked away briskly as Mohini sat down on the bed with her face hidden in her palms.
Mohini was sure that Jones’s bid to charity ended that evening. She was served food in her room, and the next morning, when she stepped out, the maid said Jones Sa’ab had already left. She was sure that he would come back home and tell her to leave. But Jones came home with a guest. A Bangali Babu who rode in a black car and had an ivory cane with him. He was older, wore a dhuti panjabi, and had thick glasses and salt-and-pepper hair with bald spots. Jones entertained him in the garden as Mohini watched from her window. She had not changed from her saree to the robe, and her bundle was ready. The maid walked in, telling her that she was ordered to dress Mohini up, and Jones wanted to introduce her to the guest. Mohini suddenly felt alerted. Was this man here to take her somewhere? Buy her? Or sell her off as a middleman? Was Jones taking revenge for her refusal of his advances?
“Who is the man?” Mohini managed to ask. The maid smiled.
“That is Pyari Mohan Babu. He is an artist from Calcutta.” The maid helped her as she said, “He visits the officers often for grants. He helps women a lot.”
“Help them how?” Mohini asked suspiciously. Before the maid could answer, the Butler came asking for her. Mohini followed him to the garden, where Jones now lit a cigar and offered the man another.
“Here she is.” Jones stood up as the man glanced over his shoulder at her. Mohini felt aware and awkward.
“Mohini, this is Pyari Mohaan Babu. He is from Calcutta.” Mohini stared at Jones, smiling, and managed a nod. Her eyes turned to the man observing her.
“And this is Mohini, she is an exotic dancer.”
“Which form, dear?” Mohini was alarmed by the sweet voice. It reminded her of the man her father sold her to.
“Kathak.” She said, unsurely. The man nodded. “Very well, are you from Metia Bruz?” His question made her eye Jones as he smiled. “Actually, she is from a village in Purulia. Right?” Jones interrupted.
“Where did you learn dancing?”
“My Guruji…” Mohini narrowed her brows. “But why?”
“Pyari Mohan Babu is here to help you set up a school.” Jones smiled as Mohini looked shocked.
“School? I can’t teach children to read and write…” Jones chuckled at her words as the Babu smiled.
“No, no, dear.” The man said, “he means a dance school to teach young girls.”
“Who will send their girls to me?” Mohini asked in disbelief.
“Well, if you teach them the basics well, there aren’t many good female teachers…” The man sounded convincing.
“But I don’t have the money to…” She shook her head.
“Don’t worry,” Jones said, putting his cigar out. “He will help, and so will I.”
The man nodded. She stood in silence as they planned whether Dhaka would be better for her or Calcutta. Whether they should look for her family. Where would she stay? Mohini felt overwhelmed and invisible as she stood there.
“Here.” The man scribbled down an address. “Come here and look for me. I give you my word, Mr Jones. I will help her to the best of my abilities.” The men shook hands. Mohini stood there clutching the paper before she walked inside in a trance.
“Mohi…” Jones called out to her and followed her inside. “Listen, I…”
“Why are you doing this?” Mohini looked irked as Jones stared in confusion. “Did I ask you to help me?”
“No, but I… thought it would be the best excuse to get a better life.”
“Or you thought it to be better seen with a dance teacher than a woman like me?” Mohini retorted. Jones inhaled.
“I was looking out for you. I stayed up all night going through my options. Which one would give you a better life, you can’t…”
“What will I do if I don’t do what I am good at?” Mohini shook her head. “Do you know how much I earn from Babus? I will save them away for the time when I will be old and alone…”
“That is the point, Mohini. You endure people like Nithercot for this, and you don’t have to.” Jones shook his head.
“And then? Will you come with me? Live this respectful life with me?” Mohini asked with a taunt as Jones looked up at her in silence. She smiled faintly. “I thought so.” Jones cleared his throat.
“Sooner or later, I will get a promotion and my family will be back in Britain because senior officers' families aren’t safe here,” Jones said calmly. “I can request a transfer to wherever you are…”
“Why?” Mohini shook her head. “Why will you do that for me?”
“I don’t know.” Jones approached her cautiously as he spoke his truth. “I don’t know what we have here, and if it is something only I see and imagine because I want to… but there is something between us… Something we can’t deny…” He stopped, a little taken aback by Mohini’s hug as she wept. “Don’t do this, I beg you, please don’t do this.” His hand travelled to her back to embrace her as she cried with her face hidden in his chest. “I am afraid I have started to daydream.” Jones lifted her face by the chin, forcing Mohini to look at him. “So have I…” He leaned in to taste her salty lips as Mohini turned her head to deepen the passionate seal.
