Just One Year

one made abroad, a Renault, or a Ford, not a Maruti or a Tata. He pays the skinny dusty boy who was guarding the car a few coins and opens the backseat. I toss my rucksack there and try to open the front door. Prateek tells me to wait, and with a complicated sequence of rattles and twists, opens it from the inside, sweeping a pile of magazines from the passenger seat.

The car shudders to life and the little brass statue cemented to the dash—a tiny elephant with a sort of smile of the perpetually amused—starts to dance.

“Ganesha,” Prateek says. “Remover of obstacles.”

“Where were you last month?” I ask the statue.

“He was right here,” Prateek answers solemnly.

We drive out of the airport complex, past a bunch of ramshackle houses, before climbing onto an elevated expressway. I tilt my head out the window. It’s pleasantly hot, but not as hot as it will be, Prateek warns. It’s still winter; it will get warmer until the monsoons come in June.

As we drive, Prateek points out landmarks. A famous temple. A spidery suspension bridge crossing Mahim Bay. “Many Bollywood stars live in this area. Closer to the studios, which are near the airport.” He thumbs behind us. “Though some live in Juhu Beach, and some in Malabar Hill. Some even in Colaba where you are staying. Taj Mahal Hotel is there. Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, Roger Moore, Double-Oh Seven. Also American presidents all stayed there.”

Traffic starts to back up. We slow down and Ganesha stops his dance. “What is your favorite movie?” Prateek asks me.

“Hard to pick just one.”

“What is the last movie you saw?”

I flipped through a half dozen of them on the flights over, but was too antsy to focus on any one. I suppose the last movie I watched in full was Pandora’s Box. That was the movie that started it all, that led to the disastrous trip to Mexico, which funnily enough, has now landed me here. Lulu. If she was far away before, she’s farther now. Not one but two oceans between us now.

“Never heard of that movie,” Prateek says, wagging his head. “My favorite movie of the last year is a tie. Gangs of Wasseypur. Thriller. And London, Paris, New York. Do you know how many films Hollywood studios produce a year?”

“No idea.”

“Take a guess.”

“A thousand.”

He frowns. “I speak of the studios, not an amateur with a camera. One thousand, that would be impossible.”

“A hundred?”

His smile flips on like a switch. “Wrong! Four hundred. Now do you know how many films Bollywood produces a year? I won’t make you guess because you will be wrong.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Eight hundred!”

“Eight hundred,” I repeat because it’s clear he thinks the number warrants repeating.

“Yes!” He’s smiling broadly now. “Twice the number of Hollywood. Do you know how many people in India go to the movies every single day?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Fourteen million. Do fourteen million people go to the movies every day in Germany?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m from Holland. But given that the entire population isn’t much more than sixteen million, I doubt it.”

He beams with pride now.

We exit the expressway onto the streets of what must be colonial Mumbai and turn into an area with an arbor of trees and a line of idling double-decker buses belching out black exhaust.

“There is the Gateway of India,” Prateek says, pointing out a carved arch monument on the edge of the Arabian Sea. “The Taj Mahal Hotel I told you about,” he says, pulling past a massive confection of a hotel, all domes and cornices. A group of Arab men in billowing white robes are piling into a series of window-tinted SUVs. “Inside is a Starbucks.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Have you ever had a Starbucks coffee?”

“I have.”

“My cousin said that in America they drink it with every meal.” He pulls up in front of another graying building, Victorian, and it seems, almost sweating in the heat. The sign, in fading elaborate cursive, reads bo bay ro al. “Here you are. Bombay Royale.”

I follow Prateek into a darkened, cool lobby, quiet except for the whoosh and squeak of ceiling fans and the faint chirping of crickets nesting somewhere in the walls. Behind a long mahogany desk, a man so old he seems original to the building is napping. Prateek loudly rings the bell and he startles awake.

Immediately, the two start arguing, mostly in Hindi but with a few English words thrown in here and there. “Regulations,” the old man keeps saying.

Eventually, Prateek turns to me. “He says you can’t stay here.”

I shake my head. Why did she bring me here? Why did I come?

“It’s a private residence club, not a hotel,” Prateek explains.

“Yes. I’ve heard of those.”

Prateek frowns. “There are other hotels in Colaba.”

“But this must be the place.” This is the address I’ve had for her for the last few years. “Look under my mother’s name. Yael Shiloh.”

At the mention of her name, the old man’s head whips up. “Willem saab?” he asks.

“Willem. Yes, that’s me.”

He squints his eyes and grasps my hands. “You are nothing like the memsahib,” he says.

I don’t have to know what that means to know who he’s talking about. It’s what everyone says.

“But where is she?” he asks.

There’s a kernel of comfort. I’m not the only one in the dark. “Oh, you know her,” I say.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he says, doing the same head nod/shake as Prateek.

“So can I go to her flat?” I ask the old man.

He considers it, scratching the gray stubble on his chin. “Regulations say only members can stay here. When memsahib makes you a member, you will be a member.”

“But she’s not here,” Prateek points out helpfully.

“Regulations,” the old man says.

“But you knew I was coming,” I say.

“But you are not with her. What if you are not really you? Do you have proof?”

Proof? Like what. A surname? Mine is different. Photos? “Here,” I say, pulling out the email, now damp and creased.

He squints at it with dark eyes that have gone filmy with age. He must decide it’s enough. Because he gives two quick nods of his head and says, “Welcome, Willem saab.”

“At last,” Prateek says

“I am Chaudhary,” the old man says, ignoring Prateek and handing me a sheaf of papers to fill out. When I finish, he heaves at the opening to the front desk and creaks out from behind. He shuffles down the scuffed wooden hallway. I follow him. Prateek trails behind me. When we reach the elevators, Chaudhary makes a tick- tock gesture to Prateek with his fingers. “Members only in the elevator,” he tells him. “You may take the stairs.”

“But he’s with me,” I say.

“Regulations, Willem saab.”

Prateek shakes his head. “I should probably get the car back to my uncle,” he says.

“Okay, let me pay you.” I pull out a wad of filthy rupees.

“Three hundred rupees for no AC. Four hundred with,” Chaudhary says. “That’s the law.”

I hand Prateek five hundred rupees, about the price of a sandwich back home. He backs up to leave. “Hey, what about that korma?” I ask him.

His smile is goofy, a little like Broodje’s. “I will be in touch,” he promises.