The Delhi Deception (27 page)

“I am your uncle. Your mother’s brother.”

“My mother was an only child. She had no brothers.”

“Your real mother did,” Yusuf said simply, a small, triumphant smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Harry sat very still, staring at the minaret of the mosque. Yusuf was watching him expectantly. Harry turned to face the old man and said, “Why don’t you tell me—that was your intention all along, wasn’t it?”

Yusuf Ali Khan smiled and bowed his head slightly, seemingly unperturbed by the scorn in Harry’s voice. “Do you mind if I speak in Punjabi?”

“Go ahead.”

Taking the last sip of his tea, he wiped the layer of wrinkled milk, which had formed on the cooling tea, from his straggly gray beard. He scrunched up the paper napkin and threw it on the pavement. Then, as if addressing a large audience, he turned to Harry and said, “My story starts in Lahore on the eve of India’s and Pakistan’s independence.

“My parents worked for a wealthy Sikh family. My father was their driver, and my mother was ayah to their three children. My mother also bore three children, two boys and a girl. My brother died of fever when he was only two years old.

“The family was very good to us. Mr. Jashpreet Singh insisted that we join his children when they received their lessons from the English governess they had employed. My father was against this, as he was already planning a future for me in Islamic religious studies in the new independent Pakistan. I was sent away to Peshawar to attend such a school. My sister remained with my parents.

“When it became clear that independence was going to be violent, Jashpreet Singh started packing up his family and home and left for Delhi. Because of this timely decision to move his family, they escaped the unbelievable bloodshed—neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend, religious differences a reason to fight until death. My father was hacked to death with a meat cleaver by the Hindu butcher in the market. My mother couldn’t find his head. She asked some fellow Muslims to help her with the burial, but the blood shedding was like a strong narcotic; they had all gone mad, killing and raping, mothers hiding their daughters inside the wheat sacks in their pantries.

“Jashpreet Singh had come back to collect a forgotten document, much to his wife’s distress, but he was a fearless man. He found my mother sitting under the fig tree with her headless husband. He helped her bury him under that tree in the garden. That was when my mother begged him to take my sister back with him to work for the family and raise his grandchildren. Without a husband she could not offer her daughter anything, not even safety from the bloodthirsty hordes. He hesitated, but the fierceness of my mother’s resolve convinced him, and he took the eight-year-old girl back to Delhi.

“Because of Jashpreet Singh’s clear thinking and planning, he had managed to transfer most of their funds to India and had acquired residential and business properties. The family settled in well. My sister, Soraya, was well taken care of. She joined the children during lessons but was confined to the servants’ quarters with one of the old maid servants begrudgingly taking care of her. Soraya was particularly close to Ranjit, Jashpreet’s eldest son. When he turned thirteen, he was sent away to boarding school. Soraya took up her duties in the household; it was the end of her schooling.

“Ranjit was sent to college in England. On his return, his parents had arranged his marriage to the only daughter of one of the Sikh ministers in the Indian government. Priya and Ranjit were married and continued living with his parents while he worked in his father’s business. After they had been married four years, Jashpreet was delighted to announce that his daughter-in-law was finally expecting. That same year Jashpreet had organized a marriage between Soraya and the family’s young gardener.

“It was a hot and humid night in August when you were born. The old family doctor delivered a son to Priya while the ayah from the neighbor’s house delivered a son to Soraya, a healthy baby boy, born a few months early.

“In the early hours of the morning a wail, so loud and with such pain, awoke the pink-cheeked newborn of Soraya’s as he lay suckling on her breast, opening his eyes for the first time. Soraya looked into those large, liquid brown eyes and knew that she would do anything for her son’s well-being.

“Little did she know that this test was a mere few minutes away from realization. A knock had her young husband jump up and open the door, alarmed. It was Jashpreet and Ranjit. Ranjit’s eyes were red and swollen from crying. When he saw the baby boy, he cried again and asked Soraya if he could hold him. She pulled her dupatta over her naked torso and handed the baby to him. Jashpreet sat down on the charpoy and spoke to Soraya in a gentle tone. He asked her if she wanted her son to have a future as a landowner and businessman. ‘Of course,’ she replied softly.

“Jashpreet told her that Priya and Ranjit had lost their baby boy; his lungs had not developed properly, and after struggling bravely to fill his lungs with air, he had eventually turned blue and died quietly, expelling the last wisp of life in a whisper against his mother’s breast. Tears welled in Soraya’s eyes as she looked at Ranjit, her heart aching for his loss.

“Then, as if in a dream, she listened and accepted Jashpreet’s proposal. She’d give them her baby in exchange for his future. Her husband refused, but when Jashpreet mentioned an amount he had not even imagined, he assented. The following morning after having received his payment, he left, never to be seen again. Soraya would be his wet-nurse and take care of him, but he would carry the name of the prestigious household, Sardar Harmeet Singh.

“This arrangement worked well for a few years. Harry, as everyone began to call him, was a happy and easygoing child. He was the apple of his grandfather’s eye, and when Jashpreet died of a heart attack, Harry was inconsolable. Priya adored her son and was extremely jealous of the obvious bond Harry shared with his wet-nurse. When Harry turned three, Priya started begging Ranjit to send Soraya away. Her excuse was that Soraya had threatened to tell the truth about Harry.

“At first he didn’t agree, but eventually, to keep his wife from going insane, he sent Soraya south to a convent. Desperately unhappy, she managed to escape and found her way back to Delhi. The chowkidar was told not to let her in, and she howled for days, sleeping on the pavement outside the gate. After a few days, she was dirty and wild with grief and fatigue. The local imam was paid handsomely, and he took her to an institution for the mentally disturbed. Years later, he went to Pakistan and took her with him. By now she had somewhat lost her senses, and she accepted her life as a prisoner in a mental asylum.

“It was pure chance that I was reunited with her. A group of ladies from my mosque in Karachi was trying to create workshops within these few and secret asylums. They believed it would help these unfortunate souls. I accompanied them to Lahore, and browsing through the names of the patients, I recognized Soraya’s name on the list. I was shocked, but happy to be reunited with my sister. It took her a while to remember me, but when the drugs they had been giving her had worn off, she became quite lucid and told me her tragic story. I decided it was my duty to track you down, and as Allah would have it, he delivered you to me.”

Harry had been in shock, but had accompanied him to the asylum, where he met Soraya. She was so fragile, but when she had held him, her grip was fierce. The intensity of her embrace had frightened him. He had stayed with her for an hour, but she kept repeating the same words in Punjabi: “My son, my son, don’t leave me.”

When she fell asleep, Harry had asked Yusuf what he could do and if he could move her. To this Yusuf had replied, “It will be very complicated to prove that she is your mother. You might also lose your Indian citizenship and your inheritance. If any of your cousins get to know this, they may try to claim what your father left you. I think if you could find the time to visit her and help me with some business in India, I could possibly arrange something eventually.”

“But I could just say she’s my wet nurse. No one will think anything of it.”

“Have you not noticed the state your mother’s in? She’s so happy to have found you. Do you think for one moment it’s possible to convince her otherwise? She will give your scheme away. Please, trust me. I will find a way. You must be patient.” The doctor looked immensely annoyed, and Harry decided to drop it.

A sharp knock on the door shook Harry out of his thoughts, and he watched as a young boy entered, carrying a tray with a steel bowl of watery lentils and a couple of chapattis. He placed the tray on the side of the bed and started spooning the lentils sloppily into Soraya’s mouth. Harry got annoyed and told the youth that he would feed his mother. With a shrug, the boy left and closed the door with a bang. Soraya looked up at Harry, her eyes shining as she opened her mouth obediently. Harry fed her carefully, using his cotton handkerchief to wipe her chin.

Dr. Yususf Malik closed the door to his office, using his right shoulder to push it into place so that he could lock it. The heavy door was threatening to fall off its hinges. He opened the paper package, pulling impatiently at the red string. Instead of opening it, he tightened it accidentally and had to look for a pair of scissors in his drawer to cut it.

The green silk was creased as he lifted it out. Spreading it on the floor, he pushed a chair to the side, oblivious to the dusty footprints he had walked onto the fabric. He stared fervently at the intricate embroidery. Then, as if recognizing something important, he fell to his knees on the fabric, his index finger outlining a section of the embroidery. He studied it for another ten minutes, muttering something under his breath as if memorizing it. Then, looking satisfied, he stood up and stuffed it into a metal bucket, which was used as a wastepaper bin. He poured some lamp oil over the fabric, and lighting a match, he threw it on top, the silk catching fire instantly. It burned in bright orange flames, which only lasted a few minutes. Dr. Malik opened the window and coughed slightly from the smoke in the room. He poured a glass of water over the remains of the fabric and poked it with a metal pole to make sure no part of it was recognizable.

With a sigh he sat down at his desk and dialed a number on the old-fashioned black phone on his desk. He spoke quietly into the handset, smiling as he replaced it and wondered vaguely if the physicist suspected that he was being used as a courier for the great caliphate.

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CHAPTER 20

H
aving left on her fictional doctor’s appointment, Elouise struggled to find parking in the road. A large house on the corner plot was being renovated, and bricks and building materials were piled high in the dirt road. She wished that she had Harry’s jeep as she carefully edged the left wheels of the car onto the sloping mound of building sand. The driver’s side of the car was uncomfortably close to the road. Worried about the core stability of the vehicle, she gingerly slid out of her seat, gently pushed the car door closed and locked it. With a sigh of relief—her feet now on solid ground— Elouise walked toward the house adjacent to the construction site. The metal gate was covered in thick dust, and she sneezed when the chowkidar opened it for her.

A young servant girl wearing her hair in a very long braid ran toward Elouise and smiled. “Madam Elouise, so long time not coming to see Bua ji. She be very happy.”

“You’re right, Deepa, it has been too long. Is she resting?”

“No problem, wake up if sleeping. Very happy to see you.” She led the way through the side entrance of the house, which was in dire need of a coat of paint. The passage was lined with old black-and-white photographs of every important occasion and family events. Elouise loved studying the photos taken by Harry’s great aunt, recalling the stories Harry had told her about Pushpa’s exploits.

She had been quite an adventurer in her day. Her brother, Jashpreet, gave her a Franka Rolfix camera, which he had bought on a business trip to the States, when she was seventeen years old. Pushpa had been enthralled and became a proficient photographer, much to her mother’s despair. She had accompanied the men on their hunting trips and attended every polo match, her Rolfix at the ready.