The Two Krishnas (30 page)

“Business meetings,” Pooja answered and despite herself, felt as if she was fabricating this.

Sonali’s left brow arched up suspiciously like an arrowhead. “On the weekend?”

“Some kind of big conference or something.”

“The
whole
weekend?”

“
O-pho!
” Pooja sighed, exasperated, and moving the decorative pillow onto her lap, sat across from her. “You know how these corporate things are. He’s a vice president.”

“No,” Sonali said, shaking her head delicately and taking a quick sip of the
nimbu pani
. “I don’t know.”

“Well, how is it?” Pooja asked.

Sonali gave, though so lightly as to be almost imperceptible, that upward toss of her head and downward twist of the mouth, to show her displeasure. “It’s okay,” she said, and she sipped some more.

“Well, anyway, it’s all work, work, work. And it’s all the way in Irvine. Who wants to go there? He asked me to go with him but what will I do there, sitting around in some hotel room while he’s busy? Watch TV all day?
Nah, nah
, better I stay here, in my home, and not get in the way.”

Sonali shrugged and gave her a look to indicate she was not entirely convinced. “Uh— any bitings?”

Pooja almost sprang up to bring something—yellow sticks of
gathias,
a mound of
chevdo,
cocktail samosas that she could have easily microwaved—but something in her stalled. The implication in Sonali’s demeanor, that there must be some deception at work, and the virulent talent she possessed for injecting such suspicion just by averting her eyes from you when you answered her, bristled Pooja. Suddenly she wanted her out of here. That she should feel this strongly about it—since by now, she felt she should have grown used to Sonali’s antics—surprised her.

“Unfortunately, right now I don’t have much of anything. Just threw out so much that had become stale. Anyway, I’d better get back to my orders.”

Sonali twisted her face. She sucked down the rest of the
nimbu pani
, placed the glass squarely on the coffee table, letting it form a ring of water at the base, and paused for a brief moment before looking up dreamily and saying, “You know, Sanju couldn’t stand to be away from me for a moment. He couldn’t do without me at all. Even when he had to go somewhere, my God, you should have seen him, just begging me to go with him, such a child.” She shuddered, as if the memory had enveloped her with goose bumps. “Ah, but that kind of love…where can you find that kind of love these days?”

Pooja felt the urge to seize her and throw her out but she sat there, her hands folded neatly on her laps and did her best to ignore Sonali’s insinuation. Instead she imagined Sonali’s stupid bag torn to bits and lying in some filthy gutter.

“So how are your moods these days?”

“Moods? There’s nothing wrong with my moods!” Pooja said.
Why did I ever confide in her?
she admonished herself, remembering that afternoon over chai and the damn
Cosmopolitan
magazine that Sonali used to diagnose all sorts of chemical imbalances in her.

Sonali shook her head and clicked her tongue, determined not to be dissuaded by the sudden denial. “A man can’t handle being overwhelmed by a woman’s emotions. They can be so…fragile, you know?”

“Really, Sonali, where are you going with this?”

Sonali delivered her twisted, lopsided smile, the one that made her look like a snake that had swallowed up a juicy rat in one lavish slurp. “Oh, Pooja. Men can build great monuments. Fight epic wars. They can do so much, but only, as they say, if the right woman is standing behind them. A strong woman,” she said, and her chest billowed out proudly. “You have heard this, no? ‘Behind every great man, there is a great woman.’ They need us, you see, to be their pillars of strength. But they cannot deal with us showing them our need, our weakness, holding them accountable for our feelings. It drives them away.”

Pooja was used to her brand of sarcasm, her vulgar way of showing off, making others feel like they were at a disadvantage to her, so why now was she so affected by it? Was it because Rahul wasn’t around to deride Sonali and she no longer needed to balance him? Or was it because she had sensed awkwardness in Rahul this time, something she couldn’t put her finger on but felt as surely as her love for him?

She was standing before she even realized it, her body shaking. “I really have to get back to work now, Sonali.”

“Of course, of course,” replied Sonali, unruffled and planting her sunglasses back on. “One must keep busy. It’s the only way to run away from your problems without hurting others more.”

* * *

Brunch at Lavender, overlooking a golf course spotted with oak trees. They were seated in a sun-dappled patio dotted with terracotta pots of lavender, under a sweeping canopy of wisteria blossoms. Atif opted for the shaded seat, typically avoiding the sun, the voice of his mother still ripe in his mind after all these years: “Stay out of the sun! You want to turn dark like a rag?”

Platoons of liveried servers waltzed around the large open space, appearing out of nowhere to top off glasses with cucumber water from glass beakers, take orders and clear tables. Atif ordered mimosas for both of them even though Rahul had insisted only on water, part of him shutting down systematically as it rejoined the world outside of their private bungalow.

Surrounded by couples and at least two families with exceptionally well-behaved children, Atif couldn’t help noticing that they were not only the sole male pair, but they were also the only non-white people. The only reminder of the outside world was the
Los Angeles Times
, which someone was holding up and reading. The front page screamed of yet another suicide bombing. An insurgent had detonated himself and taken six Israeli civilians with him at a café in Hebron. Here, the paper with its clamorous headline felt offensive and unsettling. Although both Rahul and Atif noticed its incongruence, neither one of them commented on it at first, preferring to ignore the disaster.

When something catastrophic happened to someone else,
thought Atif,
there was always more than one emotion.
The first was naturally sympathy, followed by feelings of karmic solecism, of being spared, and finally, the morbid fear that your good luck would also run out soon enough. Then one just became jaded to the problems of others and turning away from them became the only way to remain hopeful about your own life.

While perusing the menu, Rahul noticed a suited, middle-aged Mexican man waiting outside of what appeared to be the manager’s office across the patio. He immediately recognized the executive look. The way he stood, stoic and respectful, his hands held together as he waited anticipatorily, the large pager and cell phone holstered like a weapon on his belt, the starched shirt and nondescript tie, a large leather portfolio tucked under his arm, half unzipped, so that brochures and documents peeked out from the edges. He wanted to vomit.

“I think I’ll tempt fate further, order the loin of pork,” Atif joked. “This Muslim’s ready to take his rebellion all the way.” He noticed Rahul’s distraction. “Rahul? You know him?”

“No, no. Just looks like…” he trailed off, turning back to him with a smile. “Sure, go right ahead. It’s maybe a little late to secure your place in paradise anyway.”

“Who cares about carousing with the beautiful
houris
, right?”

“At the rate these savages are going, there might not be much room up there.”

Atif glanced towards the newspaper and back at him. “Savages?”

“Anyway, let’s not talk about this.”

“Well, it’s tragic for everyone involved.”

He looked up from the menu at Atif. “You’re not justifying their actions, are you?”

For a moment Atif was uncertain who he was defending in Rahul’s eyes and decided it was better just to drop it. “Oh, I don’t even know why we’re letting this interrupt our time,” Atif said, shutting the menu decisively. Their server appeared at the table like a genie, offering to tell them about the specials, but sensing he might have interrupted a serious discussion, he offered to come back in a few minutes

“No, no, go on,” Rahul said to him, still looking at Atif fixedly. The server rattled off some items, most of them creatively using lavender in one way or another. Once they had ordered and the server had ambled away, Rahul said, “What did you mean by that?”

Atif sighed. “It’s war, Rahul. There are no clear sides.”

“You’re hardly a fundamentalist!” He gave an incredulous laugh.

“Of course not. But I feel that all lives are important. I feel badly for all the deaths that are happening, not just some of them. Some lives don’t count more than others, Rahul.”

“Yes, but there’s a clear difference here. These are terrorists.”

“Others may think of them as freedom-fighters.”

Rahul groaned.

“Oh, Rahul, we may all just be terrorists in the end,” he said, clearing his glass of water to the side and leaning forward. “Nine-eleven. Fifteen of those nineteen hijackers came from Saudi Arabia. A fact. And you must also remember that in that country, for some fifty years or so, it’s the U.S. that has supported a very oppressive regime. And for what? Guaranteed oil. Isn’t it arguable then, that all of us, people like you, who have failed to oppose this relationship, everyone who has supported this foreign policy, is also responsible for the oppression of those people? For helping keep those despots in power? For those poor people, we’re the terrorists.”

“So, now what? Because our foreign policy is screwed up, we have to abide by suicide bombers who go around killing innocent people?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m not condoning it, God, no,” he said. “I just think it’s important to see things from another perspective. Suicide is wrong, period. But martyrdom, on the other hand, is heroic. One man’s suicide bomber is another man’s martyr, his freedom fighter, heroically seeking to liberate his people from oppression and the occupation. See, when you look at it that way, what’s the difference?”

“These guys go into supermarkets, Atif. Into cafes, buses, public places, blow themselves up and take mothers, fathers, children with them—”

“No difference!” Atif said, getting more vexed. “Israeli troops who enter Palestinian villages also destroy houses and kill innocent people. So how’s it any different? Sure, they’re after suspected terrorists but some of those people may just be innocent civilians. Mothers and fathers and children die there too, Rahul. The only difference, if there is any, between the two is that one party is state-sanctioned and the others are acting on their own, clandestine agents who don’t have either the infrastructure or the government backing to fight for what they believe in. But in the end, they’re all resistance fighters trying to protect what they love.”

“Terrorism? An act of love?” Rahul balked.

“When you think of love, what do you think of?”

But Rahul was growing agitated. He had already gotten hold of a napkin, and unbeknownst to himself, had started tearing it to little bits. “This is ridiculous!”

“No, indulge me, please. When you love somebody, you’ll do anything for them, right? There are no lengths to which you won’t go to protect your loved ones. You’ll even give up your own life because you can’t live without them. Your very existence depends on them. If anyone harms them, threatens to destroy them, you will harm them too, and there will be no boundaries, moral or ethical,” he said emphatically, “that you will not cross to protect what you love. Think of your son, your wife…me.”

Rahul stiffened.

“You must think about this kind of love when you think about those that are willing to give up their lives for their way of life to protect their mosques, their temples, their families. We are talking about old cultures here, Rahul. In this country, anything that’s what, fifty years old, is branded historical? We are talking of civilizations that go back centuries, thousands of years. So, you see, in the end, that’s what everyone’s fighting for, isn’t it? What they love. You must think about this kind of love when you hear about the jihad and the suicide bombers. Think about how you will do anything to protect those that you love. There are no compromises when it comes to love and war.”

When the silence fell between them, they heard the music of birds, normally drowned in the world they had come from. This was the kind of conversation Rahul could never have with Pooja and which he hungered for. It was the first time for many things, Rahul thought. The first time Rahul knew that Atif compulsively washed his feet before climbing into bed, an image that would stay with him forever; the first time they had been able to present themselves as a couple to the world, taste a public life; the first time they could understand each other outside the scope of their relationship.

It became increasingly clear to Atif that anything that challenged the status quo was a personal affront to Rahul, even if it was rebellion against a tyrannical regime.

Rahul had desecrated the napkin by now. Atif, in a gesture of peace, slipped out the napkin from under his own glass, and offered it to him. Rahul managed to smile. “Your passion,” he said, “is one of the things I like most about you. So, did you bring your checkered headdress with you?”

“A
kufiyyeh?
No, but if it turns you on, I can think of a million ways in which we can incorporate it the next time,” he smiled wickedly. “You know what I find interesting?” he asked, tilting his head to one side. “I come from a faith that considers it a sin to depict God in any kind of image. You will never find, in a mosque, or in a Muslim’s home, any kind of painting of Allah, like that of Jesus or Rama or Krishna. Because we believe God’s beyond human comprehension. So Allah becomes intimidating in a sense. He’s beyond human traits, unreachable, never completely understood, and in a sense, there’s purity there. Yet, strangely, Muslims have always been polygamous. And history shows, arguably, that the Islamic world has been notorious for homosexual relationships.