The World We Found (12 page)

His eyes filled with involuntary tears as he ran his tongue around his mouth. “Hey,” he called, signaling to the nearby waiter, his voice shaking with outrage.

“Yes, sir?”

“What’s this? A fly in my teacup?” he spluttered. “What kind of a third-rate joint do you run here?”

The waiter eyed the saucer. “Sorry, sir. You want a new cup? I bringing hot-pot.”

He could still feel the sensation, the violation of something soft and furry in his mouth. “Are you mad? You think I would trust another cup in this cheap place?”

The owner of the restaurant, who until now had stared resolutely out of the open windows, now moved his bulk out from behind the cash register and shuffled over. “Su che? What’s the problem? Ramdas, what happened?”

“This gent here says fly landed in his cup, sir.”

The owner made a dismissive gesture with his beefy hand. “So? Flies are everywhere. I should give up my restaurant and become a fly-catcher instead? This is Mumbai, my friend. More flies than people here. How can I help if one decides to share your tea?”

Iqbal rose to his feet. “Listen, the insect was at the bottom of my cup. It didn’t just fly into it.”

The man frowned. “Impossible. We run the cleanest kitchen here.” He snapped his fingers at the waiter. “Ramdas. Bring this customer another chai.”

“That only I was offering, sir.”

“I’d rather die than to drink your tea.” Iqbal’s words came out more aggressively than he’d intended.

The owner’s eyes narrowed. “Sir, then you please leave. No insults tolerated in my restaurant. Otherwise, I’m not responsible.”

Iqbal felt his cheeks burn. “Don’t threaten me, you . . .”

The waiter placed himself in the middle of the two men. “Please, sir. You leave now. No charge for tea. Just please to go.”

Iqbal allowed himself to be eased out of the restaurant. Out on the street, he glared at the owner one last time, but even as he did so, he could feel the anger and outrage leaking out of him. Instead, as he walked away, a feeling of defeat and melancholy gripped him. The promise of a golden afternoon flattened into humiliation.

They would’ve never treated Adish this way. Of this he was sure. He remembered how the owner of the restaurant had half-risen from his stool when Adish and he had entered, how the man had wandered up to them halfway through their meal and asked if their food was in tip-top shape. If it had been Adish who had found an insect in his tea, the owner would’ve practically prostrated on the ground in apology.

In fact, there would never have been a fly in Adish’s tea. Iqbal slowed down as the thought struck him. Of course. It was a setup. They probably didn’t want any Muslim customers. As long as he was there with Adish, he was tolerated. But the fact that he’d dared to reenter on his own . . . He stopped himself. Saala, you’re going mad, he scolded himself. They probably serve a hundred Muslim customers a day. A real persecution complex you’re developing.

He continued with this new narrative as he walked, pleased with himself for being fair-minded, tried to douse the flames of his outrage, even tried to interject some humor into the whole episode. But one thing he knew beyond dispute—Adish would’ve never been insulted by the owner as he had been. And that recognition caked his mood, dimmed the open-ended feeling of the day, made him feel failed and weak, as he did most days.

And another thought flew abruptly into his mind and darkened his mood: the fact that he had told Adish about Mumtaz’s violation. Why this bothered him so, he didn’t know. It was not as if he distrusted Adish or was afraid that he would gossip about this. He had no doubt that his secret was safe with him. Besides, they had no friends in common.

No, what bothered him, he realized, was himself. His own weakness. How easily he had been lulled, how easily he had stepped into the cradle of friendship and allowed himself to be rocked to sleep. He had always believed that he would go to his grave without telling another soul about what had happened to Mumtaz. He had wanted to confide in Zoha a million times, especially when she would make a scathing comment about how he’d married off his sister at sixteen, her voice sharp with contempt and indignation. But he had let Zoha believe the worst of him rather than betray Mumtaz’s trust. His little sister had suffered enough—he wanted nothing to graze her skin now, not even the nibbles of Zoha’s pity.

But Adish. Adish had managed to wrest his secret out of him. How had he done so? Not by bullying him or forcing him. Instead, Adish had merely touched the lance of his puzzlement to his heart, had let his bafflement—and maybe his disappointment—show in his eyes, and, bas, the words had tumbled out of his mouth. Was his ego really that fragile? His need to appease, to demonstrate that he was a man and not a monster, that strong? Did Adish’s good opinion, after over twenty-five years of silence, still mean so much to him? Iqbal felt his body go stiff with anger and self-loathing at the thought. Saala, coward, he cursed himself.

And then his anger changed directions and he thought, Damn Zoha. Damn her for putting me in this position. If she had just told the others flat-out that she couldn’t go with them to America. That would’ve been the end of the matter, bas, book closed, case khatam, finis, finito. But no. Whatever she had told the two women was enough to keep hope dripping in the back of their throats. And so they had sent Adish. What was that name they used to call him in college? Iqbal scratched the tip of his nose as he tried to recall. Mr. Finisher, or something like that. He remembered what Laleh’s father had once said about Adish: “If this boy had been alive then, he could’ve made the British give India to Gandhi twenty years earlier. Hell, he could’ve even convinced Gandhi to give India back to the bloody British.” No wonder they’d sent Adish, like a bloodhound, to find him, track him down, make him agree to their preposterous plan. Did they have any idea how Muslim women were being treated in America these days? What if some pink-faced officer decided to get fresh with his wife at customs or immigration? Every day at the mosque there was a new story of how Muslims were being harassed and humiliated in America. Not just at the airport, either. Laleh and Kavita in their Western clothes, their jeans and T-shirts, would be fine. But what about his Zoha? Did any of them even stop to think about this? Armaiti’s dying was sad, yes—he had prayed to Allah, praised be His name, when he’d heard the news—but did that mean that his family had to die, also?

Without intending to, his feet had taken him to the train station from where he caught the train home every day. He felt a moment’s sadness when he realized this. Arre, Feet, he said to himself, even you have betrayed me. So much for my plans to go to a movie or to the seashore. Chalo, I will heed your advice and go home to my wife.

By the time he climbed up the creaking stairs that led to his apartment, the failure of the afternoon had crystallized into rage. He noticed immediately that instead of looking happy at his early return, Zoha looked surprised and annoyed. “Kya hai, bibi?” he taunted. “Not happy to see your husband?”

She shrugged wordlessly and this provoked him more than any words could have.

“Expecting someone else? Have I interrupted your plans?”

Zoha turned to face him. “Iqbal, please. Don’t start on me today. I have a headache.”

He smiled mirthlessly. “Me, too. I had a headache, too. His name is Adish. But I got rid of him.”

She looked at him closely this time. “What are you talking about?”

Finally, he had her. Her full attention. It made him feel a bit giddy. “He came,” he said. “To see me. At the shop. About”—he waved his hand dismissively—“the whole Armaiti affair.”

Did he imagine the light that flared in her eyes? He couldn’t be sure.

“And?” Zoha said cautiously, after he fell silent.

Iqbal raised an eyebrow. “And? I explained things to him, naturally. Man to man. Made him understand the impossibility of the request. Bas, that’s all.”

He could see the emotions wrestling on Zoha’s face, noticed how she tried to make her face turn neutral. How much she cares, he thought, and it took his breath away. “And?” she said finally.

“Again,
and
? And nothing. He agreed. Saw the error of his ways. Asked my forgiveness. Promised he would never trouble us again. Said he would handle his wife.”

Zoha gave a short laugh. “As if.”

“What?”

“As if Adish can handle Laleh.”

He looked at her with contemptuous eyes. “Not all men let their wives sit on their heads like I’ve let you do.”

She opened her mouth and then shut it. They stared at each other for a few seconds and then she said softly, “Do all men steal their wives’ cell phones? Did you ask Adish that?”

His hand itched in sudden fury and he shoved it into the pocket of his pajama. He would not rise to her bait. He would not. Besides, it was done. He had won. Adish would never pester them again. He forced his mouth into a yawn. “What time will dinner be?”

Her eyes were dull. “Same time as every night.”

A wave of pity and self-recrimination rose in him and he pushed it down. “Okay. I’ll go visit with Ammi for a few hours.”

“Iqbal.”

“What?”

“Is this the way . . . is nothing else possible?”

He knew what she was asking, and for a moment he was tempted. She would only be gone for a few weeks, after all. And he knew that if he permitted himself to yield even a tiny bit, his body would be flooded with grief at the thought of Armaiti dying. Something in him softened, but then he remembered the fly in the tea, the restaurant owner’s rudeness, Adish’s easy lie to Murad, his betrayal of his sister’s secret. Strong. He needed to be strong. His faith required him to resist temptation. And what Zoha was offering—the softening, the laying down of arms—was the most tempting thing of all.

He pretended to misunderstand the question. “You want to go out for dinner instead of cooking tonight?”

He saw the hurt in her eyes as she turned away. A sharp feeling tore through his chest as he left the apartment, and he had no idea if it was grief or satisfaction.

L
aleh was waiting by the door when Adish got home that evening. “I tried calling you the whole day,” she said as soon as he walked in. “Why didn’t you answer? What happened?”

“Hello, darling,” he mimicked. “How was your day? Did you have a hard day at the office? Should your loving wife make you a cup of coffee? Or offer you a chilled beer?”

Laleh looked chastened. “Okay, sorry,” she said. Then she frowned. “But you don’t know what’s it been like, waiting all day. Why the hell didn’t you answer the phone?”

He shook his head in exasperation as he ducked past her and headed toward the bedroom. “I swear, Laleh, you’re worse than the children ever were. Can a man not even change his clothes before he faces the bloody Inquisition?”

“Of course,” Laleh conceded but he noticed that she followed him in. She perched on the bed and waited until he emerged from the bathroom.

“So how does he look?” she asked eagerly.

Despite himself, he laughed. “You’re a pit bull,” he said. “Relentless.” Noticing the bright anticipation on his wife’s face, he sighed to himself. Laleh was not going to like what she was about to hear.

“Listen,” he said. “Do both of us a favor. Go pour me a beer. And pour yourself a glass, too.”

Her face tensed. “It’s not good news?”

He exhaled sharply and grabbed her by her shoulders, forcing her to her feet and spinning her around. “Go. I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

But in the bedroom, he lingered, trying to work out how much to tell Laleh about what Iqbal had told him. He knew that without hearing the full story, she would not understand his promise to Iqbal to leave him alone. But Iqbal had said he had not shared the story of Mumtaz’s humiliation even with his own wife. What right did he have to share Iqbal’s secret with his?

When he entered the large living room, Laleh was sitting on the window seat overlooking the sea. She had turned off the lights, and under a darkening sky he could see the blue Philips neon light across the water. He went and sat down beside her, took a long gulp of his beer, set the glass down between them, and then took her hand in both of his. “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry. The answer is no. He doesn’t want her to go.”

In a reflexive gesture, Laleh pulled her hand out of his. “He can’t stop her. She wants to go, Adish. I told you. I could read it on her face. Maybe I can talk to him . . .”

“No.” His voice was louder than he’d intended, more emphatic, and he modulated it before he spoke again. “No, Lal. That’s not a good idea. Besides, I . . . I promised him that—”

“Promised him what?”

“That we would not trouble him again. That we would not interfere with his life.”

She let out a small cry. “You can’t. You can’t speak for me.” Laleh’s eyes blazed in the dark. “Funny how you always make promises that involve me behind my back. An old habit of yours.”

He felt a reciprocal anger flare in him. “Funny how you always twist everything. You’re a great one for clinging to the past, Laleh. It’s one of your least attractive traits.”

“You had no right, Adish. You’re not the one who has to face Armaiti and her disappointment.” Her face contorted with emotion. “My God, what kind of a monster has Iqbal turned into? To refuse a sick woman’s final wish? Did you tell him—that Armaiti is dying?”