The World We Found (24 page)

The clarifying principle: she was not the only one who was dying. She looked around the beach and saw how it would appear a hundred years from now. That little girl in the red swimsuit doing cartwheels on this beach would be a pile of bones in a cemetery somewhere. The descendants of the seagulls whose cries sounded alternatively like shrieks of laughter and cries of complaint would all be dead, even the progeny of the little chicks who were bobbing up and down on one foot in front of her. All that would be left of the hunched Asian woman they had seen earlier would be a brownish-yellow photograph that a grandchild might someday find in an old trunk. Every fish that currently swam in the water would be dead and the seashells that she was crunching under her feet like crisp autumn leaves would have become sand that another child would use to build a new castle. Only the ocean, the ocean would still roar, magnificent and proud, and that, too, only if this dreadful species that she belonged to didn’t figure out a way to screw it up completely.

Her thoughts did not depress her. Rather, all seemed startlingly clear: it was a finite planet, with finite resources. Someone—she—had to go to make room for new life. Death was simply a way to sweep the planet clean.

She couldn’t decide if she was being silly or wise, sentimental or profound. But for the first time since she’d received the news of her dying, she felt at peace.

She wanted to share this insight with her daughter, give Diane something she could remember and hold on to during the hard, cold months that were inevitably to come. Something pure and beautiful to make up for last night. She looked at Diane’s clear, sharp profile, and as if on cue Diane said, “What?”

But what came out was simply, “It’s peaceful here. I feel—peaceful.”

“Good.” Diane squeezed her hand. “I’m so glad.”

And Armaiti had a great feeling of letdown, as if she had failed in some important parental duty.

“Shall we walk some more?” Diane murmured, her hand still resting on top of her mother’s.

“In a moment. You want to walk ahead, baby?”

Diane leapt to her feet. “Just for a few minutes,” she said. “I’ll look for you on the way back, okay?”

She nodded and followed her daughter’s jaunty, self-assured walk down the beach. After all this time, it still took her breath away, that this beautiful, confident girl was hers. Armaiti smiled to herself. Last night was the closest she’d come to giving in to Diane, questioning her right to live on her own terms. But she had no such doubts now. The clarifying principle made clear the impermanence of things. It was an illusion, all of it—this life that they clung to, this earth that they battled over—a collective exercise in self-deception. The world was perishable. She wasn’t the only one who was dying. Even love, that great, cherished human commodity, even love was not forever or immortal. It was stupid and dishonest to pretend that it was. In order to live, love needed to be remembered. In seventy years or so, there would be no one left on earth who would remember her.

Diane had disappeared into the haze of the morning’s sunlight and Armaiti looked away to face the ocean again, and as she did, she felt something come loose inside her head. That’s how she remembered the feeling later, as if a mechanical part, a knob, say, had come loose inside her head and had caused instant dizziness and blurriness of vision. The world around her, so sharp just a second ago, disappeared and became a fuzzy image cast by an old, creaking projector. Her own feet as she sat on the sand, were out of focus. The ocean lost its distinctive shape and form, gave up the individuality of each wave to become a diffused, amorphous, gray-blue mass.

The inclination was to panic, of course. Every cell, every electrical impulse in her body was ready for battle, to go into overdrive. And Armaiti gave in to her fear, caught in its undertow. She blinked furiously and shut her eyes but each time she opened them the world remained unclear. She looked around to see if Diane was heading back, but the beach looked deserted and the few figures on it seemed unrecognizable. Even in her panic, the irony registered—a few minutes ago she had followed her daughter’s walk with her eyes. Now, she wouldn’t be able to distinguish Diane’s figure from those of strangers. As the moments ticked by, she fought to control her fear. She would not cry for help, she wouldn’t. It would frighten Diane to see a crowd of people gathered around her. Besides, Diane would be back this way in a little while. Maybe her vision would right itself by then. Even if it didn’t, even if it took a little longer, it didn’t matter. Diane would help her up, and the two of them would make their way back to the house. It was not as if she were blind or anything. She could see. This was not much different than the blurriness that occurred after the doctor dilated her pupils during an eye exam. Maybe it was a side effect of the steroids. Or even the changes in pressure from flying. It had been a choppy flight—maybe her ears were still clogged.

But even as she came up with comforting scenarios, another thought swept through her mind like backwash, the dark knowledge gleaned from late-night readings about her condition on the Internet. This is it, she thought. The slow, relentless beginning of the end.

Chapter 20

N
ishta had flung the hood of her hijab to uncover her head as soon as they’d left her neighborhood. After she and Mumtaz got out of the cab in front of the Mahalaxmi temple, she willed herself to not lower the veil again, despite the strangeness of bright sunshine prickling her face.

Disoriented, shaky, unused to the sun in her eyes, she held Mumtaz’s hand as they crossed the busy street and headed toward Tirupathi Apartments, where she knew Adish and Laleh would be waiting. Despite the crowd, she spotted Laleh immediately and waved to her. “Hey, girl,” Laleh beamed as they approached her.

“Hi,” Nishta said. She felt breathless, her head reeling from the novelty of being in an unfamiliar neighborhood, of standing on the sidewalk chatting to Laleh as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She looked around. “Did Adish not come?”

“He’s here somewhere. You know how he is—can’t stand still for even a second.” Laleh extended her hand. “Hi, Mumtaz. I’m Laleh. I can’t believe how long it’s been. You were a kid when we last saw you.”

A man was hurrying over to them and Nishta saw that it was Adish—sweet, gentle Adish, looking the same as ever, just a little grayer and more plump, but with the same smiling eyes and the fleshy lips that gave him a slightly open-mouthed look. She started to say hello and promptly burst into tears.

Adish looked shocked. “Arre, Nishta. Don’t cry, yaar. What’s the matter?”

Laleh threw an understanding look her way. “He always has this effect on women,” she said drolly to Mumtaz, who chuckled dutifully.

Adish moved to put a comforting arm around Nishta and then hesitated, as if her cream-colored burkha made this simple, informal gesture difficult. “It’s okay, Nishta,” he murmured. “You are safe here.”

“I’m all right.” She smiled, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Really. I just . . . it’s so good to see you, Adish.”

He grinned, the dimples making deep grooves into his pudgy cheeks. “My pleasure, yaar.”

Beside her, Mumtaz shifted. “What time is the appointment? We can’t be late.”

“We’re in good shape,” he replied. “But I want to go over a few things, achha? Some questions they will ask.” He pivoted toward Nishta. “Basically, they want to make sure you’re not going to overstay your visa, okay? So anything you can say to convince them you’re coming back is good. What papers did you bring? Bank statements? Tax returns?”

“I brought this.” Thrusting her hand into the pocket of her robe, Nishta fished out a business card for Ahmed Electronics. “This is all I could come up with—on short notice.” She did not mention that their bank balance was small enough to be inconsequential in establishing her motives for returning to India.

Adish blanched. He glanced quickly at Laleh and then recovered. “Okay,” he said. “Well, we have the e-mail from Armaiti and the letter from her doctor. That should help.”

Nishta smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It will be enough.” She glanced at the entrance. “Should I make my way in?”

“Yeah. They’ll take you by bus to the embassy. Once you’re there, things should move pretty fast. We’ll be here when you return, okay?”

Laleh stepped up and squeezed Nishta’s shoulder. “Stay calm,” she said. “Good luck.”

Twenty minutes later, the shuttle dropped her off at the embassy. She sat on a wooden bench until it was her turn. Nishta’s heart was pounding as she was directed toward an elderly immigration officer. This is it, she said to herself. It’s all up to you. Everything ends here if you don’t get the visa.

“Good morning,” she said brightly, into the glass partition that divided them.

The man looked up at her briefly. “Morning,” he mumbled. “May I ask the reason for your visit to the United States?”

“I have a friend who is very sick.” She slid the note from Armaiti’s doctor under the glass and stood silently as he reviewed it. When he looked up, his face was impassive. “How long will you be away?”

“Maybe three weeks or so.” Her voice shook and she hoped he hadn’t caught it.

The American nodded, gazing at her appraisingly as he did so. Nishta forced herself to look him in the eye. “You travelin’ alone?” he asked.

“With two of my friends. We were all in college together.” She casually mentioned the name of the prestigious South Bombay college she’d attended and the fact that she’d majored in French. She saw the man’s eyes widen slightly at the last detail. “So, you parlez-vous français?” he said.

She smiled. “Oui, je sais parler français.”

“Indeed.” The officer leafed through some other documents and then looked up. “Here’s the bottom line,” he said. “I don’t see any evidence of your finances here. I need some sort of guarantee that you’ll return to India after your stay.”

There it was. Her chance to get it right. Nishta drew herself up to her full height and cocked an eyebrow. “Well, my husband and I are not rich, if that’s what you mean. My friends are buying my plane ticket. But my husband is here. We were college sweethearts. And he’s here in India. That’s your guarantee.”

She saw the man’s face break into a startled smile, as if he had just tasted something sweet. And then he blushed. In that moment, she knew that she had won. She had just written her ticket out of India.

Her performance, her conjuring and channeling of her former self, surprised even herself. And it made her hopeful as she exited the embassy. She had believed that the old Nishta was dead, smothered under the weight of the Zoha she’d become. But Nishta had come roaring back and had not been satisfied until she’d earned—yes, earned—her U.S. visa. Had not relaxed until the officer had stamped her passport and said, “Good luck with your visit, my dear.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to look at her when she emerged from the compound and onto the street; three faces gazed at her in anticipation, eager to be elated, prepared for disappointment, ready to take their cues from her. She savored her moment of power. Then she smiled and said, “Got it,” and Adish hooted and Lal hugged her and Mumtaz stood proudly, tears glittering in her eyes. “Congratuations, bhabi,” she said.

Nishta touched her right hand to her forehead in a gesture of thanks. “Without you . . .” she began, but Mumtaz brushed her thanks away.

“Anything for you, Zoha jaan,” she said.

“Kavita called while you were in,” Lal broke in. “She wants to know if we can all meet for lunch.”

Nishta shook her head in regret. “We can’t,” she said. “I have to pick up my niece in a few hours. And traffic is so bad . . .”

Adish checked his watch. “I’ll get you home with time to spare,” he said. “I promise. Come on. It’s Kavita’s birthday the day after. You will be my present to her.”

H
alf an hour later, they were sitting at the Hotel Marine Plaza, overlooking the sea. Nishta stared at the water greedily. She and Iqbal hardly ever went to the seaside anymore. She leaned out of the large window, taking deep breaths, inhaling the moist, salty air.

“Remember how we used to go to the seaside for hours?” Kavita said to her before turning to Mumtaz. “We used to bunk classes and come here instead,” she explained.

“And yet all of you were good students,” Mumtaz said. There was a breathless quality to her voice that Nishta recognized as the eternal tone of the little sister looking up to her big brother’s friends. How unimaginable, how foreign we must’ve all seemed to Iqbal’s family the few times we visited him, she thought. How brave Iqbal had been in taking his bohemian, unconventional college friends to meet his conservative parents. She felt her heart spasm at the memory of those days.

Adish had excused himself soon after they were seated and now he walked back to their table, talking into his iPhone. “It’s Joseph,” he whispered to Laleh as she looked at him inquiringly. “I called him. I just want to know what dates are available.” He sat at the table and wrote on the paper napkin as he spoke into the phone. “Okay, bossie, keep looking. I want a few more options, okay? Phone me later tonight. Ciao.”

He turned to face Mumtaz and Nishta. “That was my travel agent. He gave me a few possible flights.” He looked at the napkin, scratched something out and looked up again. “How are we going to get you out of the house, Nishta? Is there any way to get through to Iqbal? To appeal to him? I hate doing this surreptitiously, yaar.”