The World We Found (26 page)

T
wo o’clock and here he was, at the window seat in their living room, staring out at the dark waters of the sea and the blinking neon lights in the distance. He’d gotten out of bed a half hour ago, afraid of waking Laleh up because of his restless tossing and turning. The house was peaceful at this hour, the children safe in their bedrooms, his wife sleeping silently in theirs. Everything I love in this world is here, within my reach, Adish thought, and a soft joy came over him. But the next second, the dread that had woken him out of a deep sleep punctured his contentment.

He had woken up a half hour ago thinking about the hours and days after Nishta would leave on a plane with his wife and Kavita. Was there a way to keep Iqbal from ever finding out their involvement in getting Nishta out of the house? Probably not. So he had to figure out what Iqbal’s reaction would be when he found out that he had betrayed him. Broken a promise he had made, after having looked him straight in the eye when he made it. What would Iqbal do? How far would he go to restore his sense of honor, to avenge the betrayal? That was the question he needed to answer: How far would Iqbal go? Adish thought over the possibilities. A cursory Internet search by Iqbal would reveal the name and location of Adish’s business. A look in the phone book would yield his home address. What if Iqbal showed up here? On an evening when he was not home? When perhaps the children were home alone? What would he do? What if, dear God, what if Ferzin was alone at home?

Adish felt his heart pounding and forced himself to take some deep breaths. He tried to remember all the details of his lunch with Iqbal, sifted through the memory of his talk with Iqbal for any clues that could predict his future behavior. He recalled that Iqbal had done nothing to the pervert who had molested Mumtaz. In the face of that grave an injury, he had kept quiet, been passive, had instead scuttled out of the neighborhood like a bloody mouse. Iqbal had always been a milquetoast, Adish thought, and the white beard couldn’t cover the fact that he had a wobbly, weak chin.

Adish laughed as he realized what he was doing: reducing the threat of Iqbal by emasculating him. Who the hell was brave in the days following the 1993 riots? he asked himself. When all it took was one wrong move, a wrong look or word—hell, if you cleared your throat wrong you could end up dead. And suddenly Adish’s cheeks burned with embarrassment at the rise of a long-buried memory.

South Bombay, where he lived, worked, and played had been mostly immune to the savage hatreds that had gripped much of the city, but upon Lal’s insistence, he had stayed home from work for a few days. But on the fourth day, restless and bored, he had announced that he was going for a short walk. He had left his compound and headed toward the sea, which meant walking past the small slum on the way to the water. As he approached the slum he heard yelling and came upon a group of six men who were beating and kicking a young man who lay writhing in the dirt. He stopped, stunned. The first thing he realized was that the crowd of onlookers who usually congregated during any street fight was missing. In fact, the street was preternaturally calm and empty. Adish recognized a couple of the men, ne’er-do-wells who hung around the neighborhood and ran the occasional errand for him. “Ae!” he shouted out, all the authority of his class in his voice. “Stop. What the hell are you doing?”

They turned at the sound of his voice but their feet kept up their deadly dance. The man on the ground screamed in pain. Adish saw something gleam in the hands of one of the men. It was a knife. Adish saw something glint in all their eyes. It was malice and a kind of insolence he had never seen before. He shivered.

One of the men reluctantly tore himself out of the group and walked up to Adish. “What are you doing here, seth?” he asked dully. “No place for you to be.”

Despite his fear, Adish felt his temper spike. “I’m going to the sea,” he said gesturing. “Is that illegal? Or do you thugs now own the streets, also?”

The man smiled humorlessly. “We own nothing, seth. We poor people. It’s these Muslim dogs who own everything.” He spat on the ground.

Out of the corner of his eye, Adish noticed that the others had stopped beating the man on the ground as they listened to what was transpiring between him and the man who stood in front of him. His hand curled inside his pants pocket to grip his cell phone. Have to phone the police, he thought.

He could tell from the man’s eyes that he had followed the movement of his hand. “Listen,” he began, but the man shook his head.

“No, Parsi seth,” he said. “You listen. This is not your fight. We have nothing against you and your people. You turn around now and go home. Like a good Parsi schoolboy, you go home.”

At this, the rest of the mob began to laugh and jeer. “Go home,” they repeated. “Parsi bawaji,” they teased.

Adish felt his face break out in sweat. Still, he stood his ground, trying to decide what to do next. “Let that man go,” he said feebly, “and I will leave.”

At this his confronter emitted a cry and raised his right hand in a threatening, chopping gesture. “Jao. Get lost. Last chance I’m giving you. Otherwise you will take that insect’s place.”

He had fled. The memory of his retreat made his cheeks burn with shame all these years later. He had not stopped walking until he had reached the safety of his building and then stood leaning against a wall in the lobby until he regained some control over his body. Laleh had looked up with a “Back so soon?” but he had merely shaken his head and muttered an evasive, “Nothing’s stirring, not even a sparrow,” before going into the living room and turning on the television set.

No wonder Iqbal had not confronted Mumtaz’s molester, Adish now thought. That alone predicted nothing. Well, they would just have to be careful for a few days after Nishta left. He’d talk to all the security guards in the building, warn them to screen any man who fit Iqbal’s description. And then, after a few days, he’d pay Iqbal a visit. See if he could reason with him. When Laleh returned without Nishta, they would pretend to be shocked by her perfidy. Later, he could even offer Iqbal a job in one of his many companies, take him into the folds of his business empire. Double his salary. He could help Iqbal, he really could.

As for Nishta, God knows what was going to happen to her. This was something he’d tried to say to Laleh—that just because Nishta had decided not to return to India with the other two, didn’t mean that she could stay. Richard had apparently told Armaiti that he would make sure that Nishta was safe, but what the hell did that mean? Armaiti, he had no doubt, would’ve moved heaven and earth to help Nishta. But Armaiti was fighting a monster illness. She would be in no position to help. Which meant they had to believe Richard, and how well did any of them know him?

Adish rubbed his forehead. He tried to calm the machine-gun thoughts firing in his head. He opened the sliding glass window a little bit more and breathed in the warm night air. As he shifted on the marble seat he felt a movement behind him. It was a rumpled-looking Ferzin. “Hi, Dad,” she said. “I got up to get a glass of water. Why are you sitting here in the middle of the night?”

“Couldn’t sleep, beta. Just thinking.”

Ferzin sat down next to him, and he was suddenly very glad for the company. “What about?” she said.

He hesitated, unsure of how much to share with her. The children had been involved in their feverish plans to get Nishta out of the house and to the airport, had overheard many of their phone conversations with Mumtaz. “You know, just about the upcoming trip,” he said vaguely.

Ferzin frowned. “You mean about Nishta auntie?”

“Yes. Among other things.”

“How will Iqbal uncle react when he finds her gone?”

Adish looked at his daughter with relief. At least one other member of his family had the smarts to worry about this. Laleh, he knew, was treating this as some kind of game. No, that wasn’t it exactly; it was that she had been more energized by plotting Nishta’s escape than she had been by anything since their college days. The Laleh of the last two weeks had reminded him of the old Laleh—tireless, indefatigable, driven. Except that instead of planning a student demonstration she was planning the rest of Nishta’s life. And she did not seem to realize how immeasurably higher the stakes were. If she had fretted for a second about Iqbal’s reaction, she had never mentioned it.

“I don’t know, deekra,” he confessed. “That’s what has me worried.” He looked at his daughter, wondering how much to draw her into his circle of fear. Then he said, “But we’ll have to be careful for a few days after they leave. You understand? If you’re home alone, I don’t want you to open the door unless you know who it is.”

“I told you we should get a dog,” Ferzin said promptly, and he laughed.

“God, you’re your mother’s daughter for sure. You two never miss an opportunity to press home your point.”

She spread her arms apart in an elaborate gesture and then gave him a quick hug. “Don’t worry so much, Dad. I’m sure it will be okay.”

“Hope so.”

She got up from the seat, yawned, and held out her hand. “Come on. Go to bed. You need to sleep.”

He took her hand, bemused by the role reversal. Wasn’t it just a blink of an eye ago when he was the one calming her nighttime fears, putting her to bed? “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said. “It was nice talking to you at this hour.”

“Just don’t make it a habit,” she said as she disappeared into the kitchen.

S
he must’ve fallen asleep at the drafting table, because she was woken by her mother shaking her by the shoulders. “Oi, Kavita beti,” the older woman said. “What kind of a life is this, working so hard? Get up now and sleep properly, in your bed.”

She woke up with a groan and stared bleary-eyed at her mother. “What is it?” she asked.

“I got up to use the bathroom and saw your light was still on,” Ma said. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I’m leaving in three days, Ma. I have to finish this project before I can go.”

“Project-froject be hanged. Who will look after you in ’Merica if you get sick?” the old woman cried. “Even as a child, you got sick if you didn’t get enough rest.”

Kavita grinned. “I’ll sleep on the plane.” But she leaned forward on her stool and rested her head on her mother’s belly.

“It’s my job to worry,” Ma said, stroking her hair. “After I’m dead and gone, no one will worry about you.”

Kavita peered up at her mother. “Will you be all right, with me away?” she said seriously. “Rohit has promised he will stop by often.” She had badgered her irresponsible brother into that promise.

“Pscht.”
Ma made a dismissive sound. “Tell him not to bother,” she said. “All he cares about is his maharani wife and his spoiled-rotten son. I’ll be fine with my Rekha looking after me.” Rekha was the twenty-two-year-old servant who had started working for them when she was fifteen.

“That’s the only reason I’m going—because Rekha is staying here at night,” Kavita murmured. “But you phone me night or day if anything is wrong, okay?”

Ma got the woe-is-me look on her face that she usually did when Kavita went away. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “God takes care of the sick and feeble.”

Kavita turned away to hide her smile. Ma could be so dramatic.

The old woman began to roll the blueprint on Kavita’s desk. “Now come on. Go to bed. Very late it’s getting.”

Kavita placed her hand on the drawing. “A few more minutes, Ma. You go on now. I’ll be done soon, I promise. I have to fax this to Germany first thing in the morning.”

Ma snorted but backed away. “You youngsters work much too hard,” she muttered as she left the room.

Kavita smiled. Ma had no idea how much money it cost to run this household. Her father had left them a good inheritance, but without Kavita’s well-paying job, the money would’ve run out long ago. And speaking of money, she needed to buy a few more gifts before they left for America. She looked at the clock. If she could get this project completed tonight, maybe she could go to Cottage Industries and buy some gifts before going into work tomorrow.

She and Laleh had gone shopping last weekend. They had bought a few outfits and shoes for Nishta to wear in America, knowing that she would have to sneak out of the house with the clothes on her back. Kavita had wanted to buy some kurtas and a few pairs of shalwar khameez for Armaiti but Lal had stopped her. “Ae,” she’d said in the middle of FabIndia. “Maybe we shouldn’t buy her so much? For one thing, we don’t know Armaiti’s size anymore, yaar. And also, you know, who knows how much longer . . .” Her voice had trailed away and they had not dared look at each other for a few moments. In the end, they had gone in together on a very nice silver-and-turquoise bracelet for Armaiti, but both women had lost their appetite for shopping and they soon gave up.

But she needed to buy more presents for Diane, Kavita thought. Diane would be their link to Armaiti in the coming months and she was determined to play a role in the girl’s life. She resolved to go shopping the next morning.

She worked for another forty-five minutes, then collapsed on her bed with the night light still on—and immediately realized that her exhaustion was so deep as to make sleep impossible. After a few futile moments, she flung back the sheet and leapt out of bed. Ingrid would be on her way to work, and if she was lucky she’d catch her on her mobile.

“Hi,” she said when Ingrid answered with a short “Da?”