The World We Found (33 page)

And then a deafening whistle sounded, and two officers—and then four, and then six—came rushing over. They threw Iqbal to the ground and kicked him a few times. Adish turned his eyes away as Iqbal moaned. He looked over quickly to see Laleh hurrying down the hallway, hustling the other two in front of her. He felt a second’s relief—and then he turned his attention back to the chaotic scene in front of him. In the din, he heard his cell phone ring in his shirt pocket but he ignored it. It was either Laleh, trying to find out what the commotion was about, or Farhad, who was getting impatient outside.

The chief inspector was pulling Iqbal up to his feet, yanking him up by his kurta. “So, madarchot,” he panted, “what do you have? A revolver?”

“I have nothing,” Iqbal cried and received a sharp slap to his face. “Frisk him,” the inspector said to his deputy.

As the inspector stepped back, Adish pulled himself up to his full height and put his hand on the inspector’s shoulder. “Inspector sahib,” he whispered urgently. “I think there’s been a mistake. I thought the bugger had a knife.”

The inspector’s face flushed with anger. “False accusation is a criminal offense,” he said sharply.

“Sorry, honest mistake.” He was about to say more but before he could speak Iqbal’s voice reached them. “This bastard has kidnapped my wife. He’s the criminal, not me.”

Adish saw the inspector’s eyes narrow and he gritted his teeth. He hated Iqbal for his doggedness just then. “This man just threatened me,” he said to the inspector, hearing the theatrical quality in his own voice. “I think a night in the lockup would do him some good.”

The inspector looked at him skeptically. “On what charge?”

Adish thought quickly. “How did he get in here? Ask him if he has a permit. This is a major security breach.” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the typed note. “Whereas me, I’m here to see my wife off. To America. I have special permission to be here from the airport manager, who is a personal friend of mine.” He looked into the inspector’s mean, yellow eyes and saw reflected there the information he was transmitting—I’m an important, influential man who could get you transferred or promoted, while this nondescript Islamic fellow with the long beard is a nobody. All that was not said—I live in an apartment at Cuffe Parade worth a few million rupees, while you live in a chawl; I am rich enough to offer bribes, while you are poor enough to accept them; my son will someday study at any university in the world that he wishes to, while yours will struggle to finish his bachelor’s degree from a Marathi-medium college; I can alter your destiny with a single phone call, while you can spend your entire life trying to alter yours—was more important than what was said. The inspector looked away first, and Adish knew he’d hit his mark.

Just then, the deputy spoke. “No weapon found, sir.”

“Then what are you holding him for?”—a man in his forties who had witnessed the whole affair addressed the group of policemen gathered around Iqbal.

The inspector spun around. “Who are you?” he said. “What relation to this man?”

“I’m nobody,” the stranger said. “I don’t even know this man. I’m just a passenger. But I witnessed you roughing up this man for no reason.”

The inspector glared at the man. “A passenger, eh? Here to catch a plane, is it?” His mouth twisted in a snarl. “Then go. Catch your bloody plane. Unless you want to be arrested for aiding a terrorist.”

“But—” the stranger protested.

“Gentleman, I’m asking properly one more time. Please go.”

The man scowled at Adish and then walked away. But his intervention had rattled the inspector, who turned toward Iqbal. “Okay, chalo, let’s see your bloody ticket,” the inspector said.

Iqbal was silent.

“No ticket? How about permission slip?”

“I have nothing,” Iqbal said sullenly. “But I—”

“No ticket, no nothing, and still you got in?” With a swift movement, the inspector surreptitiously but savagely stomped on his foot. Adish winced as Iqbal let out a soft cry. “Saala, troublemaker,” the inspector said. “How the hell did you sneak in here? What terrorist activity were you planning, you chootia?”

“I was planning nothing . . .” Iqbal started but seeing the look on the inspector’s face, he fell silent, having finally acknowledged the futility of his situation. The inspector spoke into that silence. “Chalo, take him away to the chowki. Hold him until I get there.”

Adish was scanning the room for any sign of Laleh as they handcuffed Iqbal. “I’ll get you for this, Adish,” Iqbal spat out, a moment before he was jerked back by the deputy.

“Iqbal,” Adish said quietly. “Just shut up. For your own sake, I’m telling you to shut up.” He turned again to the inspector and motioned for him to walk a few paces with him. “Listen,” he said. “This fellow is basically harmless. He’s just a bit confused. I don’t want you to rough him up, okay? Don’t touch him. Just keep him overnight. Let him cool down. Which station are you taking him to?”

The inspector told him. “It’s the nearest one, sir,” he added.

“Okay. I’ll stop by there in the morning. Or I’ll send my peon. Release him then, would you?”

“No problem, sir.”

Adish eyed the man’s name plate. “You’re a good man, Inspector Manmohan. My peon will come to the chowki tomorrow with a small envelope for you. What time should I send him?”

The inspector looked away. “My shift starts at three o’clock, sir,” he mumbled.

“Okay. I’ll send Jogesh at that time. Thanks for your help.”

He dialed Laleh’s cell as soon as he had walked away from the inspector. “What happened?” she asked immediately.

“Iqbal showed up.”

“I know. I saw him. But then there were too many people and I couldn’t see. Did you two get into a fight or something?”

He smiled mirthlessly. A dull ache had started in his heart and was spreading through him. “Something like that.”

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“That pipsqueak?” He forced a bravado into his voice that he didn’t feel. For Laleh’s sake. He didn’t want her to worry.

“Where is he now?”

“Gone.” He would tell her more after she reached America. Or maybe he never would. His behavior hadn’t been exactly honorable. He felt a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth.

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Lal. Forget about it. Just enjoy your time with your friends. Everything’s fine. Taken care of. Now go. Enjoy yourself. Tell Nishta sorry about the Mangola. Maybe I’ll buy her a drink in the U.S. next year.”

She made a soft, choking sound. “I miss you already. How can this be?”

He smiled. “It’s easy when you’re married to someone as dazzling as me.” But he didn’t feel dazzling. He felt—what?—cheap . . . dishonest . . . corrupt. All of the above. Tears threatened him. “Bye, janu,” he said hastily. “I’d better go check on Farhad. He’s been standing outside for a long time.”

But he didn’t wander outside. Instead, he dialed Mumtaz’s number, his heart sinking with each second that the phone went unanswered. What had Iqbal done to her? But then he remembered what Iqbal had said about not harming his sister and, to his surprise, he realized that he believed him. After everything that had happened between them, he trusted Iqbal.

Adish sat on one of the blue plastic chairs and held his head in his hands. Terrorist. He had called Iqbal a terrorist. How he had despised those politicians, both Indian and foreign, who had exploited the tragedy of 9/11 for cheap political gain. How he had railed against the Indian government when it had rewritten the laws so that it was easier to label political opponents with that dreaded word, so that it was easier for the police to trap and snare political prisoners in the iron net of antiterrorist activities. And how effortlessly he had done the same convenient thing, had taken advantage of Iqbal’s long beard, his mullah-like attire. How easily he had exploited the reflexive dislike and fear that many Indians had for Islam. He had counted on the inspector’s own prejudices, had used the inspector’s visceral distrust of Muslims to play off against Iqbal’s otherness. The Parsi as middle-man, as trickster, as the cool, suave, immoral asshole who played one party against the other. How was he different from the bastard who had molested Mumtaz, who had taken advantage of her minority status as a Muslim?

Maybe Laleh had been right about him all along. She alone had sensed that his moral center had the firmness of pudding. What had she said to him that day in the bedroom? That everything mattered. Maybe it did. Maybe the lie he had told decades ago, the easy manner in which he had colluded with his father-in-law, had set him on a course that had brought him here, to the betrayal of a man he had once considered a brother. But if everything mattered, what about the other parts of his life? He had been honest in his business dealings, quite an accomplishment in this goddamn corrupt country. He had never cheated on his wife, had been a loving and attentive father to his children, a kind and generous employer. Did all of that count for nothing?

He heard the self-justification of his thoughts, heard the whiny, bargaining quality, and his face contorted with self-disgust. The fact that you don’t cheat on your taxes justifies what you just did? he mocked himself. Getting a man thrown in jail because he was unlucky enough to be born a Muslim? What is your quarrel with Iqbal, after all? But then he remembered looking in the rearview mirror just as Nishta had flung back her veil and how she’d blinked her eyes at the sudden rush of light and he felt a lump in his throat. He did have a quarrel with Iqbal. It was his treatment of Nishta. He had had Iqbal jailed so that she could be free. Wasn’t that the way of the world, the constant lesson of history, the one unchanging rule—that with every new world order the old guard had to be killed, imprisoned, banished, exiled? He shook his head, knowing that he wasn’t making too much sense.

“Excuse me.” It was the old man with the cane, who had called for the police.

Adish looked up, startled. “Yes?”

The overall affect of the man was one of buttoned-down neatness. He had a white, well-trimmed beard, round glasses that reflected the glare of the overhead lights, and wore a dark, well-pressed Nehru jacket. “I just wanted to congratulate you,” the man said with a slight accent. Many years abroad, Adish guessed. “What you did was heroic.”

Adish’s face flushed. “It turned out to be nothing,” he mumbled. “My mistake.” He felt trapped in his seat with the elderly man standing in front of him.

The old man’s glasses flashed as he shook his head sharply. “Can’t be too careful,” he said. “These people are spreading like a cancer all across the world. Have to be crushed before they take over.”

Adish felt nauseous as it occurred to him that the man was talking to him as a fellow sympathizer, as someone he could confide his hateful ideology in. “Excuse me,” he said pointedly, but the man spoke over him. “You’re a Parsi, correct?” he asked and Adish nodded warily.

The man smiled. “A model community, the Parsis. Adaptable. Wish the other minorities took after you. But the Muslims and Christians . . .” He made a disgusted sound and then looked over his left shoulder. “I see my son is calling for me. Good evening.”

Adish watched as the stranger moved away briskly. He rose to his feet and took a few steps toward the man. “He was my friend,” he called out. “He had no weapon.” The old man turned around, his mouth slightly open, as if he might say something. But he merely nodded and resumed walking.

He would try and make amends, of course, Adish thought, as he made his way toward the exit. Maybe he would go to the jail tomorrow instead of sending Jogesh. He wouldn’t speak to Iqbal, not tomorrow. But maybe over the next few weeks he could check in on him. He would stop by the shop where Iqbal worked. Iqbal would be angry at first, violently angry, even. But he would win him over. He could offer him a job in his businesses, or if that didn’t interest Iqbal, he could . . .

“Bullshit.” He said the word out loud, drawing a glare from a matronly woman walking past him. Stop lying to yourself, he said. None of this would come to pass. He would spring Iqbal out of jail tomorrow, for sure. But after that, their association would end—unless Iqbal came to his door seeking revenge. And somehow, he doubted that would come to pass. Because the scene at the airport had made one thing clear—that he, Adish, could always crush Iqbal, could use the very fact of Iqbal’s Muslimness against him. A night in jail would simply reinforce this message. No, there would be no righting this situation. He and Iqbal would go back to where they were before Armaiti had called with her sad news, would return to their earlier positions, occupying different parts of the city, their fates never intersecting. This time, Mr. Fixit would lie dormant.

He walked out through the open doors, happy to leave the tired, recycled air of the terminal behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Inspector Manmohan, but the man was checking the tickets of one of the passengers and didn’t see him. He dialed his cell phone and let it ring but Farhad didn’t answer. Adish knew that it would be hard for the boy to hear his phone amid the din of honking cars and the chatter of the crowd that swelled outside the airport. He looked around desperately at the thousands of faces around him wondering how he’d ever find his son in this crowd when he saw Farhad’s smiling face approaching him. He felt something swell in his heart, felt a moist tenderness for his beautiful, untainted son. “There you are,” he said and hugged him as if they’d been apart for years rather than hours.