The Wish Maker (26 page)

“Let’s go now,” said Samar Api, and got out of the car.

“One hour,” said Naseem. “No more. Other people have work to do at home.”

We went past the ivy and past the tinted windows of the jeep. The door to the house was dark and densely carved of wood, and could have been the door of a tribal chieftain, or the door to a temple, plucked and carted and fitted into the blank white wall of this house.

“Swati door,” said Samar Api, and ran a finger along the carvings. They were real. She withdrew her hand and rang the bell. The sound was remote and pleasing.

I rang it again.

“Stop it,” said Samar Api.

A maid opened the door. She was like a dwarf, a foreigner with a small body and a large, swollen face, the eyes sleepy and lidless. She was wearing a T-shirt over dungarees. “Yes, please,” she said in English, and held the door guardedly.

The air inside was cold, and the floors were white and polished. All about there was a smell of varnished wood, a severe smell that seemed to have been sprayed from a bottle. We went with the maid along a staircase, up into a drawing room where the sofas were empty and the walls were hung with paintings that lacked people or plants—they were just planes of color with spots and streaks, like accidents, or jokes, but framed and lit from above for show.

The maid knocked on a door. It was one of several in the drawing room, all closed now.

“Maadaam?” cried the maid.

A girl’s voice responded from inside, hassled and inquiring.

“You are guest!” cried the maid. “They here!”

A pause; then thumping, the sounds of feet on a carpet.

“Oh,
hi
!” she cried, standing in the doorway with a hand on the doorknob, her head tilted to one side. Her eyes were naturally wide, and her face was washed and raw, the lashes thick and gleaming with moisture.

She said, “That your younger brother?” She was pointing with her finger.

“Cousin,” said Samar Api.

Tara Tanvir held out a hand and said, “Hi I’m Tara.”

I held her hand.

She covered her mouth with the other hand and giggled.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“Zaki.”

“Hi I’m Tara.”

I knew.

“Come on,” said Samar Api, and went inside.

The walls of the room were bare but for a large oval mirror and a mostly empty shelf, the few books on it slanting weightfully to one side. The curtains by the windowpane were gathered with rope at the waist, like curtains in a ballroom. Her bed had pillars, one atop each leg, and the bedding was thorough: there were pillows, sheets, a blanket, more sheets and a final bedcover of dark, undulating fabric.

“So tell me, you guys,” she said, and scanned her own room now, like someone called in to give it a lift. She was dressed in a faded T-shirt and pajamas that ended at her knees.

“You have a really nice house, Tara,” said Samar Api.

“You think so?” She sounded skeptical.

“It’s really very nice,” said Samar Api.

“Ya, it’s nice,” I said.

“Thanks, you guys,” she said with warmth, but belatedly, as though the remarks were false but touching. “You guys are nice.”

We smiled.

“Oh, did you find the house?” she said.

It was not possible to say no.

“Ya, ya,” said Samar Api with a flapping motion of the hand and a frown to belittle our attempts, the long journey, the bickering in the car and the relief at the end.

“It was easy,” I said.

“Good!” said Tara Tanvir. She was glad and enlivened; she sat up on her bed and moved away toward the pillows, her movements tender and childlike, as if accustomed to physical assistance from a stronger person. Samar Api took off her shoes and sat with her friend, and I stood beside them at first, then sat on the edge of the bed and listened to their conversation, a continuation of what had started in the morning at school.

The Far Eastern maid came in with glasses of cold juice on a tray and placed them on round white coasters on the bedside table.

“You guys want popcorn?” said Tara Tanvir.

The Far Eastern maid was waiting with the empty tray on her palm.

“Sure,” said Samar Api. She sat up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Bring it to the basement,” said Tara Tanvir.

The maid went away.

“You guys want to go to the basement now or later?” said Tara Tanvir.

Samar Api thought about it and said, “Whenever you want.”

Tara Tanvir continued to look at us, then shrugged her shoulders and threw up her hands and said, “Why don’t we go once and for all?”

It was a dark, flickering space with an atmosphere of submergence: the black leather seats were low and ran on in rows that led all the way to the back, where a projector cast its images in a beam onto the wall ahead, a simple trick of light and distance. The film was called
Indiana Jones
. It was about an American man of the same name who wore hats and enjoyed the company of blond women. To pass the time he taught archaeology at a university; otherwise he had adventures. On this particular adventure he had traveled to India, first on a faulty airplane and then on a boat, and had found a grieving population who wanted him to rescue three egg-shaped rocks with magical properties from the hands of an evil man. We knew the evil man.

“O God, Samar Api, it’s Amrish Puri!”

He was a famous Indian villain. In most films he dressed flamboyantly and lived on addas in the wilderness, surrounded by assistants and dancing girls.

“O God,” said Samar Api, and laughed.

In this film Amrish Puri had a side role, and was one of many Indian characters, including slaves, maharajas, children blinded by spells and wealthy Indian dinner guests who came to a palace and ate monkey brains at a long table. Amrish Puri was a part of this world. And, like everyone else in the world, he had to speak most of his dialogues in English.

The accent was odd, the consonants dull and thudding. And he wore a brown robe, which was like a sack. His head was shaved; he wore no hat to hide it. And his laughter was exaggerated.

“I didn’t know he came in English films,” said Samar Api.

“Frankly I don’t care,” said Tara Tanvir.

The film finished when Indiana Jones threw Amrish Puri into a swamp of crocodiles. Samar Api stood up and asked to go to the bathroom. Tara Tanvir said that the washroom—that was what they called it in her house—was at the end of the corridor outside. Samar Api said she would find it on her own and went away.

“So tell me,” said Tara Tanvir.

The cinema was still dark and we were alone in it.

“How do you like my house?”

I had already told her, and said again, “It’s very nice.”

“You’re telling the truth,
na
?” Her voice had grown solemn.

“It’s really very nice,” I said. “I like your paintings, the ones on the walls.”

“See, that’s what I like about you,” she said, and sat up in her seat. “You’re blunt. I like guys who are blunt. I’m
so
blunt.”

I looked at her.

She was waiting.

I said, “Ya.”

“And it’s
good
to be blunt.”

“Ya.”

“I always say that.”

“You should.”

“Ya.”

She was pleased. She relaxed into her seat, pressing against the leather for her comfort. “I’m glad we agree,” she said. “It’s always good when friends agree. I’m not saying you can’t disagree, because sometimes you have to. I’m saying that there has to be trust.” Her sloping hands came together at the fingertips and formed a pyramid.

Samar Api returned from the washroom, her interest in the house revived: she wanted to see the rooms, the roof, the kitchen, the other washrooms, all of which she indicated in the puzzled and extracting questions she now asked Tara Tanvir, who answered the questions and also gave suggestions for things we could do: there was more popcorn in the kitchen, but we weren’t hungry; a keyboard, a Casio, lying somewhere in the house; and there was a library, her father’s, but it would have to be opened with a key.

“We can play something,” I said.

“Ignore him, Tara,” said Samar Api. “He’s always hyper.”

“You can be really mean sometimes,” said Tara Tanvir, and laughed.

“I’m just joking,” said Samar Api. “He’s like my younger brother.” Her humor had subsided.

“You guys are lucky,” said Tara Tanvir. She was looking into her lap and stroking the side of her arm.

“You’re lucky too,” I said, and wanted to cite the cinema, the popcorn, the cars parked outside in the porch.

But Tara Tanvir continued to look away and continued to stroke the side of her arm.

“Tara’s an only child,” said Samar Api.

“So are we,” I said.

“You guys have each other,” said Tara Tanvir.

And we were humbled to find that it had made such a difference.

After that we returned to her room to play board games, which were kept in boxes under her bed. She owned Monopoly, Scrabble, a game called Cowabunga, and another called Trivial Pursuit, all of which were packed with care and whole, the quirky implements gathered and contained in their pockets. Tara Tanvir was tidy.

“Not at all,” she said with a guilty giggle, her shoulders shrugged in self-negation. “The maid does it. I’m like not at all a tidy person. I don’t even fold the boards.”

And board games were games with boards: Monopoly, Scrabble, Cowabunga and Trivial Pursuit, even the cracked Ludo set Naseem kept above the fridge at home, all were games with boards and belonged to the same family. It was an eye-opening journey, and threw a new light on the world of language, which shimmered momentarily with a profusion of journeys.

We played Trivial Pursuit, a quiz-like game in which correct answers led to the accumulation of colorful pies. The questions were phrased on the backs of colored cards; they referred to events in faraway places, to crimes and discoveries and decisive baseball victories, to songs we hadn’t heard, films we hadn’t seen.

“It’s not your fault,” said Tara Tanvir. “I don’t even know all the answers.”

We were sitting on the carpeted floor of her room.

“We can go outside,” I said.

“I think we should go home,” said Samar Api.

“You guys are bored,” said Tara Tanvir, in a way that acknowledged her own shortcomings but also implied a lack of consideration on our part. She began to withdraw the colored cards and pies from their places.

“We
want
to stay,” said Samar Api. “But we’re already late and our family’s conservative. We only had permission for one hour.”

“Shit, man . . .” said Tara Tanvir, whose own fear of conservative families was wide and vacant, the fear of the unknown.

“We’ll meet tomorrow,
na
,” said Samar Api.

“It’s Friday,” said Tara Tanvir.

“So you can come to our house.”

She thought about it.

“Get permission,
na
.”

“Tomorrow?” It was possible.

“Ya.”

“Let’s do that.”

“Theek hai
,
na?”

And Tara Tanvir closed her eyes and smiled and nodded and said, “Definitely, definitely.”