The World We Found (25 page)

A furious Laleh kicked him under the table but he ignored her. He stared at Nishta, who looked down at the plate in front of her. “I cannot talk to Iqbal,” she said finally. “If I could think of another way to do this, I would.”

“She’s right,” Mumtaz said. “I know my brother—once he makes up his mind, Allah Himself cannot make him change. Believe me, I know,” she added, and there was something so bitter in her voice, it made them all look up.

Adish opened his mouth to say something but Lal spoke first. “I think it’s time to stop thinking about Iqbal and start thinking about Nishta. She’s made clear that she wants to go to see Armaiti. That’s good enough for me.”

She looked directly at Adish, who held her gaze for a second before lowering his eyes. “Okay. Guess I know when I’m outnumbered,” he said, but when he looked up none of the four women looking back at him was smiling. “Okay,” he repeated. “How soon can everyone leave?”

“Maybe in three weeks or so?” Nishta started to say when Kavita interrupted.

“That’s too long. We don’t have that long.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Diane called this morning. With bad news, I’m afraid. Armaiti’s had a setback.”

“What?” Laleh said.

“Ya Allah,” Mumtaz breathed.

“It happened a few days ago, while they were in Florida. It seems her vision is pretty bad. And her balance. Her right leg has suddenly gotten very weak.” Kavita’s voice trembled. “Anyway, what I’m thinking is, we should go now. I mean, soon. As soon as we can.”

There was a second’s silence as nobody dared make eye contact with another. Mumtaz spoke first. “I will help,” she said to Nishta. “I will get you out. Don’t delay, bhabi. Otherwise, your trip will be futile.”

And Nishta buried the immediate, treacherous thought: But that’s not the whole reason for my leaving. She had said as much to Laleh on the way to Adish’s car, as she and Laleh fell behind Mumtaz and Adish, told her that her intention was to not return to Iqbal at the end of three weeks. “Does Mumtaz know about this?” Laleh had whispered and she had shaken her head no, guilt making her cheeks burn.

Now Nishta said, “Iqbal comes home late on Thursdays. He has a trustees’ meeting at his mosque on that day. Can we leave on a Thursday?”

“I’ll work on it,” Adish said promptly. “Actually, a weekday is probably better, anyway. Flights are hard right now—peak summer vacation time and all. But I’m sure Joseph can pull a few strings.”

“Mr. Fixit,” Kavita and Laleh said in unison and their chuckle cast away the somberness that had descended on them. “That was his name in college,” Nishta explained to Mumtaz. “Any problem you had, you went to Adish.”

Laleh stroked her husband’s arm affectionately. The waiter came with their drinks and they ordered their meal. When he left, Mumtaz said, “A plan is emerging in my head. I think I know how to get you out of the house on that day.”

“You’re good at this subterfuge game, Mumtaz,” Laleh said. “We could’ve used you during our student days.”

Mumtaz flashed a broad smile. “I grew up on Enid Blyton,” she said. “
Secret Seven
,
Five Find-Outers
. All those adventure books. And later, Nancy Drew. Now my children read them. So it’s all here.” She tapped her head with her index finger. She turned toward Nishta. “Don’t worry, bhabi. You’re going to America. It’s as good as done. In fact, you’re already there. Just visualize it.”

She turned to face Laleh and Kavita, who were exchanging bemused smiles. “My other favorite author is Norman Vincent Peale,” she declared. “I believe in the power of positive thinking.”

Book Two

Chapter 21

O
ne o’clock in the morning and sleep had disappeared, much as she hoped to disappear from home three days from now. Nishta lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city at night—the firecracker-like
phat-phat
sound of motorbike engines, the occasional howling of a nearby dog, answered by another stray down the street, the drift of voices as small groups of young men walked down the street, making no allowances for the sleeping world, the dry heaves of the old trucks grinding their way down the road. She remembered with a sharp longing her bedroom in her parents’ large, beautiful flat. How muffled the sounds of the night had seemed in that bedroom. But then she recalled how she had tossed and turned in her single bed, her body aching for the man who now slept beside her, and she smiled mirthlessly at the irony. What was that wonderful quote by Truman Capote? More tears have been shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.

Iqbal mumbled something in his sleep and she turned her head slightly to look at him. He was lying on his side, and the light from the fluorescent streetlamp allowed her to study his features. As she had a million times, she took in the beautiful, delicate face—the long eyelashes, the thin, curved lips above the bearded chin. As Nishta watched, Iqbal’s hand twitched, and she fought the urge to cover it with hers. He was frowning now and she strained to hear what he was muttering. Pity swept over Nishta. The agitation that filled Iqbal’s days also dominated his nights. Iqbal deserved better, she suddenly thought. Maybe her foreignness, her Hinduness, had prevented her from recognizing or taking seriously the grievances that stuck to him like postage stamps. Maybe, as he had recently admitted, he had died a million deaths trying to shelter her against the everyday bigotries and discrimination that he had faced because of their marriage. Maybe when they counted the casualties and death toll from the 1993 riots, they should’ve counted men like Iqbal also, good, openhearted men who died a spiritual death in those riots, men whose lives were spared but whose spirits burned along with those who were set on fire in their homes or out on the streets, whom the mad mobs consecrated with gasoline and then set aflame. Men who learned the wrong lessons from those riots, who came to believe that all that stood between them and the fire next time was the strength that came from numbers, who moved into dense, overcrowded bastis to live among their own kind, who subjected themselves to living with people with whom they shared a religion and not much else.

Nishta’s throat ached with sorrow. Despite all that had happened between them, she loved the man sleeping next to her. Felt protective of him. Because despite the sober attire and attitude, his humorless demeanor, the bearded visage, the religious garb, the twinkle-eyed college boy he had once been occasionally shone through. She saw it in his wide smile sometimes when he wasn’t being guarded, or when his eyes grew misty when an old song from a 1950s Hindi film came on the radio, or when he came home drenched from a downpour and grinning like a schoolboy.

She realized with a pang of regret that she had conveyed a one-dimensional portrayal of Iqbal to Laleh and Kavita. She had fed them an easy caricature—young Socialist grows up to become a conservative Muslim—and although shocked and disappointed, they had accepted her version. But she remembered now how beside himself Iqbal had been when he’d heard about the Taliban’s destruction of the Buddhist statues. “Savages,” he’d sworn, his eyes blazing. “Barbarians. No right they are having. Those statues belong to the world.” She remembered how upset he’d been after the planes had brought down the towers, how he’d looked at her with tears in his eyes and said, “Today is the worst day of my life. These people make me ashamed of my faith.”

“Iqbal,” she heard herself say. “Are you sleeping?”

He opened one eye and said, “Not anymore.” But there was a smile in his voice and she was encouraged.

“Sorry. I can’t sleep.”

He leaned on his elbow and raised his head, stifling a yawn. “You’re sick?”

“No, not sick. Just sad.”

He was immediately alert. “Why, my bibi? Why sad?”

“I keep thinking about Armaiti.” Even as she said these words, she came to a conclusion: Iqbal’s reaction would determine whether she would leave or stay. Yes, three days before she was to leave for the airport, she was still ready to shut that door, to live out the rest of her days in this bed, with this man. But she had to believe that there was a reason to stay.

She waited. For him to respond. For the course of her destiny to be decided by what he said.

“No use thinking about sad things, Zoha,” he finally said and she felt disappointment fall and settle like soot on her skin.

“How come you never slip and call me Nishta?” she said inanely, to prevent him from hearing what her body was screaming—
You failed. I gave you a chance and you failed.

“We’re going to talk about your name in the middle of the night?” he asked mildly, and when she didn’t respond, he added, “I have to work tomorrow. Try to sleep.”

Her mouth puckered, as if she’d tasted something sour. She blinked back her tears as she realized that Iqbal was settling back into sleep, unaware of the agitation she was feeling. She waited long enough to steady her voice, and then she said, “Don’t you care about Armaiti at all? Do you never think about the old days?”

He let out an exasperated hiss. “Woman. You don’t have to get up each morning and take two trains just to reach work. So you can lie in bed and indulge in nostalgia. But some of us have mouths to feed. Now, what is it you want me to say?”

Was that suspicion she heard in his voice? Had she given something away? “Nothing,” she said hastily. “Nothing I want you to say. It’s just that—”

“You want me to say that I’m sorry about Armaiti? Someone I haven’t talked to in donkey’s years? Someone who moved to America and married a rich, fat American? Who has had a nice, cushy life and has never had to get up early and catch two trains to get to work? Let me tell you something, Zoha. If I’m to shed a tear, it won’t be for people like Armaiti. If I’m going to cry, I’ll cry for Umar. You remember Umar? Attends our mosque, works at the post office. Lung cancer at thirty-four. And still he delivers the post, walking around the streets of this filthy, polluted city. Why? Because his salary supports seven people. I’ll cry for him before I’ll cry for Armaiti.”

Nishta trembled from the bitterness she heard in Iqbal’s voice. “But she’s our friend,” she cried. “You yourself used to say that Armaiti was the sweetest person in college. Remember how she used to—?”

“This world is full of kind people, Zoha,” Iqbal said. “But kind people didn’t stop me from losing my job at the bank. Kind people didn’t stop the genocide in Gujarat. And they won’t keep Umar alive. And I must say, I’m surprised at your definition of friend. Someone who didn’t care to contact you for over twenty-five years, who suddenly decides she must see you again before she passes away—that’s a friend?”

“That’s unfair.” Nishta dug her fingernails into her hand to focus her anger. “We are the ones who pulled away from them. You began to act so peculiarly around our friends that it was easier for me to stay away rather than to make excuses for you all the time.”

Iqbal was silent for so long that she wondered if she’d gone too far, but when he spoke his voice was distant and mild. “You’ve let one visit from the past turn your head, Zoha. You’re still a child, beguiled by candy at the fair. These rich people, they’re like cotton candy—sweet, but spun out of air.” He yawned and turned on his side. “Your place is here, Zoha—with your husband and your in-laws. Now go to bed and let me sleep for a few hours in peace. Please.”

He rolled on his side, his back to her and she listened in astonishment as Iqbal fell into his regular breathing in just a few moments. His house is on fire, his wife is burning next to him and he sleeps, she thought with wonder. Because his pitiless words had singed her, had made the last of her illusions go up in smoke. She wondered now why she had felt so tenderly toward him just a few moments ago, what had made her give him another chance. This emotional seesawing is the reason why you’ve spent all these years in hell, she scolded herself. You’re like a dog that whimpers when kicked and then wags his tail each time his master pets him absentmindedly.

She turned her face on the pillow to look at Iqbal’s bare back. She had an urge to run her fingernails down that smooth back, to draw blood, to shock him out of the mask of complacency that he wore. And then she thought: He’s no longer my responsibility, my work-in-progress. For the first time, she saw Iqbal as separate from her, unlinked, unrelated, an individual whose smiles, frowns, moodiness, laughter, sexual urges, illnesses, religious beliefs, were none of her business. She blinked her eyes in surprise at the revelation, and as she did, she felt Iqbal receding from her, saw the distance between their two bodies grow.

She had never understood the custom of a Muslim man being able to divorce his wife by merely repeating the word “talaq” three times:Talaq, talaq, talaq. I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you. It had always appeared too simple, too easy, like a child’s recitation of a magical incantation. Now she understood something: that the words were merely an outward expression, a delayed airing of an emotional process that had already taken place. That indifference was the true divorce. After that, it was just words. After that, it was merely action.

So she didn’t bother saying those severing words to her husband’s sleeping back. Mumtaz was right. The departure for America had already happened. Now, Inshallah, there only remained the task of getting her corporeal body there.