The World We Found (29 page)

“They won’t even have room for their suitcases. Besides, somebody might be allergic, you know?”

Armaiti tossed back her head and laughed. “Allergic? Darling, no one in India is allergic to anything. Just breathing that foul Bombay air is like smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. You think a few flowers will bother them? I tell you, we Americans have become so soft and . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, and all Indians have cast-iron stomachs. And amazing immune systems. I know. Jeez.”

She smacked her daughter’s hand playfully. “Getting too big for your britches, Di,” she said.

Ten minutes later, they left the flower section, ignoring the incredulous looks the other shoppers were casting at Diane’s overflowing cart. “I want to pick up some cheese,” Armaiti said.

“There’s no room in the cart.”

“Okay. Go get me a basket. I can balance it on my lap.”

“I don’t want you to exert yourself, Mom.”

“Diane.” Armaiti stopped her chair in the middle of an aisle. “I want you to listen to me now. The next few days, I’m going to forget that I’m sick. Okay? At least, as much as my body will allow me to. I . . . these might be . . . I just want to have fun with my friends, okay? And if the price for that is a little bit more fatigue or dizziness or whatever, well, that’s a price I’m willing to pay.” She could see she was upsetting Diane and so she softened her tone. “I know you mean well, darling. But, please—let go a bit? Please try?”

Diane gave her a rueful smile. “Okay. But I want you to be healthy for when they get here.”

“Me, too, darling. There’s nothing I want more. Now, come on, look at the list. What else do we need?”

L
aleh had just finished zipping the red suitcase when Adish came into the bedroom. “All packed?” he asked Laleh. “Bags ready to be taken downstairs? I want to load the van early. That way, no last-minute tension.”

“Yup. Have you called for the watchman to carry them down?”

“What do we need the guy for? Farhad can take one and I’ll take the other. Plus your carry-on.”

“You’re forgetting the bag I’m carrying for Nishta. She won’t have any clothes of her own.”

“Shit. I did forget about her suitcase.” Adish groaned. “Okay, Nishta’s suitcase makes sense. But you’re only going for three weeks. How much stuff do you need to carry?”

“Well, who forced me to carry a marble Taj Mahal replica for Richard? The bloody thing weighs at least fifteen kilos, I swear. What’s Richard going to do with it?”

“He’ll love it. You’re going to be guests in their house, Lal. You have to take some gifts, no?”

Farhad ambled toward their room and stood leaning in the doorway. “Bags ready?” he asked.

“In a minute.” Lal turned back to Adish. “Well, at least one of the bags is over the twenty-two-kilo limit, thanks to your bloody statue.”

He shrugged. “Try and talk them into letting it go. Or pay the fine, what else?” He glanced at his watch. “We better leave a half hour earlier than planned. There might be traffic on the way to Nishta’s.” He unzipped her overnight bag. “How much room do you have in here?”

“Why? I still have to put some books in there.”

“Forget it. I need the space. I ordered a bunch of mithai for Armaiti. Jalebis, suterfeni, halva. We have to stop on the way to pick it up. And all that has to go into your carry-on.”

“Adish, are you mad? We don’t even know if Armaiti still likes those sweets. Or whether she can eat them.”

He smiled at her indulgently. “She will. Trust me.” He shushed her by holding two fingers to her lips. “Lal. I haven’t sent anything for Armaiti. Just indulge me.”

“Y
ou have your passport?” Mumtaz asked for the third time and nodded when Nishta pointed silently to her handbag. “Good,” she said nervously and then got up from the couch. “Oh. I almost forgot,” she said and opened her own purse. She took out a bundle of notes that had been folded over and secured with a rubber band. “This is for you, bhabi,” she said. “For spending in America.”

Nishta gasped. “I can’t. How . . . how did you get this? It’s dollars, yes?”

“I have a friend whose husband travels a lot. Bought from him.”

Nishta’s eyes widened with fear. “Did you tell them about me?”

Mumtaz shook her head vehemently. “No, Zoha, of course not. I told them it was for a friend. And don’t worry, they don’t even know I have a brother.” She held out the bundle again. “Take it. You will need some money there.”

“There is no way I can repay you for all this.”

Mumtaz smiled shyly. “Actually, there is.” She took out a small piece of paper. “Here is my waist and hip size. If you can bring me a pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans, I’d be grateful. They’re very hard to find here.” She made a face. “Even though Hussein won’t let me wear them outdoors, I can wear at home.”

Nishta felt her face redden. It was one thing deceiving Iqbal. But Mumtaz? She wanted to caress the innocent face with the big, trusting eyes.

She looked away. “Okay,” she said. “I will bring these.”

“Shukriah, Zoha jaan.” Mumtaz turned her head toward the kitchen. “Do you still have any more of those mutton cutlets you made for lunch?”

Nishta smiled, glad to be able to do something for her sister-in-law for a change. “Of course. Shall I heat some?”

“Oh, no. I’m full. But I’ll take two for Hussein, if you don’t mind. He loves your cooking.”

They had had lunch upstairs with Mumtaz’s mother earlier in the day. The old lady was thrilled that her daughter had stopped by unexpectedly. She was even happier to see that Mumtaz was wearing a pink burkha. “Allah be praised,” she exclaimed. “What do we owe this miracle to?”

“Hussein wanted me to,” Mumtaz said.

The old woman nodded understandingly. “One must always keep one’s husband happy,” she said.

Nishta had been stunned at how easily the lies slipped off Mumtaz’s tongue. She’s enjoying this, she thought with amazement. It’s like she’s getting back at all of them. But what for?

“Shall we warm the food?” the old lady had said and it didn’t escape Nishta’s notice that even though Mumtaz was sitting right there, her mother-in-law was looking pointedly at her. She doesn’t get to see her daughter too often, she reasoned with herself, and then almost laughed out loud at her next thought: What do you care? You’ll be out of here in a few hours. This is the last meal you will ever serve this cranky old woman. “Sure, Ammi,” she said demurely, keeping her eyes to the ground.

They had returned to Nishta’s flat after lunch, after Mumtaz promised her mother she’d come say goodbye before she left to go home that evening. Now, they sat on the couch making chitchat. “Amazing how time doesn’t budge when you’re watching the clock,” Mumtaz said, and Nishta heard the nervousness in her voice.

“Promise me you’ll make sure that you’ll leave before Iqbal comes home tonight?” she asked.

Mumtaz let out a groan. “God, Zoha. What a worrywart you’ve become. I’ve told you a hundred times. When Ammi goes indoors at eight to eat dinner—
foos!
—I’ll dart out of here fast as a mouse.”

Nishta sighed. “But what about later?” She gestured toward the note sitting propped up on the coffee table. “After he reads my letter? Your Ammi will mention you were here today. Surely he’ll come knocking on your door to . . .”

“Bhabi. You’re not thinking straight. You know the plan. I’ll just pretend to be as shocked as everyone else.”

“But he’ll question you, Mumtaz. You know Iqbal. If he’s suspicious at all . . .”

“Let him be as suspicious as he wants.” Mumtaz’s voice grew defiant.

“ . . . and the first thing he’ll do is check the safe for the passport,” Nishta continued. “How long before he—”

“Hussein can deal with my brother,” Mumtaz interrupted. “None of his violent behavior will work in my house.”

“I didn’t mean . . . Iqbal would never hurt you. I just meant . . .”

“Who knows? Would I have ever thought my brother would raise his hand to you?” Mumtaz shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He can’t do anything worse to me than what he’s already done.”

Nishta reached out to take Mumtaz’s hand in hers. “Sweetie,” she said. “What did he do?” Had Iqbal sexually abused his sister when she was little? It seemed unfathomable, but she’d learned that it was a common enough story—cousins, brothers, fathers, touching little girls, fondling them, doing worse. “Did he hurt you?” she asked cautiously. “Touch you wrong?”

Mumtaz looked confused for a second, and then, as Nishta’s meaning dawned on her, she gave a startled laugh. “Oh, God, no. Nothing like that. My God, Iqbal was so protective of me when we were young.” She fell quiet, and when she looked up, her eyes were red. “I was molested, didi. But not by him.”

Nishta let out a cry of outrage, and, at this, the younger woman roughly brushed away her tears and forced a gaiety into her voice. “Forget it. Ancient history. And today’s a happy day. No need for all this sad talk.”

“I need to know,” Nishta said but Mumtaz stopped her. “Another time. After you come back I’ll tell you the whole story.” She leapt up off the couch. “Now come on. Let’s go pick up Zenobia from her class.”

K
avita eyed Ma dispassionately, trying to gauge whether the sudden illness was real or a manifestation of the old lady’s usual hypochondria. She remembered that the last time she had gone out of town—not out of town, really; she’d just told Ma that, while she’d spent three days with Ingrid at the Taj—she had come down with the same nebulous symptoms.

“You go finish your packing, beti,” Ma croaked. “I’ll be okay.”

“Can you describe what’s wrong?” Kavita asked again.

Ma sighed. “Just shaky.”

Shaky. Giddy. Jelly-like. Feeling upside down. Like my brain has turned to yogurt. This was the medical terminology Ma typically used to describe her ailments. It drove Kavita up the wall.

She got up from the chair next to Ma’s bed and went into the kitchen, where Rekha was making chapatis. “Go sit with her for a few moments,” she asked and then went into her bedroom. She dialed her brother Rohit’s phone.

“What?” he said.

“It’s Ma. I can’t tell if she’s really ill or what. And I leave for the airport in about an hour. Can you come over?”

“She’s just upset you’re leaving,” Rohit said in the blithe tone that set her teeth on edge.

“Congratulations on your medical degree. Not to mention your psychic powers.”

“Funny,” he said, in that abrupt way of his.

“Well, can you come over?”

“Not now. I’m busy.”

She forced herself to stay calm. “Rohit,” she said, thinking for the umpteenth time how telling it was that her brother’s name rhymed with “shit.” “Ma could be sick. And I won’t be here. She’ll be alone with Rekha. Can you pretend to care?”

He made an exasperated sound. “Tell you what. I’m going to the club at eight. I’ll stop by before that. Okay?”

It was the best deal she would get today. “Promise?” she said.

“Whatever.”

His callousness stung more than it had any business doing. “Okay,” she said, trying to control the dangerous tremor in her voice. “Thanks. I’ll see you.”

“Hey, Ka?” Rohit said. “You take care of yourself, understand?”

Her disproportionate gratefulness at his casual remark told her how much stress she was under, how emotional she was about this trip. She eyed the clock. Did she have time to squeeze in a quick call to Ingrid? “Thanks,” she said. “You, too. I’ll see you soon.”

Ma had gotten up from her bed and was lying on the couch in the living room. “She insisted,” Rehka said. “Said she wanted more light.”

Kavita nodded. “Feeling better, Ma?”

The old woman groaned in reply. “The time of my dying is fast approaching, beta. I’m just a burden to you.”

Rekha and Kavita exchanged the briefest of smiles. They heard this line every time Ma was unwell. Kavita dug into her jeans pocket and fished out a few crumbled hundred-rupee notes. “Keep this,” she said to the maid. “In case you have to call Dr. Shah or buy some medicine.”

Ma shot upright on the sofa. “What are you doing, handing out money like sweets?” she cried. She leaned forward to pull the money out of Rekha’s hands. “Giving the girl ideas,” she muttered to herself. “Spoiling her. No sense.” She fell back on the couch with dramatic flair, still clutching the money in her hand.

Kavita noticed that the little exercise had restored the color in Ma’s cheeks. “Sorry,” she mumbled to Rekha as the servant left the room. “Come see me before I leave.” She stood at the doorway and looked back at the reclining woman. “Your firstborn will drop by for a visit this evening,” she said.

Ma raised her head slightly. “Will he be bringing that nasty wife of his?” she said.

“Not sure. But Prince Charming has consented to a visit. That’s good news, isn’t it?”

Ma glared at her. “It’s not his fault. That wife of his has poisoned him . . .”

Kavita shook her head. “Oh, Ma, stop.” She had heard this tirade a thousand times before.

She was still shaking her head as she went into her bedroom. She wondered whether to weigh her suitcases one more time, but she and Rekha had done that twice last night. She had been done with her packing by nine last night, the inside of her suitcases as precise and neat as an architectural drawing. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the phone call that would tell her that Laleh and Adish were downstairs, waiting to pick her up.