The World We Found

by Thrity Umrigar

  The World We Found

  a novel

  Thrity Umrigar

  Dedication

  for

  gulshan

  hutokshi

  perveen

  always

  Epigraph

  “Suppose the world were only one of God’s jokes, would you work any the less to make it a good joke instead of a bad one?”

  —GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Book Two

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Thrity Umrigar

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  The tooth broke three days after she received the awful news. There was no blood. No pain, even. For three days she had believed that it was her heart that had broken into tiny fragments, but turned out it was another part of her body that decided to mourn the news. No pain, no blood. Just a moment of puzzlement as she bit into the soft French toast she made for breakfast this morning and felt something hard and brittle in her mouth. She spat out two small pieces into her cupped hand. Adish stared at her for a stunned second and then said, “Oh, no. What happened?”

  She stared back at him, unable to reply, transfixed by the rightness and wrongness of the broken tooth. On the one hand, she was not yet fifty and in the pink of health, as her mother would have said. Much too young to be losing teeth at breakfast. On the other hand, the evidence before her was appropriate, an outward manifestation of the brokenness she’d felt ever since the phone call from Armaiti. An uncharacteristic acceptance descended upon Laleh, in contrast to the denial she had felt since Armaiti called with news about her cancer. Then, she’d felt like a wild animal, lassoed by the tyranny of the telephone cord. No, no, no, she’d shaken her head as she got off the phone.

  She rose from the table and headed into the bathroom. She rinsed her mouth with cold water, and only then did she look up into the mirror. It was a side tooth and a stubble was still attached to her gums, and yet, how irrevocably it altered her appearance. For some absurd reason, it reminded Laleh of the New York skyline after the towers went missing, a gap that drew attention to what was absent. Until now, her teeth had been as sturdy and even as piano keys; but then, until now her oldest friend in the world had not been dying. It was right somehow, in this week of reminders of mortality, that she sacrifice something, too.

  Still, she regretted the timing. She and Kavita were meeting in a few hours—not enough time to phone the dentist and get an emergency appointment—to go to Mrs. Lokhanwala’s old address. They had not seen the woman in almost thirty years, and given the crucial nature of their mission, Laleh would’ve preferred looking her best. The broken tooth was already making her self-conscious. Laleh usually prided herself on not being vain, though the truth was, being beautiful, she could afford to give up on vanity. But now, she promised herself that she would simply not smile during her visit to Mrs. Lokhanwala’s. If the woman—who would be, what? seventy-five? eighty?—was still alive, that is. She didn’t allow herself to think of what they’d do if Nishta’s mother had died or moved.

  She heard Adish enter the bedroom and the next second he stood before her, leaning into the doorframe of the bathroom and gazing quizzically at her. “You okay, janu?”

  She nodded, smiling with her mouth closed. “I’m fine.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to go with you today? I could leave work for a few—”

  “No need to. We’ll manage. I’ll call you if there’s anything.”

  He ran his index finger gently over her lips. “Shall I call Sarosh to see if he can fit you in later this afternoon?”

  “That would be great.”

  “Because you remember the party tonight, yes? I’m sure Sarosh can make you a temporary crown.”

  “Oh, shit. I totally forgot.” She made a pleading face. “Can’t you just go without me?”

  In reply, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Bye. Let me know what happens.”

  She grumbled lightly to herself as she got her things ready for her bath. Adish knew how much she hated his work parties, how lonely the empty prattle—the fake heartiness and fake humility—made her feel. They almost always fought on the way home from one of these affairs. And yet he persisted in asking her to go. Last week, after Kavita got held up at work, she had dragged Adish to a play, and in exchange he had extracted a promise to accompany him to Girish Chandani’s party tonight.

  Ah well, Laleh thought as she entered the shower. There were more important things to think about this morning. Nishta, for instance. They had to find Nishta. To relay to her Armaiti’s final wish. Even though there had been years of silence between Armaiti and her. Even though such a wish may mean nothing to Nishta. Even though she had disappeared from all their lives, leaving only still air in her wake.

  Kavita was driving, and, watching her steady, competent hands on the wheel, Laleh smiled to herself. She remembered Kavita as she’d been in college, a shy, dreamy girl who carried her guitar around everywhere. Hard to believe that that poetic, pensive girl was now one of the top architects in the city. Laleh sank into the leather seat and sighed inaudibly, feeling a lifetime removed from the young, impetuous, idealistic woman she’d been. From the time when Kavita-Armaiti-Nishta had been one word in her book, one beating heart. Where were they all now? One dying in America, one missing, and only Kavita still in her life.

  “What?” said Kavita, ever attuned to Laleh’s moods.

  Laleh shook her head, unable to speak, her mind snagging on the memory of a certain golden afternoon. They had gotten together at Nishta’s house to study, but what Laleh remembered now was the four of them lying on their backs on Nishta’s bed, their knees bent at its edge, so that their feet touched the floor. “Those Were the Days” blasted on the stereo and they sang along lustily and loudly. “La la la la, la la,” they sang at the top of their lungs, kicking their legs in time to the music. And suddenly, Armaiti had leapt out of bed and began to dance, dance with such loose, comic abandon—her hair flying about, tossing her head back and forth, flaying her rubber-jointed arms and legs—that the others rose to their feet and joined her. By the time the song ended, they were all laughing and sweating and exhausted. And then, as if she’d not been the agent of all this happy chaos, Armaiti said critically, “What a morbid song, yaar.”

  “What’re you thinking?” Kavita asked.

  “Nothing. Everything. About how young we were once.”

  Kavita looked rueful. “Know what’s really sad? I used to think that everybody had that much fun in their teens. That everyone had the kind of friendships we did, felt as much passion and joy.”

  “I didn’t,” Laleh said promptly. “I always knew what we had was rare. Always. Even then. My own children don’t have it, Ka. They have lots of friends, don’t get me wrong. But it feels superficial to me. All they talk ab
out are iPhones and designer jeans. And they want nothing to do with politics. It’s crazy.”

  “It’s a different time, Lal. They’re growing up in a different India.”

  “Bull. That’s what Adish says, also. But what’s changed, Kavita? All the old struggles are still there, no? So they build a few dozen new malls for people like us. What does that change?”

  How her father used to scoff at her and Armaiti when they would talk about building a better country. “A new India?” Rumi Madan would thunder at the dinner table after listening to the two teenagers talk matter-of-factly about the imminent revolution. “What do you girls think this is, a school play? What ‘new India’ are you two going to build? Darlings, if there is to be a new India, it will be built by the politicians and the businessmen. Above all, the businessmen. Not by a couple of little girls pretending to be revolutionaries.”

  Laleh blinked back the tears that rose unexpectedly. Ever since the phone call from Armaiti, the past had become more vivid than the present. She had sleepwalked through the past few days, unable to focus on anything.

  And now, the past loomed again, in the form of Nishta’s old apartment building. A thousand memories flooded Laleh’s mind as Kavita searched for a parking space on the tree-lined street. And although she had felt a great urgency to locate Nishta’s parents ever since Armaiti had called with the news, Laleh now felt herself moving slowly, as they exited the car and walked toward the building. When they reached the entrance, she and Kavita stood wordlessly for a second. Then Kavita exhaled loudly and they entered the familiar lobby. Their eyes scanned the large wooden board for the Lokhanwalas’ flat number. “Look,” Laleh said. “They’re still here. Thank God.”

  “The lobby still smells the same,” Kavita said, and Laleh nodded as they approached the elevator. “Yup. Like sandalwood.”

  They rang the doorbell twice before the servant girl answered. “Hello. Is memsahib home?” Kavita asked.

  “Who is calling?”

  Kavita hesitated. “Just tell her . . . it’s some old friends.”

  The girl threw them a skeptical look before putting on the door chain.

  “Yes?” A wizened face peered out at them a few seconds later from the slight opening in the door. “How can I help?”

  “Auntie, it’s us—Kavita and Laleh. Nishta’s college friends. You remember us?”

  There was a puzzled silence and then the old woman cried out softly. There was a rustling of the chain before she threw the door open. “Kavita. Laleh. I cannot believe. What brings you here? Come in, come in.”

  A minute later they were sitting across from Mrs. Lokhanwala in her large, airy living room, the three of them staring at each other, all of them too polite to comment on the changes time had wrought. “What will you take?” the old lady said at last. “Coffee? Tea?” And before they could answer she was calling out, “Deepa. Bring three cups of coffee. And some snacks.”

  “Auntie, please. Don’t go to any trouble,” Laleh said. Her mind was whirling, trying to reconcile the fact that the stylish, trim Mrs. Lokhanwala—had they ever known her first name?—was now an old lady. The living room itself looked frozen in time—the same cream-colored walls, the gray floor tile, the beautiful teak rocking chair.

  “My God, you two look just the same,” Mrs. Lokhanwala said. “I would’ve recognized you anywhere.”

  They smiled shyly. “You, too,” Kavita lied. “And what news of Nishta?”

  At the mention of her daughter’s name, a curtain fell over the old woman’s face. The smile vanished. Her eyes turned cloudy. “You don’t know?” she whispered.

  Laleh leaned forward. “Know what?” she said.

  “We don’t have any contact with her. My husband—he forbade any relations. She married a Muslim boy, you know.”

  Laleh realized that she’d been holding her breath. “Yes, we know,” she said. “Iqbal was a friend of ours.” She forced herself to keep her tone neutral. “We had hoped that after all this time, you know, that there might have been a reconciliation.”

  Despite her tact, the older woman recoiled, as if she’d been slapped. She stared out at the balcony for a minute before turning to face them again. “What brings you here today?” And before they could answer, “And whatever happened to that other Parsi girl—the fourth one? What was her name?”

  “Armaiti,” Kavita said.

  “Ah, yes. So much I’ve thought about all of you over the years.” Mrs. Lokhanwala smiled. “So lively our house used to be, with all of you here.” Her face fell. “Now it’s just me and my husband, you know. Our son—you remember Arun?—is settled in Australia. Anyway, how is Armaiti? You see her often?”

  “Fine,” Laleh said automatically and then she caught herself. “Actually, auntie, she’s not fine. She lives in America, you know. And”—it was still hard to say the words, but she forced herself—“we just found out that she has a serious illness—a brain tumor.”

  “Arre, Ram—” Mrs. Lokhanwala’s hand flew to her mouth. “How could that be? That sweet little girl?”

  For a moment Laleh saw Armaiti as Mrs. Lokhanwala did—a teenager forever. She swallowed. “Yes, well . . . And that’s why we’re trying to find Nishta. Armaiti wants to reconnect with her, you see.”

  The woman’s face was impassive. “I wish I could help you,” she said.

  Laleh suppressed the wave of anger that rose within her. “Does Nishta never try to contact you, either?” she asked evenly.

  Mrs. Lokhanwala’s eyes darted around the room. “Every year she sends me a birthday card,” she said. “But my husband doesn’t allow me to open. I just throw it away. Or return it.”

  Laleh stared at a spot over the old woman’s left shoulder. She had saved every note her children had ever written her, from kindergarten on. She tried to imagine throwing away a birthday card from Ferzin or Farhad, asked herself what the children could ever do that would make her renounce them. She couldn’t come up with one plausible scenario.

  The servant girl came in with a tray and set it carefully down in front of them. Laleh grabbed Kavita’s arm and pulled her to her feet as she stood up. “I’m sorry, but we have to go,” she said. She wanted to get away from Mrs. Lokhanwala’s presence before she said something that she would regret.

  “At least have a cup of coffee,” Mrs. Lokhanwala protested, but her voice was drained, flat, and there was a look of understanding on her face.

  “I’m sorry, auntie,” Laleh insisted. “We are already late.” She would be damned if she took a sip of anything in this household.

  Kavita took a few steps to where Mrs. Lokhanwala was sitting and put her hand on her shoulder. “It was nice seeing you again,” she said softly. “Both of us have such good memories of this house.”

  Laleh felt a faint flush on her cheeks, reading a rebuke of her rude behavior in Kavita’s thoughtfulness.

  Mrs. Lokhanwala took Kavita’s hand in both of hers. “I know it must seem strange,” she began, but Kavita was already backing away.

  They didn’t say a word to each other as they rode the elevator five floors down. The silence held as they walked out of the building gate, crossed the two-lane street, and made their way toward the car. Finally, Kavita turned to Laleh. “I wish we’d never gone there,” she said.

  “I know. What kind of mother turns her back on her child?”

  “I get the feeling it’s the husband who’s controlling the situation.” She mimicked Mrs. Lokhanwala. “ ‘My husband doesn’t allow me to open the card.’ ”

  “Listen,” Laleh said fiercely. “If Adish told me I couldn’t talk to my children, I would pull his tongue out with pliers before I would comply.”

  Kavita sighed. “She’s from a different generation, Laleh.”

  “Excuse, please,” a soft voice said behind them. They turned around. It was the Lokhanwalas’ servant girl. She was holding an envelope in her hand. “Memsahib wanted me to give you.” She handed the envelope to Kavita, looked up toward the
building, and then walked briskly away.

  They followed the girl’s line of vision in time to see a figure leaning over the fifth-floor balcony. But a second later the person had moved indoors. It was obviously Mrs. Lokhanwala, making sure that the servant had carried out her instructions.

  Kavita turned the envelope around. It was addressed to Mrs. Lokhanwala and there was a return address, which someone had circled in red, with an arrow pointing toward it. And with the same red-ink pen Mrs. Lokhanwala had written in large, shaky letters, “Do not judge me. Please.”

  Kavita and Laleh looked at the piece of paper, and then each other. They glanced at the now-empty balcony, and then back at the envelope. When Laleh finally looked at Kavita again, her face was red. “I feel like a total piece of shit,” she said.

  Chapter 2

  Armaiti had been weeding for an hour, ignoring the waning light of the day, when she noticed the dead cardinals.

  There were two of them and they lay facing each other, their eyes open, their beaks nearly touching, as if they had been kissing. Their bright-red feathers were bleached to a rusty brown, which told Armaiti that they had been dead for a few days.

  Putting on the gardening gloves that she usually forgot to use, she lifted one of the birds gently, half-expecting it to stir and fly away. It felt impossibly light and bony, as if all that plumage was just dazzle, a sleight of hand to cover up a hollow core. The thought made her feel tenderly toward the dead bird. Turning it in her hand, she examined it for a wound, a mark where a cat or a larger bird may have attacked it, but saw nothing. She looked up at the June sky, as if expecting an answer. There was no overhead tree from which the pair could’ve fallen. Maybe the birds had simply tumbled out of the sky, she thought, the way whales sometimes beached themselves on the shore, for no apparent reason. The thought of these beautiful, red creatures falling to earth made her eyes fill with tears.