Diane nodded. “I think so.” She stared at the picture she was still cradling in her hand. “When are they coming?”
“I don’t know exactly. I don’t even know if—what shape I’ll be in by the time they come. Kavita can’t leave for a couple of weeks. But Diane, I want you to promise me something. I want you to get to know my friends. I so regret . . . it’s important to me that you know them.”
Diane threw her arms around Armaiti. “Of course, Mom. You don’t have to make it sound like homework. I want to know them.”
Armaiti laid her head on her daughter’s shoulder. It’s going to be okay, she thought. Diane’s going to be okay. The others will make sure she is.
Chapter 12
A week had gone by since Iqbal had come home early from work with murder and humiliation in his eyes and told her about Adish’s unannounced visit to his store. Murder and humiliation but also something else, a kind of cunning, as if the ultimate triumph had been his.
At that time, she had wondered why Iqbal had told her about the visit. Not in a million years would she have suspected that Adish would call on Iqbal, after the years of silence. But then she’d decided that it actually made perfect sense. If she knew anything at all, she knew how persistent Laleh was. She must’ve hounded poor Adish until he capitulated and agreed to look up Iqbal. But did Adish really make that promise to Iqbal? What could her husband have said, what insult could he have leveled at Adish, to make him say those words?
Nishta was still thinking about this as she finished ladling the last of the daal into the stainless-steel bowl. “Chalo,” she called. “Supper is ready.”
“You’re not eating?” Iqbal asked as soon as he entered the kitchen. He lowered himself onto the wooden chair and pulled the small dining table closer.
“I’m not hungry,” she said shortly. An uneasy silence had risen between them since that afternoon a week ago and she was not anxious to pierce it.
“ ‘I’m not hungry,’ ” he mimicked, a smirk on his face.
She felt distaste rise from her stomach and into her mouth. She struggled to control the urge to take the hot, steaming pot of daal and throw it across his lap. “The bhoot’s still in you, eh, miya?” she said sarcastically, not trying to keep the anger from her eyes.
She saw his face flush before he quickly looked away from her and into his plate. She sat down to his right, sipping from a glass of limewater. “Did you send Ammi her dinner?” he mumbled after a few seconds.
Nishta sighed. “Yes, I did, Iqbal. Just like I have sent your mother dinner every sodden day of my life with you.”
She jumped as Iqbal slammed his fist on the table, spilling some of the white rice. “Your life is that miserable?” he yelled. “I do everything for her but the Hindu princess is still unhappy?”
“Princess?” She snorted. “That’s what you call a woman who you keep a prisoner in her own home? Who is not allowed to talk to her friends? Who cannot make a lousy phone call because her jailer has taken her cell phone? You’re a Fascist, Iqbal. A pucca Fascist.”
Iqbal’s right hand flew up from the table and landed hard across her cheek. The impact of it knocked her into the back of her chair. Her mind went white and blank with shock and it took her a second to realize that Iqbal had struck her for the first time in their marriage. They stared at each other in stunned silence. Then, as the pain burned her face, Nishta’s eyes filled with tears. Iqbal swallowed hard a few times, his eyes looking for a place to focus.
Nishta rubbed her cheek, her eyes still on him. Fear and outrage battled within her, and then the fear settled down into a simmer while the outrage boiled over. “You hit me?” she said. “This is what it’s come to? How low you’ve fallen? You, who used to talk about women’s rights? Have you no shame left, Iqbal?”
“Shut your mouth,” he hissed. “Lower your voice.”
“Why?” she said loudly. “So that the neighbors will think you’re a pious, devout man who goes to masjid six days a week? Who does namaaz five times a day? I’ll tell everyone. When they find out—”
He rose from the table, grabbed it by the edge, and toppled it. The rice flew upward before it descended like thick snowflakes even as the pot of daal erupted in midair before it landed on the tiled floor. A few hot drops of the liquid pricked at Nishta’s bare feet.
She looked at Iqbal in fear. In all these years she had never seen him as out of control as he seemed at this moment. “Iqbal, have you gone mad? What are you doing?”
“You are the one who is responsible for this,” he yelled. “One visit from Laleh and your head got turned with thoughts of going to America. So shallow you are. Here we were, living a simple, happy life, and then they had to come and spoil everything.”
“It’s a lie,” Nishta said. She reached out for him but he jerked out of her grasp. “Iqbal, listen to me,” she said urgently. “You may have been happy, but I was not. I haven’t been happy for a long time. Not since you moved us to this suffocating place. Bas, just like that, you uprooted us. Did you even ask me, Iqbal, if I wanted this life? Hell, you didn’t even consult your own parents. Just like when you gave up the bank job, on a whim.”
“On a whim?” A vein throbbed in Iqbal’s forehead. “Do you have any idea how much abuse I put up with from my manager? How much he humiliated me? Why? Because I was a Muslim. And he wasn’t just a Hindu, he was a Brahmin. Never let me forget for a minute.”
“That’s bullshit.” Nishta moved toward the sink to pat some cold water on her burning cheek. She turned around to face Iqbal again. “Mr. Agarwal was always nice to us. Remember when he’d invited us to his house for his son’s birthday? I hadn’t even wanted to go, but he was really sweet to us.”
“Exactly. Exactly.” Now, Iqbal seemed more weepy than dangerous. “You know why? Because he thought you were a Muslim, too. The next day at work he came up to me to praise you for knowing so much about Hindu culture. And without thinking, I laughed and told him that you were born and raised Hindu. You should’ve seen his face, Zoha. Like I’d told him I’d raped my grandmother. From that day on, he changed. Acted like he wanted to vomit every time he saw my face. Hounded me, hounded me, until I had to leave.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “How come you never told me this?”
He made an exasperated sound. “My dear wife, if I’d told you about every insult that’s come my way because of our marriage, you would’ve crumbled under its weight a long time ago.”
Moved as she was by his words, something about the righteous way in which he said it irritated her. Iqbal always had a tendency toward self-pity. There was a time when it had endeared him to her, aroused her protective instincts. But she had since then learned how easily he crossed the line into manipulation. It was that same pleading, hurt look with which he had come to her years ago, begging her to wear a burkha when she went out in public in their new neighborhood. She had felt some part of her die when she finally acquiesced, unable to withstand the combined pressure from her husband and her in-laws. Mumtaz, then seventeen and already married, had been the only one who had asked her to resist. But Mumtaz, having mysteriously given in to her older brother’s abrupt and relentless insistence that she drop out of college and marry, had not been in any position to back her up.
Now, remembering this, she steeled herself against the haunted look on Iqbal’s face. “We could’ve helped each other, Iqbal,” she said. “You had no right to keep this from me. We were partners. I didn’t need your protection.”
He looked at her with something akin to compassion. “Men and women cannot be partners, Zoha,” he said, as if talking to a developmentally challenged child. “If you read the Koran for a day you’d know that. It is my duty to take care of you.”
Nishta remembered Dilip, the homeless man who lived on the street across from her childhood home. Her father used to hire the man to do odd jobs and run errands during the day. But every evening, Dilip, an opium addict, would disappear for a few hours. When he returned, the
re was a glazed, beatific expression on his face. As a young girl, Nishta had always felt sad looking at Dilip in this condition.
Now it seemed to her that Iqbal wore the same expression. The look of an addict. She turned away to hide the pity in her eyes but it was too late. He had seen it.
“What?” he said, grabbing her hard by her arm. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing. Stop it. You’re hurting me.”
“Hurting—you don’t know what hurting is.” Even in the dim light of the kitchen, she could see the glint in Iqbal’s eyes. “Don’t patronize me, Zoha. I can’t take it.”
For the first time in all the years she’d known him, Nishta was afraid of Iqbal. She had known for some time that beneath the serene, religious façade Iqbal presented to the world there lay a bed of seething resentments. But now she saw how close to the surface those resentments were, how fragile and tenuous the balance was. Something about the visit from Laleh and Kavita—a visit from the past, a mocking reminder of how far they’d fallen from the couple they’d once hoped to be—had unnerved him. And although he had withheld the details of his conversation with Adish from her—save for the fact that he had apparently convinced Adish never to contact them again—she had seen the turmoil in him when he had returned home.
She forced into her voice a lightness that she didn’t feel when she spoke to him. “I’m not, Iqbal. Now relax, na. I don’t know what you’re so upset about. Now, you go sit down while I clean up.” She noticed the cautious gratitude creeping into his face. No sudden moves, she said to herself. Slowly, she extracted her arm from his slackened grip, keeping her eyes on his face the whole time.
“Go,” she repeated. “I’ll clean up.”
“Forgive me,” he began, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.
“It’s okay. No use crying over spilled rice.” She attempted a tentative smile and then forced her face into a look of concern. “You are tired.”
“That I am.” He yawned. “I’ll watch TV, then, okay?”
“Okay.”
Her motions were mechanical as she got the broom and swept the rice into the pan. But her mind was fevered as she replayed the conversation they had just had. Why tell me now, after all these years, the reason he’d quit the bank? she wondered. If he had confided in her back then, she would’ve leapt to his defense, would’ve even valorized his resignation as striking a blow for some unnamed principle. But not now. Not after years of living with the consequences of Iqbal’s hasty decision to join his Uncle Murad’s business. Two months after Iqbal had quit the bank, she had suffered a miscarriage. And with their income cut in half, they were reduced to accepting help from Iqbal’s older brother, who worked in Dubai and sent part of his salary home every month. Although no one ever spelled out the terms, it soon became obvious that this aid came with strings attached—taking care of Iqbal’s parents and niece had soon become Nishta’s responsibility.
By the time she had wetted a cloth and was rinsing the floor, Nishta had come to a resolution. No more. She could not live like this anymore. For years now she had made excuses for Iqbal. She made herself notice how, despite their modest income, he was forever giving money to neighbors and relatives in need; had appreciated how, despite his growing religiosity, Iqbal argued with the men in his mosque against the Muslim practice of taking multiple wives; had admired how generous he was toward his mother, how he postponed buying himself a new pair of glasses or shoes in order to buy Ammi a watch or a new appliance.
But this same man had just slapped her. Had forbidden her from talking to her dearest friends. Had hidden her phone. No more. Dear God, she couldn’t live like this anymore.
She was already on the floor and so it wasn’t much of a stretch to kneel and surreptitiously fold her hands. Help me, she prayed. Please. Help me. She had no idea to whom she was praying or what kind of help she was asking for. She tried to conjure up a picture of a deity but her unpracticed mind was rusty, confused. Who could she appeal to? Allah? The Hindu gods of her childhood? Aware of Iqbal’s movements in the next room, knowing she didn’t have much time, she closed her eyes and tried again. But the only picture that floated before her eyes was that of Laleh and Kavita sitting across from her in her living room.
Chapter 13
Kavita propped a pillow against the headboard of the bed and sat up, listening to the sound of running water as Ingrid took a shower. She smiled drowsily as she pulled the white cotton sheet over her breasts. A few seconds later, she heard Ingrid shut the water off. She was about to turn on the television when she heard Ingrid singing to herself and the sound deepened the pleasure and contentment that she was feeling. Unconsciously, Kavita began to hum the same song. She stretched languidly, pulling her arms above her head, acknowledging the fact that her whole body was singing, humming its satisfaction.
She had known Ingrid for almost fifteen years now. In those years they had traveled around Europe together and collaborated on umpteen work projects. Whenever Kavita was in Hamburg, Ingrid practically moved in with her. She also knew that Ingrid found her sexy and funny. Once, when Ingrid was still married to Hans, and during one of his rare moments of jealousy—for the most part Hans had good-naturedly accepted the fact that his wife had an Indian girlfriend whom she saw a few times each year—she had even warned him not to make her choose between him and Kavita. Don’t be so sure you’ll win, she had said to him.
But until now, Kavita had not known that Ingrid loved her. Not when Ingrid had insisted that Kavita be the lead architect on the award-winning project they had submitted for the museum in Brisbane. Not when she called every single night when Kavita had been down with the flu a few years ago. Not even when, two years ago, she had taken Kavita’s hand while sitting in a bar in Dublin and told her that she was leaving Hans. Kavita had been perturbed—she knew that Ingrid and Hans had been together for over twenty years, that despite her occasional grumblings, Ingrid cared deeply about him. “Why, Ing?” she’d asked. “You two have such a good life together.”
Ingrid had shrugged. “He’s getting too high-maintenance as he gets older. Clingy. Wants to be together all the time.” She flung her arms out. “Whereas me—I want to be free. To travel. To make new friends. To live an open life, without complications. Free.”
At the time, Kavita had assumed that Ingrid had meant that she wanted to be free of all encumbrances. She had prepared herself for a diminished role in Ingrid’s life and had accepted this without rancor or resentment. After all, what could she expect? They lived on different continents, separated by a distance of five thousand miles. She, Kavita, lived with her mother, for God’s sake, lived a closeted, cloistered existence. She may as well have been one of those nuns who worked in Mother Teresa’s homes, for all the sexuality she emitted. She was sure that her mother and brother thought she was a virgin. And, indeed, if it wasn’t for Ingrid and a job that thankfully provided her with regular opportunities for travel, their assumption would’ve probably been true—unless you counted the unsatisfying, silent encounters at the massage parlor at Cuffe Parade she used to patronize in the years before she’d met Ingrid.
Fifteen years ago, Rahul had bounded into her office one morning and announced that the merger with the German firm of Stuggart and Associates had gone through. Kavita had been measured in her response, knowing Rahul well enough by now to be a little wary of his bouts of enthusiasm. Even though they were the same age, Kavita always felt like the older sister around Rahul. “What are the final terms?” she asked.
Rahul had shaken his head. “I don’t believe this. Aren’t you the least bit excited, Kav? This is a big coup, I say.”
But she hadn’t been excited. Hadn’t been until three months later, when she and Rahul sat across a glass table in a conference room in Hamburg with three ruddy-faced Germans who kept saying in their heavily accented English how “vunderfool” it was to do ze business together. And then only because a woman had walked—had strode—into the room and taken her breath a
way. A woman almost as tall as the men and with a manner as brisk and no-nonsense as theirs was obsequious. Who wore a sea-blue silk shirt tucked into tight blue jeans and red boots that came up to her knees. Whose inquisitive, mischievous eyes belied the cut-through-the-bullshit efficiency she otherwise radiated.
“Hello. I’m Ingrid,” the woman said, offering her hand to Rahul. “I feel like I know you from all our communications.” Unlike the others, her accent sounded clipped, more British to Kavita’s untrained ear. “Welcome to Hamburg.”
Rahul rose slightly in his chair but Ingrid intercepted him. “Please. Don’t get up.”
She turned to Kavita with her hand extended. And Ingrid gasped, just the slightest intake of breath that only Kavita noticed. She forced herself not to blush. Still, there was an unintended huskiness in her voice when she said, “I’m Kavita.”
As the meeting proceeded, Kavita noticed that Rahul was talking a mile a minute, the way he did when he was nervous, but the Germans did not seem to notice. Despite the fact that it was only noon and they had gotten a good night’s rest after flying in the previous evening, she suddenly felt uncontrollably sleepy. She must’ve nodded off for a second because she heard Ingrid say, “I think it’s time to break for lunch. We’re being poor hosts, I’m afraid.” And when she opened her eyes, Ingrid’s sea-green eyes were traveling across her face. She flinched, as if she’d been touched.
Three months later, she was back in Hamburg, this time without Rahul, whose wife was expecting their first child within a few days. It was immediately apparent to Kavita that the other associates had assumed that Ingrid would collaborate with her on the housing colony project.
The World We Found Page 11