The World We Found

by Thrity Umrigar

  He found the cab driver leaning against his vehicle, yawning and stretching mightily. “Kya, sahib,” he began. “Just two minutes, you said. I was beginning to think you had vamoosed with my money.”

  Iqbal shook his head impatiently. “Big change of plans,” he said as he got in. “We’re going to the airport. Bhaisahib, I beg you, drive like the wind. My whole life is in your hands.”

  Chapter 25

  It took them twenty minutes to make their way from the entrance of the airport to the terminal. The gray minivan inched along the narrow lanes of the airport, locked in a massive traffic jam. Taxi drivers honked their horns for no apparent reason, chauffeurs in private cars lowered their windows and cussed at the other drivers. “You see?” Adish said to no one in particular. “This is why I wanted to leave early.”

  When their vehicle finally reached its destination, they all gasped at the sight that greeted them. It seemed as if the entire city had turned up at the airport. Thousands of people stood straining against the metal barricades, held back by a few police officers. It looked like a scene at a rock concert. Most of these men and women were simply here to see their relatives off, but the general pandemonium slowed down the movement of the travelers themselves, who were trying to make their way into the building, ramming their baggage carts into the carts of those who stood in their way. Tempers flared, eyes glared. Nobody, it seemed, knew if there was a queue to stand in or if the law of the jungle applied. “So here it is, amchi Mumbai,” Laleh said, her voice heavy with irony. “ ‘India Shining.’ The next global power. And we can’t even organize one friggin’ airport. What a joke.”

  “You said ‘frigging,’ Mom,” Farhad pointed out in that sleepy, deliberate manner of his.

  Adish beat a smaller car in the race to claim an open spot near the curb. “Go grab some carts,” he ordered his son. “We can’t stop here for long.” Kavita hopped out of the vehicle after Farhad. Adish exited, also, after muttering a terse, “Wait here,” to the other two passengers.

  After they’d unloaded the suitcases into the carts, Adish tossed the car keys to Farhad. “Go park,” he said. “I’m going in with them. Wait for me near the entrance, okay? And remember, this will take time. So don’t wander away.”

  Adish did his best to keep the three women and their trolleys together, shepherding them toward the main doors where a big sign declared TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY. Rather than stand in line, they moved forward with the general flow of the crowd, as if riding a wave. At long last, it was their turn to show their tickets to the two tired-looking constables at the entrance. “You, sir?” the younger one said to Adish.

  He pulled out a typed note from his shirt pocket. “VIP pass,” he said. “From the airport manager’s office.” He had sent his peon this morning to pick up the pass from the manager, whom he knew from having done some renovations at the airport a few years ago.

  The constable made as if to peer at the note but then saw the wall of people pressing in from behind and gave up. He waved Adish through.

  “Well, that was fun,” Adish said to the three women as he caught up with them. “Now let’s get your bags checked in.” Nishta, he saw, had lowered her veil again. Smart, he thought. No point in taking chances. He took hold of the cart Nishta was rolling and smiled. “I’ll wheel this for you,” he said. “I imagine it’s hard to see with that thing on.”

  He accompanied them to the end of the baggage check-in line and then looked at Laleh. “I guess this is where we say goodbye,” he murmured. “I don’t think they’ll let me escort you much further, even with the pass.”

  She took his hand. “You don’t have to go yet, do you? This line’s going to take forever to move, by the looks of it.”

  He smiled at her. “I’ll wait,” he said.

  Laleh was right. Forty-five minutes passed and there were still five people ahead of them in line. Nishta began to cough and Adish’s hand itched to fling the blasted veil over her head. He remembered what he’d always heard about the high rates of TB among veiled women. “Would you like something to drink?” he said. “There’s a refreshment stall just a short ways from here.”

  “A Mangola,” she gasped.

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  He hurried down the large room, his eyes scanning the faces of the people he passed. He was halfway near the cold drinks stall when he realized what he was doing—searching the room for Iqbal. He laughed at himself. Relax, he thought. He glanced at his watch. Iqbal was probably still at his trustees’ meeting. By the time he reached home, it would all be over. Adish felt his body slacken and give up the tension that he realized he had been holding in.

  It was at the very moment, as he felt himself relax, that Adish spotted Iqbal.

  Chapter 26

  No, no, no, no, no, Adish thought. Not Iqbal. Not here. Not now. This couldn’t be happening. Not after all the trouble they had gone to. But even while his mind was reeling from the shock of Iqbal’s unexpected, unfortunate appearance, he was also calculating the significance of Iqbal’s presence. If Iqbal could convince someone—an airline official or a police officer—that his wife was leaving the country without his permission, that she had snuck out of his home like a thief, there was no telling what could happen. This was India, after all, where a husband’s accusation of his wife’s infidelity still carried a lot of weight. Throw in an additional accusation—that she’d stolen money from his mother, say—and that could seal Nishta’s fate. At the very least, Iqbal could hold things up, have them detain Nishta, delay her until the flight took off without her. Which meant that Laleh and Kavita would be faced with a terrible decision—whether to stay behind or go. They would be pulled between two friends, both needy, both in their own ways dying. It wouldn’t be fair for them to have to choose. Not to mention what this would do to poor Nishta.

  No. It couldn’t be. Iqbal shouldn’t be here. Besides, what was he doing inside the airport, anyway? How had he managed to sneak past the guards at the TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY sign? Sure, Adish had made his way in, but he had a legitimate pass. He had official permission to be here, unlike that white-garbed pipsqueak who was flitting around the airport frantically, pushing people out of his way, almost stumbling now, tripping over himself in his haste to find his wife, dodging the airport carts heading toward him, each of them carrying at least two massive suitcases. Adish found himself moving, weaving and bobbing as Iqbal did, trying to stay out of his line of sight, so that he was engaged in a kind of dance with a partner half a ballroom away. He noticed how disheveled Iqbal’s hair was, the mud-streaked pajama bottoms, the patch of dirt across his face, as if he had run into something or fallen on his way here. As he noticed Iqbal’s frantic, anxious expression, Adish fought against an involuntary stab of pity. Pity was self-defeating. He had learned this lesson the hard way on the playground when he was in third grade. He had been on the verge of defeating the fastest boy in his class in a race when he had noticed the boy’s teary, stricken face as Adish had rushed past him. And in the remaining seconds, Adish had felt his feet slow down as he realized that the race meant much more to the other boy than it would ever mean to him. He felt the other boy zoom past him and when he looked up, there he was at the finish line, sneering at Adish, his young face twisted in a look of cruel, triumphant ecstasy. Adish had felt a sharp sense of regret.

  Now he saw that Iqbal’s darting eyes found their target. Across the enormous room, Iqbal had spotted Laleh and Kavita and was now looking for his wife. Another second and he spotted her. Having checked her bag in first, Nishta had left the queue and stood waiting on the sidelines, clutching her ticket and passport, ready to head toward customs as soon as the other two were done checking their bags. “Zoha,” Iqbal called but his words were eaten up in the noise of the bustling terminal, so that only Adish, who was now a few meters away from him, heard him. Adish was moving fast now, as if he were on a soccer field, ready to intercept, to foul, to tackle, to do whatever he had to do to keep Iqbal from t
he goal. He was ready to use his body, his tall, powerful frame, to block Iqbal’s way, to keep the three women out of his sight, to buy them the few precious minutes they needed to get through the check-in process. Because once they disappered toward customs, he knew they would be out of reach, out of sight, untouchable. All they needed was another three, four, five minutes.

  “Hey,” Adish said, coming around a pillar and planting himself in front of Iqbal, so that the latter had to reel back to keep from colliding with him. Adish realized he was panting slightly and forced himself to take a breath. “What are you doing here?”

  Iqbal’s face showed his disdain. “You lying bastard,” he said. “I’ll deal with you later.” He tried to step around Adish but he blocked his path again. “Get out of my way,” Iqbal said through clenched teeth. “I won’t ask again.”

  Adish mustered up a laugh he did not feel. “Or else, what? What are you going to do?” he taunted. All he could do now was stall and distract Iqbal, buying Nishta and the others a few precious moments.

  Iqbal turned on him fiercely, his eyes bright with hate. “You’re beneath contempt,” he said. “A liar. A home-breaker. Turning my wife and sister against me.” He spat at Adish’s feet.

  Until that moment, Adish’s anger had been manufactured, just a delaying tactic. But the accusation of being a home-wrecker stung, precisely because it resonated with Adish’s own doubts about what he had done. “Don’t ever do that again,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Iqbal craned his neck to look past Adish and across the room to where the women were. “Just move out of my way,” he said, shoving Adish in the chest.

  The world slowed down, became a movie shot in slow motion. Adish saw the scene clearly: two men, one scrawny, the other plump but muscular, standing under the fluorescent lights of a large terminal, glowering at each other; a passerby pulling a black hard-top suitcase while yelling to his lagging wife to keep up; a pack of teenagers in blue jeans hooting and hollering and running into the other passengers; a tired-looking police officer dressed in his drab khaki uniform, walking past them, aimlessly tapping his baton on his thigh. Sound, too, seemed to have become muffled, long-drawn, distorted, a record playing at the wrong speed—the elongated wail of an infant; the metallic sound of the walker being used by an old man as it clicked on the tiled floor; the sound of Iqbal’s voice as he yelled, “Zo-haaaaa!” And now, Adish turned his head, slowly, still in slow-mo, caught in this frozen river called time, and he watched as Laleh, still standing at the airline counter, turned her head to her left and he imagined he saw her eyes widen as she spotted Iqbal and then he saw her turn toward the other two, saw them spin around, saw Kavita’s slowly raised hand and pointed finger as she gestured toward where he and Iqbal were locked in their strange, slow, shuffling dance.

  It was up to him. He had promised Laleh he would see this through. He would see this through. If only this stupid bastard had not showed up at the airport. How lighthearted their drive here had been once Nishta had gotten into the car. The relief that they’d felt, the giddy, surreal delight that their crazy plan had actually worked, was suddenly in danger of being undone by this fool.

  Iqbal was saying something now as he pushed Adish’s shoulder, and Adish forced himself to shake off the slow, lethargic feeling that had come over him. “You can’t win,” Iqbal said. “Know why? Because Allah, praise be to Him, guided me here. I caught my traitorous sister red-handed.”

  “Did you hurt Mumtaz? If you hurt her, I swear . . .”

  Adish saw the flame leap into Iqbal’s eyes. “Now you’re going to tell me how to treat my own sister, chootia?” A faint spray of spit accompanied Iqbal’s words. “I’d rather kill myself than harm Mumtaz.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Now move.”

  Suddenly, Adish knew how to end this standoff. He looked at Iqbal with new eyes, the way in which a lion assesses the distance between himself and his prey. Nishta would leave India. It was as good as done. He could—he would—destroy Iqbal. Still, he hesitated. Because the price for destroying Iqbal was high. And Adish alone would pay it, not Laleh, not this time. In cutting off Iqbal at the knees, he would also be severing the last, tenuous link to his past.

  His eyes were cold as he faced Iqbal. “I’ll ask you once—get out of here.” There was a new authority in his voice.

  Iqbal looked at him incredulously. “I’m the one who should leave? No, you move out of my way.” And he pushed Adish roughly in the chest again.

  Adish’s hand shot out and covered Iqbal’s. They stayed locked in that position for a second, and then, still looking into Iqbal’s eyes, Adish yelled, “Police!” His voice sounded strange even to his own ears. “Help. Terrorist. This man has a weapon. Help.” He gripped the stunned Iqbal with both arms.

  “What?” Iqbal managed. “You lying . . .” He struggled to get out of Adish’s grip, but a burly man in a suit came running over to help Adish. A woman scooped up her toddler and ran shrieking away from the commotion. An older man waved his wooden cane in the air and yelled, “Police. Where are the damn police?”

  And then a deafening whistle sounded, and two officers—and then four, and then six—came rushing over. They threw Iqbal to the ground and kicked him a few times. Adish turned his eyes away as Iqbal moaned. He looked over quickly to see Laleh hurrying down the hallway, hustling the other two in front of her. He felt a second’s relief—and then he turned his attention back to the chaotic scene in front of him. In the din, he heard his cell phone ring in his shirt pocket but he ignored it. It was either Laleh, trying to find out what the commotion was about, or Farhad, who was getting impatient outside.

  The chief inspector was pulling Iqbal up to his feet, yanking him up by his kurta. “So, madarchot,” he panted, “what do you have? A revolver?”

  “I have nothing,” Iqbal cried and received a sharp slap to his face. “Frisk him,” the inspector said to his deputy.

  As the inspector stepped back, Adish pulled himself up to his full height and put his hand on the inspector’s shoulder. “Inspector sahib,” he whispered urgently. “I think there’s been a mistake. I thought the bugger had a knife.”

  The inspector’s face flushed with anger. “False accusation is a criminal offense,” he said sharply.

  “Sorry, honest mistake.” He was about to say more but before he could speak Iqbal’s voice reached them. “This bastard has kidnapped my wife. He’s the criminal, not me.”

  Adish saw the inspector’s eyes narrow and he gritted his teeth. He hated Iqbal for his doggedness just then. “This man just threatened me,” he said to the inspector, hearing the theatrical quality in his own voice. “I think a night in the lockup would do him some good.”

  The inspector looked at him skeptically. “On what charge?”

  Adish thought quickly. “How did he get in here? Ask him if he has a permit. This is a major security breach.” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the typed note. “Whereas me, I’m here to see my wife off. To America. I have special permission to be here from the airport manager, who is a personal friend of mine.” He looked into the inspector’s mean, yellow eyes and saw reflected there the information he was transmitting—I’m an important, influential man who could get you transferred or promoted, while this nondescript Islamic fellow with the long beard is a nobody. All that was not said—I live in an apartment at Cuffe Parade worth a few million rupees, while you live in a chawl; I am rich enough to offer bribes, while you are poor enough to accept them; my son will someday study at any university in the world that he wishes to, while yours will struggle to finish his bachelor’s degree from a Marathi-medium college; I can alter your destiny with a single phone call, while you can spend your entire life trying to alter yours—was more important than what was said. The inspector looked away first, and Adish knew he’d hit his mark.

  Just then, the deputy spoke. “No weapon found, sir.”

  “Then what are you holding him for?”—a man in his forties who had witnessed the
whole affair addressed the group of policemen gathered around Iqbal.

  The inspector spun around. “Who are you?” he said. “What relation to this man?”

  “I’m nobody,” the stranger said. “I don’t even know this man. I’m just a passenger. But I witnessed you roughing up this man for no reason.”

  The inspector glared at the man. “A passenger, eh? Here to catch a plane, is it?” His mouth twisted in a snarl. “Then go. Catch your bloody plane. Unless you want to be arrested for aiding a terrorist.”

  “But—” the stranger protested.

  “Gentleman, I’m asking properly one more time. Please go.”

  The man scowled at Adish and then walked away. But his intervention had rattled the inspector, who turned toward Iqbal. “Okay, chalo, let’s see your bloody ticket,” the inspector said.

  Iqbal was silent.

  “No ticket? How about permission slip?”

  “I have nothing,” Iqbal said sullenly. “But I—”

  “No ticket, no nothing, and still you got in?” With a swift movement, the inspector surreptitiously but savagely stomped on his foot. Adish winced as Iqbal let out a soft cry. “Saala, troublemaker,” the inspector said. “How the hell did you sneak in here? What terrorist activity were you planning, you chootia?”

  “I was planning nothing . . .” Iqbal started but seeing the look on the inspector’s face, he fell silent, having finally acknowledged the futility of his situation. The inspector spoke into that silence. “Chalo, take him away to the chowki. Hold him until I get there.”

  Adish was scanning the room for any sign of Laleh as they handcuffed Iqbal. “I’ll get you for this, Adish,” Iqbal spat out, a moment before he was jerked back by the deputy.