The World We Found

by Thrity Umrigar

  “Iqbal,” Adish said quietly. “Just shut up. For your own sake, I’m telling you to shut up.” He turned again to the inspector and motioned for him to walk a few paces with him. “Listen,” he said. “This fellow is basically harmless. He’s just a bit confused. I don’t want you to rough him up, okay? Don’t touch him. Just keep him overnight. Let him cool down. Which station are you taking him to?”

  The inspector told him. “It’s the nearest one, sir,” he added.

  “Okay. I’ll stop by there in the morning. Or I’ll send my peon. Release him then, would you?”

  “No problem, sir.”

  Adish eyed the man’s name plate. “You’re a good man, Inspector Manmohan. My peon will come to the chowki tomorrow with a small envelope for you. What time should I send him?”

  The inspector looked away. “My shift starts at three o’clock, sir,” he mumbled.

  “Okay. I’ll send Jogesh at that time. Thanks for your help.”

  He dialed Laleh’s cell as soon as he had walked away from the inspector. “What happened?” she asked immediately.

  “Iqbal showed up.”

  “I know. I saw him. But then there were too many people and I couldn’t see. Did you two get into a fight or something?”

  He smiled mirthlessly. A dull ache had started in his heart and was spreading through him. “Something like that.”

  “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  “That pipsqueak?” He forced a bravado into his voice that he didn’t feel. For Laleh’s sake. He didn’t want her to worry.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Gone.” He would tell her more after she reached America. Or maybe he never would. His behavior hadn’t been exactly honorable. He felt a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth.

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “Lal. Forget about it. Just enjoy your time with your friends. Everything’s fine. Taken care of. Now go. Enjoy yourself. Tell Nishta sorry about the Mangola. Maybe I’ll buy her a drink in the U.S. next year.”

  She made a soft, choking sound. “I miss you already. How can this be?”

  He smiled. “It’s easy when you’re married to someone as dazzling as me.” But he didn’t feel dazzling. He felt—what?—cheap . . . dishonest . . . corrupt. All of the above. Tears threatened him. “Bye, janu,” he said hastily. “I’d better go check on Farhad. He’s been standing outside for a long time.”

  But he didn’t wander outside. Instead, he dialed Mumtaz’s number, his heart sinking with each second that the phone went unanswered. What had Iqbal done to her? But then he remembered what Iqbal had said about not harming his sister and, to his surprise, he realized that he believed him. After everything that had happened between them, he trusted Iqbal.

  Adish sat on one of the blue plastic chairs and held his head in his hands. Terrorist. He had called Iqbal a terrorist. How he had despised those politicians, both Indian and foreign, who had exploited the tragedy of 9/11 for cheap political gain. How he had railed against the Indian government when it had rewritten the laws so that it was easier to label political opponents with that dreaded word, so that it was easier for the police to trap and snare political prisoners in the iron net of antiterrorist activities. And how effortlessly he had done the same convenient thing, had taken advantage of Iqbal’s long beard, his mullah-like attire. How easily he had exploited the reflexive dislike and fear that many Indians had for Islam. He had counted on the inspector’s own prejudices, had used the inspector’s visceral distrust of Muslims to play off against Iqbal’s otherness. The Parsi as middle-man, as trickster, as the cool, suave, immoral asshole who played one party against the other. How was he different from the bastard who had molested Mumtaz, who had taken advantage of her minority status as a Muslim?

  Maybe Laleh had been right about him all along. She alone had sensed that his moral center had the firmness of pudding. What had she said to him that day in the bedroom? That everything mattered. Maybe it did. Maybe the lie he had told decades ago, the easy manner in which he had colluded with his father-in-law, had set him on a course that had brought him here, to the betrayal of a man he had once considered a brother. But if everything mattered, what about the other parts of his life? He had been honest in his business dealings, quite an accomplishment in this goddamn corrupt country. He had never cheated on his wife, had been a loving and attentive father to his children, a kind and generous employer. Did all of that count for nothing?

  He heard the self-justification of his thoughts, heard the whiny, bargaining quality, and his face contorted with self-disgust. The fact that you don’t cheat on your taxes justifies what you just did? he mocked himself. Getting a man thrown in jail because he was unlucky enough to be born a Muslim? What is your quarrel with Iqbal, after all? But then he remembered looking in the rearview mirror just as Nishta had flung back her veil and how she’d blinked her eyes at the sudden rush of light and he felt a lump in his throat. He did have a quarrel with Iqbal. It was his treatment of Nishta. He had had Iqbal jailed so that she could be free. Wasn’t that the way of the world, the constant lesson of history, the one unchanging rule—that with every new world order the old guard had to be killed, imprisoned, banished, exiled? He shook his head, knowing that he wasn’t making too much sense.

  “Excuse me.” It was the old man with the cane, who had called for the police.

  Adish looked up, startled. “Yes?”

  The overall affect of the man was one of buttoned-down neatness. He had a white, well-trimmed beard, round glasses that reflected the glare of the overhead lights, and wore a dark, well-pressed Nehru jacket. “I just wanted to congratulate you,” the man said with a slight accent. Many years abroad, Adish guessed. “What you did was heroic.”

  Adish’s face flushed. “It turned out to be nothing,” he mumbled. “My mistake.” He felt trapped in his seat with the elderly man standing in front of him.

  The old man’s glasses flashed as he shook his head sharply. “Can’t be too careful,” he said. “These people are spreading like a cancer all across the world. Have to be crushed before they take over.”

  Adish felt nauseous as it occurred to him that the man was talking to him as a fellow sympathizer, as someone he could confide his hateful ideology in. “Excuse me,” he said pointedly, but the man spoke over him. “You’re a Parsi, correct?” he asked and Adish nodded warily.

  The man smiled. “A model community, the Parsis. Adaptable. Wish the other minorities took after you. But the Muslims and Christians . . .” He made a disgusted sound and then looked over his left shoulder. “I see my son is calling for me. Good evening.”

  Adish watched as the stranger moved away briskly. He rose to his feet and took a few steps toward the man. “He was my friend,” he called out. “He had no weapon.” The old man turned around, his mouth slightly open, as if he might say something. But he merely nodded and resumed walking.

  He would try and make amends, of course, Adish thought, as he made his way toward the exit. Maybe he would go to the jail tomorrow instead of sending Jogesh. He wouldn’t speak to Iqbal, not tomorrow. But maybe over the next few weeks he could check in on him. He would stop by the shop where Iqbal worked. Iqbal would be angry at first, violently angry, even. But he would win him over. He could offer him a job in his businesses, or if that didn’t interest Iqbal, he could . . .

  “Bullshit.” He said the word out loud, drawing a glare from a matronly woman walking past him. Stop lying to yourself, he said. None of this would come to pass. He would spring Iqbal out of jail tomorrow, for sure. But after that, their association would end—unless Iqbal came to his door seeking revenge. And somehow, he doubted that would come to pass. Because the scene at the airport had made one thing clear—that he, Adish, could always crush Iqbal, could use the very fact of Iqbal’s Muslimness against him. A night in jail would simply reinforce this message. No, there would be no righting this situation. He and Iqbal would go back to where they were before Armaiti had called with her
sad news, would return to their earlier positions, occupying different parts of the city, their fates never intersecting. This time, Mr. Fixit would lie dormant.

  He walked out through the open doors, happy to leave the tired, recycled air of the terminal behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Inspector Manmohan, but the man was checking the tickets of one of the passengers and didn’t see him. He dialed his cell phone and let it ring but Farhad didn’t answer. Adish knew that it would be hard for the boy to hear his phone amid the din of honking cars and the chatter of the crowd that swelled outside the airport. He looked around desperately at the thousands of faces around him wondering how he’d ever find his son in this crowd when he saw Farhad’s smiling face approaching him. He felt something swell in his heart, felt a moist tenderness for his beautiful, untainted son. “There you are,” he said and hugged him as if they’d been apart for years rather than hours.

  “Okay, Dad, easy,” Farhad muttered uncomfortably. “Did Mom leave?”

  He looked at his watch. “They will be boarding soon.”

  “So everything went fine? No problems with the bags?” And before Adish could answer, Farhad added, “I liked Nishta auntie. She’s sweet.”

  “Isn’t she?” he said distractedly. Maybe they could visit Nishta in America next year, he was thinking. Richard had said something about contacting an attorney to figure out how to keep her in the country permanently. What was that expression? Once you save a life, you are responsible for it. He just hoped that they had indeed saved Nishta’s life, that he wasn’t deluding himself into thinking so.

  “Want me to get the car? I had to park pretty far away.”

  Adish put his arm around his son’s shoulders. “No,” he said. “I want to walk. Let’s walk together.”

  Chapter 27

  Laleh chewed on her lower lip as she hung up from the phone call with Adish, not liking the rote, hollow way in which he had answered her questions about Iqbal’s unexpected appearance and his sudden disappearance. Something unpleasant must’ve happened with Iqbal—he hadn’t left the airport simply because Adish had said please, she thought wryly. She would find out more when they next talked on the phone. The more pressing task was to calm Nishta down.

  “I can’t believe he was here,” Nishta kept saying. “And that he left? Without me? I know Iqbal—he’ll make sure I don’t board this plane.”

  “Nishta,” Kavita said, snapping her fingers. “Look at me. We’ll preboard, okay, if that makes you feel better? Nobody’s going to keep you back now. Do you think Adish would let him hurt you?”

  “I don’t understand,” Nishta said, shaking her head. “How he found out.”

  Kavita sighed. “Look. His meeting probably ended early and he saw your note. We lost so much time in the damn traffic at the airport, remember?”

  Nishta looked wild-eyed. “But what about Mumtaz? Do you think he . . . ?”

  “I don’t understand,” Nishta said, shaking her head. “He must’ve gone home early. But why? Why didn’t he go to his meeting?”

  “What does it matter?” Kavita said. “Maybe the meeting was short. We lost so much time in the damn traffic at the airport. If it hadn’t been for that, he wouldn’t have even—”

  “I didn’t tell you this,” Nishta interrupted. “I did something really stupid. I left Iqbal a note.”

  “You did what?” Laleh said.

  Nishta looked miserable. “I wrote him a note this morning. Telling him I wasn’t coming back. I felt like I owed him that much, you know?”

  “You told him you weren’t returning? Forever?” Laleh couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her voice. “After all the elaborate planning we did?”

  “I did. I’m so sorry, Laleh. I really wasn’t thinking.”

  Laleh bit down on her tongue. She could see that Nishta was on the verge of hysteria. Nothing to be gained by chastising her now. She would have to squeeze in a call to Adish before they took off, alerting him to what had happened. “It’s okay,” she said. “No use crying over—”

  “But what about Mumtaz?” Nishta looked wild-eyed. “Do you think he . . .”

  “Mumtaz is fine,” Laleh said in a pacifying tone. “She’s okay.”

  “I want to phone her. To make sure.”

  Laleh took a deep breath. “Adish said Mumtaz is safe,” she lied. “She left before Iqbal got home and saw your note.”

  She watched as disbelief wrestled with hope on Nishta’s face. “Really?” she said finally. “Adish said that?”

  Laleh forced herself to look Nishta in the eye. “Yes.”

  “Thank God. Thank God.”

  Kavita put her arm around Nishta’s shoulders and the two women wandered around the lounge, Kavita speaking quietly but firmly. After a few minutes, she managed to coax a wan smile out of Nishta.

  Laleh moved to a corner of the large room and dialed Adish’s number. The phone rang several times before it went into voicemail. “Hey,” she said, raising her voice so that she could be heard over the din. “Got some bad news, I’m afraid. Turns out Nishta left a note for Iqbal in which she told him she’s not returning to India. Pretty crazy, huh? Anyway, that’s probably why he came to the airport. I just want you to be careful, okay, janu? Alert the kids, also. No telling what he might do. . . .” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the other two headed toward her. “Okay, ’bye for now. I love you.”

  She hung up and watched as Nishta and Kavita walked across the room. She felt a spurt of anger at Nishta for having endangered her family with a stupid, impulsive gesture, but shook it off. She would not start the trip by being resentful of her friend. Besides, it was hard to stay angry with someone as broken and hurt as Nishta. She had changed, perhaps forever, Laleh realized. There was a nervousness, a skittishness about her that was new. Well, new to me, she corrected herself. The poor girl has probably lived like this for years now. Laleh felt a pang of sadness at the thought of leaving Nishta behind when they left America in three weeks. How in the world would she manage? And with Richard preoccupied with taking care of Armaiti, how much could they expect him to do for her? She knew that Nishta was planning on helping with Armaiti’s care, that she would temporarily live with her. But later . . . after Armaiti . . . Lal shook her head. They would simply have to stay involved in her life. Nishta would be fine. Look at what she’d already achieved. Despite all his faults, Laleh knew that leaving Iqbal hadn’t been easy for Nishta. But she’d done it. Don’t be fooled by the nervous tics and the abrupt manner, Laleh told herself. She remembered that in college Nishta had had more stamina, more physical strength, than any of them. She recalled the set of her mouth the morning she’d come to college and announced that her mother had threatened to commit suicide if she married a Muslim. “What did you say?” they had asked breathlessly. And Nishta had looked at the three of them with cold, clear eyes and said, “I told her her life was her own business. Just like my life was my own. And I am going to marry Iqbal.”

  Remembering that long-ago incident now, Laleh felt a sour feeling in her stomach. What kind of a mother says such an awful thing to her child? she wondered. But the memory also kindled hope in her. What kind of a daughter—especially an Indian daughter, brought up to respect her parents, to believe that duty came before love, to be self-sacrificing, selfless, to always put the needs of others ahead of her own, could have given such an answer? Only one who was tough as nails, who knew the dictates of her heart as clearly as Nishta obviously did. She’ll be fine, Laleh thought. She’ll not just survive, she’ll thrive.

  She smiled as Nishta and Kavita reached her. “Seems like I’m destined to lose all my friends to America,” she grumbled good-naturedly. “First Armaiti, now you.”

  Nishta took Laleh’s hand and, in a completely unselfconscious gesture, held it up to her mouth and kissed it. “You’ll always have me, my Lal,” she said. She held on to Laleh for another moment before letting her go. “I need to go to the loo,” she said. “Don’t leave without me, accha?” />
  Kavita grinned. “Yeah, right. After what we’ve been through.”

  They watched as Nishta crossed the lounge and disappeared into the bathroom. Laleh said, “Let’s sit. I’m exhausted.”

  Kavita nodded. “You look awful.”

  Laleh grimaced. “Thanks, Ka. You’re so good for my morale.”

  “You know what I mean, yaar.”

  Laleh sighed. “This business with Iqbal has wiped me out. Adish was really vague on the phone, but I know something happened between him and Iqbal.” She shifted in her seat so that she could look at Kavita. “Tell me we did the right thing. With Nishta, I mean.”

  Kavita stared straight ahead. “I think we did the only thing we could,” she said after a while. “I mean, leaving Nishta to her fate would’ve been a betrayal of . . . everything.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. But I must say, seeing Iqbal at the airport freaked me out.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Then, “Ka,” Laleh said, not bothering to disguise the ache in her voice. “What happened? I mean, to Iqbal? To us? How did we end up on opposite sides?”

  Kavita smiled, and there was a world of sadness and hard-won wisdom in that smile. “What’s the clarifying principle here, you mean? Remember how we used to try and solve all political arguments by asking that question, Lal? It’s amazing how we were ever stupid enough to think there was a single answer. Because there isn’t one. What happened to Iqbal? Life happened. In all its banality, brutality, cruelty, unfairness. But also in its beauty, pleasures, and delights. Life happened.”

  Laleh opened her mouth to argue, to protest that Kavita’s answer was too easy, not sufficiently critical of the social forces that ground human beings into the dust, when a figure moving toward them caught her eye.

  The shaking started as soon as Nishta went into the bathroom. She bunched up her robe and lowered herself on the commode, waiting for the sensation to pass, but her hands fluttered like butterfly wings and her bones felt as cold as the moon. It was as though her very skeleton was rattling. Seeing Iqbal appear at the airport and then disappear had unnerved her. Even now, she could not believe that she was actually free, that she was getting away with this. Surely something will still go wrong, she thought. Surely, at this very moment, he is talking to the police, convincing them to come looking for her. But then she remembered that Adish was at the airport, too, and she felt a little better. Besides, if something were to happen, if Iqbal were to create a scene, surely it would’ve happened by now.