They were sitting side by side on the second day poring over blueprints in Ingrid’s sun-lit office, when Ingrid ran her index finger lightly over Kavita’s wrist. “Kavita,” she said, the green eyes dark and searching, “shall we sleep with each other and get it over with? It’s hard to concentrate on the job, otherwise.”
Kavita felt a roaring in her ears. She swallowed hard, unable to look up from the drawings if her life depended on it. Her eyes focused on the red star in the middle of the blueprint until that was all she saw. The silence dragged on.
“I’m sorry,” she heard Ingrid say, and for the first time since she’d met her, Ingrid sounded tentative and shaky. “Did I misread the situation?”
“I, I don’t know what to say.” Kavita forced herself to look up.
Ingrid exhaled sharply. “Boy. I sure made a fool of myself. Please. Forgive me.” The briskness was back in her voice. “Can we just forget this happened?”
“Sure.” She bit her lower lip.
Ingrid nodded. “Okay.” She cleared her throat and then looked down at the prints again. “Now. What I suggest we do is submit the plans by—”
“I thought you were married.” She had meant it as a question but it came out plaintive, more like an accusation.
Ingrid shrugged. “Hans and I—we have an arrangement. He accepts it.”
The gurgle started somewhere deep within Kavita and suddenly, she was shaking with laughter. All these years. All this time that she’d lived like a nun, there had been people like Ingrid. She recalled the four years of college spent pining away for Armaiti and the wasted years since college when she’d not entertained any thoughts of romance, traumatized as she’d been by the memory of the humiliation at the police station when the constable had penetrated her through her clothes as a roomful of policemen had watched with leering eyes. Instead, for the past five years she had subjected herself every week to a furtive, shame-filled massage by a woman who had sensed, smelled, her loneliness and her hunger. The few times there had been the prospect of romance, she had not allowed herself to entertain the possibility. What a waste. What a waste of a life. She had been so worried about whether her brother would pull away from her if he knew she was gay, about the bewilderment and shame that would creep into Ma’s eyes, about whether Rahul would continue to respect her, that she had walled off a whole section of her life. And during that whole time, in a different spot on the globe, there lived people like Ingrid and Hans.
“It’s that funny, what I said?” There was annoyance and affront in Ingrid’s voice but something else, something that tore at Kavita’s heart—hurt.
She stopped mid-laugh and shook her head. “No. You don’t understand. I was laughing—at myself. Not at you.” She looked deeply into Ingrid’s face and a warm, tender feeling came over her. “Never at you.”
She watched in fascination as the indignation on Ingrid’s face softened and dissolved, like a lump of sugar in a cup of hot tea. “Have dinner with me tonight,” Ingrid said. A vein pulsed at the side of her neck. “Please.”
The feeling of tenderness lingered. “Okay. But we should get some work done, no?”
They went over the plans for another fifteen minutes and then Ingrid banged her hand on the table. “Ah, shit,” she said. “Let’s forget this. It’s a beautiful day. Let me show you a bit of Hamburg. And then we’ll get a bite to eat.”
In the car, she was excruciatingly aware of Ingrid’s hand resting on the stick shift. She noticed the fine hair on her bare arms, the manicured fingernails, the copper bracelet on the thin wrist. A shiver ran through her as she imagined those hands on her body. She turned her head slightly to look out the window. She startled as she felt Ingrid’s hand on her thigh, as if she had willed it there. She continued looking out of the window until she heard Ingrid say, “Do you mind?” and again heard that tentative quality in Ingrid’s voice.
She shook her head. “It’s okay.”
Ingrid laughed. “It’s okay?” She moved her hand in slow, small circles across Kavita’s thigh. “I usually get a stronger response than that.”
Her throat was so dry that she didn’t know if she could talk. Besides, as long as she looked out the window, she was not responsible for what was happening.
She caught herself. Dissociating. That’s what she was doing. It was an old habit, born the night of her molestation at the police station. She had done the same thing during her first visit to the massage parlor in Cuffe Parade, when the masseuse had kneaded her breasts and then massaged the inside of her thighs. She had left the parlor feeling uneasy and confused, vowing not to return. But the next week, convinced that she’d misread the situation, she went back. This time, the woman’s hands strayed to the inside of her thighs again. Only this time they did not stop there. This time, while Kavita bit down on her lip, the woman put one oil-slick finger inside her, and then another, and then another. Kavita lay immobile, fighting the desire of her body to move in time with the woman’s increasingly aggressive movements. And after it was over, the woman went back to her regular massage, while Kavita lay there, scarlet-faced and rigid with self-loathing. But within that rigidity, there was a looseness, a lightness. It was that lightness, a sensation that was purely physical, an assertion by her body that seemed immune to the invective she hurled at herself, that took her back to the parlor the following Saturday. Each week she had acted as if it was her first time there, and each time she ignored the growing look of enjoyment in the woman’s eyes as she relished the command she had over her silent client.
Now, fighting to ignore the fact that Ingrid’s fingers were leaving a burning trail over her thigh, she caught her mind disengaging from what her body was feeling. Was she so far gone that she could not distinguish between the groping of a police constable intent on humiliating and frightening her and the honesty of Ingrid’s desire for her? Between the masseuse who had serviced her for whatever reason—most likely for nothing more profound than the hope for a bigger tip—and the guileless way in which Ingrid had propositioned her? And was seducing her now?
“You know what?” she said, making no effort to keep the rawness out of her voice. “Do you mind if we go to my hotel?”
She felt Ingrid tense beside her. “You sure?”
She nodded and forced herself to face the woman beside her. “I’m sure.”
Two hours later, Kavita lay in bed, stunned at what had passed between the two of them. Ingrid, however, claimed to be not in the least bit surprised. “Rubbish. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you. Honest.”
“Knew what?”
“Knew . . . you. I knew you. Also, that the fit would be good.”
Kavita giggled. “The fit? That sounds so . . . clinical. So mechanical. ”
Ingrid had given one of her voluble shrugs. “What do you expect? I’m German.”
Kavita was still smiling at the memory of that afternoon fifteen years ago when Ingrid emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped around her, her red hair wet and dark. “What are you smiling about, my lovely?”
“Just remembering the first time we . . . you know.”
“The first time we made love?” Ingrid sat on the bed next to Kavita. “Still can’t say it? All these years with me and you’re still shy?”
She took Ingrid’s hand in hers and placed it on her stomach. “I’m not shy.” She looked deeply into Ingrid’s eyes. “In fact, I’m pretty bold.”
“How bold?” The green eyes sparkled like the beads of water on Ingrid’s neck.
“This bold,” she said as she undid Ingrid’s towel.
The ring of her cell phone woke Kavita up an hour later. Beside her, Ingrid groaned and threw a pillow across her head, muttering darkly in German.
“Shush,” Kavita said playfully as she flipped open her phone. “Hello?” She hunted for her watch on the bedside table.
“Hey. It’s me. How are you?”
Shit. She’d forgotten to cancel the dinner plans she’d made with Laleh weeks ago. “I’m fin
e,” she said.
“So where are you? Home?”
“No, at the Taj. My friend—my business associate—Ingrid is in town.”
“Oh. You sound like you were asleep.”
There was a sudden strained silence, as though Laleh had just realized the significance of what she’d said. Kavita’s mind searched for a way out of the situation when a thought struck her: Ingrid loved her. She had flown into Bombay on an impulse after a long, weepy conversation in which Kavita had confessed her grief over Armaiti’s illness and the squelched reconnection with Nishta. Suddenly she wanted to be free of all secrecy and lies. Laleh and Ingrid would like each other, she realized. All these years and she had never introduced them.
“I was,” she heard herself say. “We were. Taking a nap.”
Another silence, short and loaded this time, and then Laleh said, matter-of-factly, “Good. So, where are we going for dinner?”
She almost laughed out loud. Ever since they’d decided that they would visit Armaiti, she had agonized about whether she would acknowledge to Armaiti the torch that she’d carried for her, had spent hours calculating whether it was better to acknowledge the past or ignore it. And now Laleh had parted her apprehension and shame like a bead curtain.
She forced herself to focus on the conversation. “I don’t know,” she said. “You guys want to meet us at the Taj?”
“I’m thinking.” The blast of a car horn chewed up a few of Laleh’s words and then Kavita heard her say, “Tell you what. Why don’t you and—your friend—come over here for dinner? I’ll get something delivered from Khazana.”
“Adish won’t mind?”
“God, no. The poor chap is working so hard these days, he’ll be happy to stay home.”
“Okay. See you when? Sevenish?”
“Yup.”
She hung up and rolled over to where Ingrid was snoring softly next to her. As usual, she ran her index finger over the crease on Ingrid’s forehead and then stroked her cheek. Ingrid smiled in her sleep. “Hmmm,” she mumbled. The smile grew deeper. “That feels nice.”
Kavita leaned over and kissed the damp red hair. “Wake up, darling,” she said. “I just made plans for us for this evening. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Where’re we going? Can’t we just get room service?”
“Well, actually, my friend Laleh invited us over. And I said yes.”
Ingrid was wide awake now. The green eyes circled Kavita’s face. “You’re introducing me to your best friend?”
Hearing hope battling with disbelief in Ingrid’s voice, Kavita felt a wave of remorse for not having done this sooner. “I am.” She searched for Ingrid’s hand under the sheet and held it. “I love you very much. I don’t care who knows it.”
“What on earth has brought this on?” Ingrid said wryly. Her eyes twinkled. “Or are you just in a postcoital rapture?”
Kavita laughed out loud and then immediately grew serious. “I’ve spent my life hiding from the very people who love me, Ing. I’m not doing this anymore. I mean, until—until the news of Armaiti, I used to think—I don’t know—like I had plenty of time or something. But now . . .” She shook her head. “Forget it. I know I’m not making sense.”
Ingrid lifted Kavita’s hand and held it to her lips. “Yes, you are. And I can’t wait to meet the mysterious Laleh.”
Chapter 14
Iqbal could still feel on his forehead the imprint of the cool tile of the masjid floor where he had prostrated himself a moment ago. The cool was a welcome comfort from the hot, busy thoughts that raced like red ants through his mind. So was the peace that he’d felt during the evening namaaz, as the sonorous, musical chanting and the repetition of prayer—Holy is my Lord, the Most High—fell like raindrops over his fevered brain. His lips quivered as he stood up, his heart brimming with piety and compassion. It was better than any drug, this prayer. More powerful, more addictive, more necessary. It made him feel humble and powerful at the same time, gave him a way to see the world from afar, so that he could see how small the problems that occupied his days, really were. It taught him that the things from the material world that encroached upon him were unimportant, as inconsequential as fruit flies. Shield us from the torment of fire, he had just prayed, and already it was working, already serenity spread like an unclenched fist throughout his body.
“As salaam alaikum,” Hassad said to him as Iqbal slipped into his shoes, and he smiled in response. “Wa-alaikum salaam,” he replied. Peace be with you.
But as he descended down the stone steps of the mosque, peace was already proving to be elusive. He remembered that he and Zoha were going to Mumtaz’s house for a party tonight and his stomach muscles tightened at the thought. As much as he loved his nephew and niece, he hated visiting his sister. For one thing, his brother-in-law, Hussein, drank alcohol, drank openly and freely, as if he were a Hindu or a Christian. And Mumtaz acted so stiffly around him. After all these years, she still blamed him for her marriage, he suspected, and thinking about this, he felt a spurt of anger. What did they all expect from him? He was just a solitary being in a confusing world. He had done his best for her, in a time of burning, when everything—homes, neighborhoods, cars, hopes, innocence, ideals—was going up in smoke. Mumtaz had always been a romantic, that was her problem, her head turned by those Bollywood melodramas she used to watch incessantly as a young girl. She had wanted love, courtship, passion, really, she had wanted all the things that he’d had once with Zoha, he now acknowledged, and his heart twisted in bitterness. Look where their promising start, their shiny love had led them. Mumtaz was clinging to something as ephemeral as a child’s balloon lost at sea. Over a girlhood fantasy, she had destroyed her relationship with him, the brother who had taken on a second job to pay for her dowry. Mumtaz, Zoha, all the women in his life were looking at him as if he was their bad mistake. When all he was, was a tired soul in a bewildering world.
He stepped onto the busy, noisy street full of hawkers and beggars and automobiles and felt the piety of just a few moments ago begin to drain out of him. In its place grew the familiar burdens of worry and resentment. He had a name for this syndrome: Allah Left and Iqbal Returned. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he prayed, it was always like this. In the old days, the feeling of contentment used to linger longer, sometimes he was able to hold on to it all the way home, and then, wanting to continue that delicious, precious feeling, he would stop by the sweetmeat shop and buy some halwa for Zoha. And when she would protest about weight gain, he would tell her that as far as he was concerned she was still the most beautiful woman in the world, and he would mean it. But such moments of sweetness seldom arose between them anymore.
Iqbal looked at the night sky and swallowed the sob that was forming in his throat. Did Zoha think he was enjoying this, monitoring her every move? Did she not realize that when he had struck her for the first time in their married life, it was himself that he had really hurt? What had she called him last night? Her jailer. Him, Iqbal, who had battled the world for her sake. Zoha had been his first religion. From the day he had met her in college, he had lived to make her happy. Did she forget this? Or had she never known? He had fought with his own parents when they had balked at the news that their son wanted to marry a Hindu. He had even been willing to convert to Hinduism—Iqbal pinched himself now as punishment for that early blasphemy—for her sake. Apart from his college friends, everyone he knew had tormented him for marrying a Hindu girl. That much he had to give Adish and the rest—they had been open and total in their support. But they were mere children then. What did any of them know about the ways of the world? Leaving college and getting a job at the bank had been like waking up from a dream: the jokes on Eid about whether he had slaughtered a goat before coming to work that morning; the automatic assumption that he supported the Pakistani team during the India-Pakistan cricket matches; the hostile looks directed his way every time there was a terrorist attack anywhere in India.
The day he le
ft the bank had been the happiest day of his life. Even though his colleagues had slighted him, taking him to a Udipi restaurant for a farewell lunch, instead of the expensive Chinese restaurant they usually went to for dinner when someone left. Even though Zoha had looked at him in disbelief for the whole two weeks that he worked there after handing in his resignation letter. And, yes, even though—Ya Allah—she had suffered a miscarriage two months later. Because he had never believed, as she had, that it was her worry and stress over money that had caused her to miscarry.
A beggar woman trailed after Iqbal and he dug into the pocket of his pajama and flung a coin into her open palm. “God bless you, sir,” she said before moving on, but he didn’t hear her, thinking as he was about his scrotum.
He had had the vasectomy after Zoha miscarried the third time. The doctor kept saying he saw no rhyme or reason for the miscarriages. Be patient, he counseled. You are both still young and healthy.
But he could not deal with the stricken expression on Zoha’s face after each mishap. Or the snide comments made by his mother about the barren womb of his “foreign” wife. And once they moved into the new neighborhood, he didn’t want children with Hindu blood. Although Zoha had converted by then, it was too difficult, too risky, too confusing. He imagined seeing in his children’s faces their Hindu grandfather’s visage—the same man who had refused to look at Iqbal when he’d gone over to ask for Zoha’s hand in marriage, a man who had never set eyes on his daughter since she’d married Iqbal, as if a dead daughter were preferable to a Muslim son-in-law. The Hand of God, he had thought after the third miscarriage. Allah the All-Knowing is behind the miscarriages, to spare us future grief. He did not consult Zoha about the vasectomy. But, still, he had not expected her outraged reaction. Some part of him had thought of the vasectomy as an act of love, of heroic self-sacrifice, a way of protecting his wife from the barbed comments of those around them. From now on, he could be the reason for the unnaturalness of being a young, healthy couple without children.
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