The World We Found

by Thrity Umrigar

  “Bhabi, what’s wrong? Is your face paining?”

  She blinked back her tears. “No. I’m fine.”

  Mumtaz stared at her for a second and then she shook her head violently, as if she didn’t want to host the thought that had flown into it.

  “No,” she said, as if losing an argument with herself. “Iqbal would never . . . for all his faults, he’s no . . . Did he do this, Zoha? Hit you?”

  “He didn’t hit me. Just a slap. Nothing, really. Happened so fast it scared him more than me. And you know how my skin is. Everything shows. It doesn’t hurt at all.” Her voice sounded tinny and ridiculous to her own ears.

  Mumtaz took her by the hand. “Zoha jaan. Come sit down. I’ll make some tea. No, come sit.”

  She allowed herself to be led to the old sofa, but after a few minutes she rose and followed Mumtaz into the kitchen. From the doorway, she heard herself ask, “Has Hussein ever hit you?”

  Mumtaz spun around, shaking her head vigorously. “No, bhabi. Never. He’s far from perfect, believe me. You know the problems in my marriage. I’ve kept no secrets from you. But at least he never forced me to wear purdha, like you. And never this.” Her eyes flashed. “I’ll kill Iqbal. I swear, I’ll . . .”

  “Mumtaz,” Nishta said gently. “He’s your brother. Remember how much he loves you.”

  Mumtaz shrugged and looked away. “That relationship ended a long time ago,” she said.

  “I’ll never understand why.”

  Mumtaz poured out two cups of tea. “Someday I’ll explain. But today we are talking about you.” She frowned. “I’m no longer a child, bhabi. Besides, you’ve done more to help me than my own brother has. What you said to me on my wedding day, I’ll never forget. About coming to you night or day if I needed help in my marriage. Not even my own mother said that. They were all so happy to get me off their hands. The fact that Hussein is fifteen years older meant nothing to them.”

  Nishta heard the bitterness in her sister-in-law’s voice. “I never understood why you married him in the first place,” she said. “You were so young.”

  “I was a child,” Mumtaz said. “Had dreams of being a commercial artist. Marriage was the last thing on my mind.”

  “Then, why?” Nishta asked, remembering how emphatically she had argued with Iqbal at the time, and how secretive but adamant he had been.

  Mumtaz shrugged. “None of this matters now. Ancient history.” She sat down on the sofa, balancing the teacup on her lap. Reaching over, she pulled Nishta beside her on the sofa. “So tell me. Why did he strike you?”

  Nishta started at the beginning. Told Mumtaz about her excitement about Kavita and Laleh’s amazing, unexpected visit. Her shock and sadness at the news about Armaiti. Iqbal’s paranoid, unsympathetic reaction. How he forbade her from contacting the other two again, and, when she argued, his confiscation of her cell phone. Adish’s attempt to plead his wife’s case. Iqbal’s reaction to this. The exchange of heated words over dinner. His hand flying to her face, severing in an instant the connection that they had shared for decades.

  “Ya Allah,” Mumtaz breathed when she was done. “He took your cell phone? What kind of a man does this? Who has Iqbal become?”

  “I ask myself this question daily,” Nishta whispered.

  The women stared at each other for a moment, their chins trembling. Then Mumtaz took her index finger and lightly rubbed the bruise on Nishta’s face. “He never was the same since after the riots,” she murmured. There was something in her voice that Nishta couldn’t identify.

  “Well, the riots were terrible.” Nishta shuddered. “We all saw things no human being ever should. And we were lucky. At least we were spared.”

  Mumtaz gave a short, bitter laugh. “Yah. We were the lucky ones.”

  Again, something in her voice that Nishta couldn’t quite place. “Are you and Hussein . . .” she started again but Mumtaz cut her off.

  “Forget Hussein and me,” she said. “I want to do something for you. I want to help you.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. But there’s nothing anyone can—”

  “Yes, I can. Don’t say that. Don’t say there’s nothing I can do.” Mumtaz stared into the distance for a second and when she spoke, her voice was wistful. “I was really little when all of you used to come to our house. But I still remember your friends. My God, it was like having movie stars descend upon us.”

  Nishta sighed. “Those days are long gone.”

  Mumtaz opened her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “Here, bhabi. Use this. Call your friends.”

  Nishta shook her head. “No thanks. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  Mumtaz snorted. “I’m not afraid of anybody,” she said. “Perfectly legal, talking to a friend on the phone.” She put her cell phone on the coffee table in front of them.

  “Mumtaz, what’s the point?” Nishta said. “I have nothing in common with them anymore. And for all I know they’re already in America.”

  “Sheesh.” Mumtaz rolled her eyes. “Just listen to yourself, Zoha. All I’m asking you to do is return a friend’s call and you have a list of excuses longer than the Great Wall of China.” She gave Nishta a little push. “Go get their phone number. Just go, na.”

  Kavita was in a foul mood. It was Ingrid’s last day in town and already she was missing her. The three days had gone by so quickly and Laleh and Adish’s easy acceptance of Ingrid had made her feel even more warmly toward her girlfriend. Who was about to get on a plane in another seven hours.

  So what the hell were they doing at work? Why the hell was she letting that ass Rahul monopolize Ingrid’s time? “You guys going out of town?” Rahul had asked when she’d told him she was taking a few days off because Ingrid was coming to Bombay. And, stupidly, dumbly, she had answered, “No.” Which Rahul took as an invitation to leave multiple messages on her phone, asking her to drop by the office with Ingrid so he could say hello. Finally, she’d suggested to Ingrid that they swing by for fifteen minutes this morning. The fifteen minutes had turned into two hours and Rahul seemed in no hurry to stop picking Ingrid’s brain about their newest collaboration.

  Kavita was headed toward Rahul’s office when she saw Mohan, her assistant, come toward her. “Phone call for you, madam,” he said.

  “Take a message. I’m still on vacation, remember?”

  “I tried, madam. Says it’s urgent.”

  She gritted her teeth. Clients could be so pushy. “Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.” Hand on Rahul’s doorknob, she turned her head. “Who is it?”

  “Says her name is Nishta, madam. Says she is—”

  She was flying down the hallway before he could finish the rest of his sentence.

  Mumtaz looked at Nishta and shook her head. “Look at you,” she said softly. “Ten minutes on the phone with Kavita auntie and your whole face looks different. Color in your cheeks. Even your eyes are shining.”

  Nishta smiled self-consciously. “Kavita is so warm. She’s always been so . . .”

  “You should go,” Mumtaz said abruptly. “With them. Since they haven’t left yet. I can help you. I have money—I’m a rich man’s wife, remember?”

  “Mumtaz, it’s okay. This is not your problem. You heard me tell Kavita I couldn’t go. Please don’t involve yourself in this. I don’t want to open a rift in the family.”

  Mumtaz got a stubborn look on her face that Nishta recognized from her years of living with Iqbal. “Bhabi,” she said. “I can’t help you if you don’t want to help yourself. But I think you should go. A dying woman has asked for your help. I think you should honor her wishes.”

  Nishta rose tiredly from the couch. “I swear, you and your brother could convince a starving man to not eat.” She attempted a laugh but it fell flat.

  Mumtaz stood to face Nishta. There was a slight wetness in her eyes. “You know, Iqbal’s been running other people’s lives for too many years. I think it’s time for him to stop.”

  The room fell silent
. Nishta looked away first. Mumtaz was saying something else but Nishta didn’t hear her. Her mind was replaying the innocent question that Kavita had posed to her just before they’d hung up: Why hadn’t she called them from a pay phone if Iqbal had hidden her mobile? The answer made her lips twist with bitterness: because of some misguided sense of loyalty to Iqbal. Because she had claimed Iqbal’s shame as her own, pulled it tight over herself, like a second skin. The realization embarrassed Nishta, made her realize how fuzzy and distorted her thinking had become. Between Mumtaz’s outrage and Kavita’s question, she could see her own complicity in her captivity.

  “So what are you suggesting?” she whispered. “That I leave without Iqbal’s permission?”

  Mumtaz pulled on her lower lip. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe Hussein can knock some sense into my brother’s thick skull.” She looked away for a second and then focused on Nishta. “Let me talk to Kavita auntie again. I don’t know anything about going abroad.” She made a face. “At least you’ve been to Dubai. I’ve never even left India.”

  Nishta put her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “Mumtaz. I know you want to help. But please don’t call Kavita again. I don’t want to get their hopes up. I . . . I . . . God, I don’t want to get my hopes up. Iqbal will never let me go.”

  But Mumtaz was already redialing Kavita’s number. Nishta stood around purposelessly for a second, biting her nails and then began pacing around the small room, listening to Mumtaz’s end of the conversation. When Mumtaz signaled for a pen and writing paper she hurried into the kitchen. Hunting through the kitchen drawer, she saw, in a sudden flash, the rest of her life with Iqbal, the slow descent from middle age to old age. The future looked unimaginably dull and blank, a slow, funereal procession of days and years that led to nowhere beautiful.

  Mumtaz looked up as Nishta walked back into the living room; she grabbed the pen from her to jot down whatever Kavita was saying. “Yes, yes, of course,” Mumtaz said. “Definitely. No problem, auntie. Thank you so much. I’ll be in touch. Okay, bye.”

  “I don’t know why you’re doing all this,” Nishta said as soon as Mumtaz hung up. “I can’t go anywhere.”

  Mumtaz held her finger to her lips. “Shh. I need your passport.”

  “What?”

  “Your passport. I need it.”

  Nishta blinked. “What for?”

  Mumtaz smiled impatiently. “Kavita auntie said we have to make a visa application online. So we need your passport, ration card, financial papers. Then they call you for your interview. Your friends already have their visas. But she said they’ll postpone their trip until you get your interview.”

  “Wait. Wait,” Nishta said, rubbing her forehead. “Mumtaz, I don’t even have enough money to go from here to Pune, let alone to America.”

  Mumtaz looked insulted. “Nobody asked you for money,” she muttered.

  A few days ago she had prayed to an unknown god for help. And here, sitting next to her, was an answered prayer, in the unexpected form of Iqbal’s own sister. Mumtaz, who was planning her trip to America as blithely as if she were planning a picnic at Hanging Gardens. Was this yet another mindless detour, another joke that life was playing on her? Could she trust this?

  “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t. And I don’t want to involve you in this.”

  Mumtaz sighed heavily and stared at Nishta. “Let me ask a simple question,” she said finally. “If you didn’t have to worry about what Iqbal thought or what Ammi will say or where the money will come from, what would you do? Would you go? Yes or no?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Well, yes. Of course. Armaiti was one of my best friends.”

  Mumtaz nodded. Then she said, “I’m younger than you, bhabi. But let me say something. In this life, most of the time we live and sacrifice for others. For husbands, for children, for aging parents. And that’s good. It’s the natural order of things. But once in a while, we must do something for ourselves. The secret is knowing when it is your turn.” Mumtaz’s eyes blazed like sparklers as they rested on Nishta’s face. “This is your turn, Zoha. Take it.”

  Nishta blinked back the tears that formed unexpectedly. She reached out and caressed Mumtaz’s left cheek. “You are so sweet to me,” she said. “But I can’t.”

  Mumtaz’s voice was a whisper. “Let me do this. For me. Not for you. For me.” A film of sweat shone on her upper lip.

  A dim, blue flame of suspicion ignited in Nishta’s mind. For me? Why was Mumtaz so anxious to help? Was she using her as a pawn in some age-old rebellion against her brother? But the suspicion was doused by the slow excitement that built in her body. Was this really possible? That Mumtaz would help get her out? Luck had not been her friend in so long. Could she trust it now? Could she trust it?

  “Mumtaz, are you sure? This is not a game, you know. Iqbal is going to be very angry.”

  Mumtaz clucked her tongue dismissively. “Don’t worry so much, na. I know how to handle my brother.” She paused, and then grinned. “Let’s just do this one step at a time. No law that says you have to go just because you have a visa, correct? But definitely a law that says you can’t go if you don’t have a visa.” She snapped her fingers. “So let’s get your visa. Simple.”

  “Okay,” Nishta said. “Okay.” She went to the Steelcase cupboard and opened the inner safe where she and Iqbal kept all their valuables. She found his passport right away. But not hers. It took her a few seconds to realize that Iqbal had removed it. She didn’t bother hiding her shock when she returned to the living room. “It’s gone,” she said woodenly. “Iqbal must have taken it.”

  The two women sat in embarrassed silence on the sofa, not looking at each other. Then Mumtaz said, “I’m sure I know where he put it. After all, he’s not taking your passport to work with him everyday.” She turned toward Nishta. “You know that safe that Ammi has? I’ll bet you anything he’s hidden it there.”

  Nishta shook her head no. She was in shock over Iqbal’s treachery. How far will he go? she wondered. Where will it end? Who is this man I’ve spent all these years with?

  “Yes, you do,” Mumtaz insisted. “It’s the small brown one where Ammi keeps her wedding jewelry. We took her jewelry out of it and gave it to Sharma uncle to hold for us during the riots, remember? Ma told him she trusted him like her own brother.” There was a vibration, a tremor in Mumtaz’s voice. But it barely registered, like the roar of the traffic under her window.

  “I think so,” Nishta said vaguely.

  “You stay here. I know the code. I’ll go visit with Ammi for a few minutes and then tell her I need to borrow her jewelry for a party. I’ll be back soon.”

  Mumtaz returned twenty minutes later and triumphantly pulled the blue book out of her handbag. “I knew it. I’m telling you, I can read my brother’s mind better than anybody.”

  “Did Ammi see?”

  “She was in the other room. Don’t fret so much.” She tossed the passport on the coffee table and turned toward Nishta. “There’s something I should say,” she began. “On behalf of my whole family, I apologize to you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Nishta said. “You had nothing to—”

  “No. I mean it. I had—I feel responsible for who my brother has become. Stealing his wife’s cell phone, hiding her passport. It’s shameful, but I understand why he has become this way.” Mumtaz swallowed hard and then shook her head abruptly, as if to dismiss any softening toward Iqbal. “But I don’t excuse it. In fact, I reject it.” She paused for a second. “One thing I promise you, bhabi. I will help you. Even if it means bearing Iqbal’s wrath. And in any case, I know Iqbal. He can’t stay angry for long. Once you return from America, he will forgive me.”

  Nishta forced a blankness to fall across her face. Because she had almost said it out loud: If I go, I’m not coming back. If I can escape the prison my life has become, I am flying away forever.

  Chapter 17

  Laleh
had the driver drop her off at the entrance of the club that she and Adish belonged to. She usually avoided visiting the club in the evening. The diamond-encrusted women in their silks and chiffons, their bossy, preening husbands who asserted their power by barking orders at the waiters, their whiny children who harassed their tired-looking ayahs while their parents played cards or stuffed themselves with oily, heavy food—Laleh reacted to all of them as if they were personally insulting her. If she went to the club at all, she usually went in the afternoon, to swim for an hour. Or she might occasionally treat a friend to lunch there, on the verandah overlooking the sea, before the evening crowds descended.

  But Adish came here after work three nights a week to play tennis, and this was one of those nights. Laleh had made her peace with the fact that he would be home late tonight, but as the evening wore on she found the waiting to be unbearable. Not when she had such wonderful news to give to him.

  “Just stop here,” she told the driver. “I’ll call when I’m ready.”

  As she approached the tennis court, she spotted Adish immediately. He was ready to serve, reaching up on his toes to smack the ball, when he caught sight of her. He stopped, called out something to his partner and hurried toward her. “What’s wrong?” he said immediately.

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “Can’t I just come to watch you . . .”

  “Bollocks.” Adish pulled a white towel off the chair on the side of the court and mopped the sweat off his face. “What is it? The children?”

  “Go finish your game,” she said, suddenly annoyed at herself for not having waited until he got home. Poor Adish. Tennis was his one relaxation. She smiled to reassure him. “Everything’s okay. I just have some news to give you. But it can wait.”

  Instead, he trotted over to where his tennis partner was waiting impatiently. “Sorry, yaar. Family situation. Do you mind if we stop?”