The World We Found

by Thrity Umrigar

  “Just when I was about to beat the pants off of you.” The other man grinned. “Well, I’ll see you day after tomorrow.”

  They found a quiet spot near the swimming pool and Adish ordered a scotch for himself and a cocktail for Laleh. “So?”

  “We—Kavita heard from Nishta.” She waited for him to react, but he stared at her impassively. “Nishta contacted us. Turns out Iqbal had confiscated her cell phone. Can you imagine?” She waited for her own revulsion and outrage to be reflected on Adish’s face but it had turned to stone.

  “Say something,” she finally urged.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  She ignored his last remark. “She wants to come. To America, to see Armaiti. So we have to figure out how to help.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” There was a flash in Adish’s eyes that she knew meant trouble, but she wasn’t about to acknowledge it.

  The waiter set their drinks before them along with a bowl of beer nuts. Adish popped a fistful into his mouth, chewing hard, his eyes never leaving Laleh’s face. “You know I gave my word to Iqbal,” he said. “You know I would never—”

  “Adish,” she said urgently. “This is our friend. She is in a bad marriage. We can help her. What is there to discuss?”

  Adish closed his eyes. “Iqbal was our friend, too. My mother always told me one never knows what goes on between a man and a woman. And Iqbal has suffered so much. I wish I could tell you some of the things he told me.”

  He was getting that stubborn look on his face, the lower lip jutting out, that Laleh had come to know only too well over the years. She knew she only had a few minutes to get it right. “It was Mumtaz who phoned Kavita,” she said quietly. “Iqbal’s sister. Why? Because even she knows injustice when she sees it.” She saw Adish raise an eyebrow at the mention of Mumtaz, and she pressed her advantage. “He makes her wear a burkha, janu. A burkha. He’s broken her spirit. You remember what Nishta used to be like, so carefree and easygoing. She’s a nervous wreck these days. Why should she continue living like this? Tell me. Just so that you can say you kept your word?”

  “A promise is a promise.”

  “Damn your promise.” She had spoken louder than she intended, and he put a warning hand over her wrist. She shook it away. “A promise is only meaningful if it is just.”

  “I know a lot of lawyers who would disagree with that interpretation, sweetie.”

  She stared at him in anger. “What do you think this is, Adish, some bloody game? I’m not discussing some esoteric principle here. I’m asking . . .” Angry tears filled her eyes. “I came here to ask you to help.” She rose from her chair. “Forget it. I’ll take care of this myself.”

  “Laleh.” Adish’s voice was low but urgent. “You’re making a scene. Now sit down and let’s talk like adults.”

  She looked down at him, focusing on the tiny bald spot that had started on the top of his head. “No. You talk. You spend your life discussing things, clinging to your ridiculous promises.” She moved away from the table and then stomped back. “You know what you promised Iqbal, don’t you? You promised to keep your mouth shut and look the other way. That’s all you promised him, darling.” She shook her head. “Forget it. I’m going home.”

  “Wait,” he called, but she ignored him.

  Adish didn’t get home until ten that night. Laleh had calmed down enough to regret her outburst at the club. She waited for him to enter their bedroom but when he didn’t after fifteen minutes of being home, she went into the kitchen where he was sitting with the children.

  She noticed immediately that he wasn’t making eye contact with her. And, apparently, so did their son. “So what did you guys fight about?” Farhad asked after a few minutes and they both jumped guiltily. “Nothing,” she said. “No fight,” Adish stammered.

  Farhad looked at them languidly and grinned. “Then how come Papa didn’t kiss you when he came home?” he said.

  Adish smacked his son on the arm. “Mind your own business,” he said. “You’re turning into a bloody nosey parker.”

  Farhad grinned more broadly. “It is my business, that you two get along,” he said as he opened the fridge and took out a can of Coke. He paced the floor in a manner that reminded Laleh of her father. “Imagine if you two kept fighting,” he said. “Soon you’d get divorced. That means Papa has to give Mommy half his money. Then let’s say both of you remarry. Your new spouses may have their own children. That means”—Farhad threw his hands open for dramatic effect—“my inheritance is cut in half. Possibly more.”

  “You keep this up and you’ll be lucky to have any inheritance at all,” Adish said.

  “Speaking of inheritance, can I have some money now?” Ferzin chimed in. “I’m going to a night-show with my friends,” she added.

  Adish turned to Laleh. “What do these kids think we are? Do they just see us as walking, talking moneybags?”

  She shrugged, but a smile played on her lips. Adish seemed to have softened toward her. Thank God for the kids, she thought. They had a way of diffusing the tensest of situations. “It’s not their fault they have the world’s most generous father.”

  “Not to mention the world’s prettiest mother,” Farhad said immediately. As she looked at her gangly son—the unruly eyebrows, the crooked smile—Farhad, ugly in that beautiful way teenage boys were, Laleh felt love stir in her heart. Why didn’t Nishta have children, she wondered? That would have helped her so much.

  Adish’s eyes twinkled. “Arre, saala, stop flirting with my wife.”

  Laleh sat there a little longer and then returned to the bedroom. Adish followed ten minutes later, unbuttoning his shirt as he entered. “We’ll need Nishta’s passport information,” he said casually, as if resuming a conversation. “I’ll contact Joseph and have him make a visa appointment for her. It’s lucky we didn’t pay for your tickets yet. Now we can get all three.”

  She flew across the room and flung her arms around him. “Thank you. Oh, I just . . . thank you. And I’m so sorry about the horrible things I said.”

  “No. My fault. I let my pity for Iqbal blind me to the real victim here. And that’s Nishta.”

  “We already have her passport number, by the way. Mumtaz gave it to Kavita.”

  “Good work.” He picked up the phone and then looked at the wall clock across the room. “I’ll call Joseph first thing in the morning,” he said.

  Laleh tugged at Adish to sit on the bed next to her. “So what happened? Between the time I left the club and you came home? To change your mind, I mean?”

  “Nothing.” He stared at his feet and then turned toward her. “I just decided a few minutes ago, while talking to the children. While looking at Ferzin.” He paused and when he spoke, there was a tremor in his voice. “If some bugger told my daughter that she had to wear a chador each time she left the house, I would choke him. I wouldn’t care if he was a boyfriend, husband, nothing.” Even as he spoke, a muscle on his forearm twitched, as if he were performing the action. “And you said—didn’t you say Mumtaz called? Iqbal’s sister?” Laleh nodded. “Well. So obviously even his own sister disagrees with what he’s done,” he said, as if to himself.

  Laleh put Adish’s hand in her lap and stroked the twitching muscle. “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,” she murmured. “I don’t know how you do it, but you come through time after time.”

  Adish grinned. “They don’t call me Mr. Fixit for nothing.”

  Laleh smiled. “This is the best present we could’ve given Armaiti,” she said.

  “You want to phone her?”

  Laleh considered. “She’s on vacation. With Richard and Diane. I don’t want to disturb her. I’ll send an e-mail to Diane.” She bit her lower lip. “I guess her coordination is bad enough now that she can’t type anymore. Diane does her e-mails for her.”

  Adish kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll go brush my teeth. And then let’s go to bed, okay? It’s getting late.”r />
  Chapter 18

  Nishta clutched the thin plastic bag that contained the potatoes and spinach she would cook later today. Muddy, dirty water ran into the streets, and she lifted the hem of her burkha as she gingerly made her way. The bazaar was teeming with people, and although it was still morning the heat was unbearable.

  The first time she had ever worn a burkha was fifteen years ago, but she still wasn’t used to the claustrophobic, buried-alive feeling. Iqbal had accompanied her that first time, and for a few moments a childish delight, a mild form of hysteria had enveloped her. As a little girl she had been enthralled by the idea of invisibility, of using pens with invisible ink, of donning a cloak that would allow her to move around undetected and unseen. Every Sunday she would stop whatever she was doing to watch the old American series Invisible Man on television. Now it seemed as if that old childhood wish had come true; if not for the fact that Iqbal was by her side, she could wear this cloak and disappear within it, be reduced to nothing more than a pair of eyes looking out onto the world, spying on it while it couldn’t spy back. Like a uniform, the burkha conferred instant anonymity—it obliterated her features, swallowed up her identity, made indistinct her facial features, and even her shape. She could be a potato in a sack, for all the difference it made. The anonymity made her feel powerful—she could stick her tongue out at the world and it would never notice.

  But the next second, the panic hit. She felt as if she were in an underwater cave, drowning, crying for help but unable to make her voice heard. Her face broke out in sweat brought on by the unimaginable heat under the hood and a heart-pounding fear that was existential. It felt like death—a slipping away, a disappearance, an obliteration—except that instead of being in bed surrounded by weeping relatives, she was standing in the street under a noonday sun surrounded by thousands of strangers. She felt a screaming begin in her ears, a deafening screech, as if there were an airplane stuck inside the burkha with her.

  “I can’t,” she said to Iqbal, “I’m sorry, I can’t.” But he was looking straight ahead, a peculiar smile on his face, and she realized that she had to speak louder to be heard from under this polyester coffin that she was wearing. The fact of being unheard simply added to the feeling of death, of not existing, and her panic must’ve registered in the force with which she squeezed his hand because he turned to her and said, “What?”

  “Home,” she gasped, and when she saw him cock his head in incomprehension she said, more loudly, “I want to go home. I’m sick.”

  They turned around immediately and ten minutes later she was lying on their bed, the ceiling fan turned on high, a glass of water by her side. She had torn off the hood as soon as they’d entered the house and Iqbal had helped her remove the rest of the garment. When she could finally speak, she turned to him and said, “That was horrible. I felt like I was drowning.” He nodded gravely, not responding.

  Three days later he came home from work and suggested they go to the seaside. She readily agreed, but when she came into the living room wearing her regular pants and blouse, he raised an eyebrow. “Where’s your niqab?”

  She stared at him, and as he met her gaze a lump formed in her throat. “After what happened to me, you still want me to . . . ?” Her voice trailed off, disappointment and disbelief mixing together.

  He smiled his new smile—the patient, serene, paternal smile that he often cast her way these days. “That was your first time, Zoha. Of course it was hard. Remember the first time you wore a sari? You must’ve tripped a few times, na? So we just have to practice.”

  “We? We have to practice?” She rushed into the bedroom, bundled up the dreaded object, came back to where he was sitting on the sofa and threw it at him. “Here. You wear it. You practice.”

  He shook his head sadly. “You are so childish.” He rose from the sofa. “Fine. If I can’t get my wife to go to the seaside with me I’ll go alone.” He got to the front door and then turned around. “Have you seen how the brothers in this neighborhood look at you, with lust in their eyes? Don’t you care about—”

  “Then they’re the ones who should wear the burkha,” she interrupted fiercely. “On their dicks.”

  His face flushed with anger. “I will not have you talk like this in my house. You have a filthy mouth, Zoha.” She watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed a few times as he struggled to control his temper, and then he spun around and pushed open the front door.

  That was fifteen years ago, Nishta now thought with wonder as she deftly wound her way around the marketplace. She stopped for a moment to set down the plastic bag and pushed up the sleeve to read her watch: 9:58 a.m. She had two minutes to reach Yasmina, the young vegetable vendor who sold her wares on the east side of the market. Habit made her turn around and glance up at the fifth floor of her apartment building. Almost immediately her mother-in-law, sitting on the balcony as she did every day of her life, waved to her. Nishta marveled at the fact that even at this distance, Ammi could spot her among all the other clad women. The old woman knew the comings and goings of everyone below her and Nishta felt her hawk eyes on her as she picked up the bag again and moved farther away. Another few steps and she would be out of Ammi’s range. She made a sharp turn onto the main road, dodging the crowds and huffing a bit as she hurried. She listened with distaste to her breathing, amplified under the dark shroud she was wearing. You need to lose at least ten kilos, she chided herself. She knew she was eating too much, eating carelessly, out of boredom. And who could exercise while wearing a sack?

  Maybe in America she could . . . But she couldn’t complete the thought because she had found Yasmina’s stall. The vendor was bickering with an old man over the price of two cabbages, and Nishta waited impatiently for them to get done. She resisted the temptation to offer the few coins that were standing between the customer and his purchase. She must do nothing that would draw attention to herself. For years she had railed against the anonymity that the burkha imposed on her. Now she would make it work in her favor.

  She checked her watch again, saw that it was ten o’clock, and just then Yasmina’s mobile phone rang. Yasmina picked it up and answered, looking up at Nishta and smiling with her eyes. And then, as arranged by Mumtaz two days ago, she handed the phone to Nishta.

  It took her a moment to maneuver the phone under the hood of the hijab. In that moment, Nishta died a million deaths. Please don’t let them hang up, she prayed. “Hello?” she said finally.

  “Nishta?” It was Kavita’s voice, crisp and clear. “How are you, darling?”

  “I’m fine. Fine.” She struggled to control the shaking of her hands. “But I shouldn’t talk for long.”

  “Understood. Okay, listen. The appointment is for eleven on Friday. We don’t really have a choice on dates. So, I hope it will work for you?”

  She had no idea if it would. Or how she would get out of the house. But she nodded. “Yes. It’s okay.”

  “Great. Let’s meet at ten-thirty. You know where to come? Tirupathi Apartments. Can you remember that? It’s across from Mahalaxmi temple. You have to check in there, and then they’ll take you by bus to the embassy.”

  “Yes. Okay.” The shaking had spread through her whole body. Was she sick, she wondered? She forced herself to concentrate on the conversation. “Kavita. One other thing. Can you phone Mumtaz? Tell her the date and time and ask if she can pick me up. I’ll tell—I’ll say we’re going shopping.”

  “I can do that.” Kavita’s voice sounded so calm and competent, so close, Nishta thought she would cry. “How will she confirm with you, though?”

  She thought quickly. “Call her now. And call me back at this number. Can you?”

  “Five minutes,” Kavita said and then there was silence.

  “Thank you,” Nishta said after she handed the phone back to Yasmina a second time. She dug into her purse and took out a five-rupee note.

  “No need, miss,” Yasmina said. “The other lady already paid.”

  Nishta smiled. M
umtaz must’ve paid Yasmina a handsome amount for the use of her phone for her to refuse a tip. “My phone is still in the repair shop,” she said. “May need to trouble you again.”

  Yasmina appeared to reconsider. “Your wish,” she said, accepting the note. “Just to make you happy.”

  Oh, you’ve made me happy all right, Nishta thought as she walked away. She marveled at how quickly things had changed because of Mumtaz’s fortuitous visit. Thank God for Iqbal’s slap, she thought. If Mumtaz had not noticed the swelling, they would have never discussed her marriage. And Mumtaz might not have been so willing to help. Even now, it made Nishta a little suspicious that her sister-in-law would so readily align herself with her, and against her own brother. It all seemed too easy—Mumtaz’s sudden appearance, her willingness to believe her story, her insistence on her visiting Armaiti, her pledge to help even if it meant deceiving her brother. None of it made sense.

  She shook her head. She had stayed up late last night watching The Bourne Identity, and that’s why she was like this today, suspicious of everything, even of Mumtaz, who had been a little sister to her ever since they first met. And she, who had always believed in women helping each other, who had read Sisterhood Is Powerful when she was sixteen, who, in Kavita, Armaiti, and Laleh had known the true bonds of sisterhood, she should know better than to doubt Mumtaz’s sincerity.

  As she walked, Nishta heard an unfamiliar sound, and for a second she thought it was an insect trapped under the hood of her burkha. And then she recognized it. She was humming.

  Chapter 19

  Florida in July was not Armaiti’s idea of a good time, but Richard had asked her to go with him, and, except for that one time when he’d begged her not to divorce him, she had never been able to refuse him anything. So here they were, the three of them, at the vacation home of one of Richard’s clients, a seven-bedroom villa on the beach in Ponte Vedra. And although it had been a short flight and they had flown in on the client’s private plane, Armaiti was stunned by how exhausted and drained she felt.