“Sit in the back,” he instructed Thomas. “Try not to be seen. The advocate is aware that CASE was involved in the raid. Any white face he will affiliate with us.”
They entered the courtroom together, and Thomas found a seat in the corner. The courtroom had an elevated bench for the judge and clerk and a long table facing the bench where members of the bar waited their turn at the podium. A middle-aged woman dressed in a black and white sari—Thomas guessed she was the public prosecutor—sat at the far left of the table near a group of police officers. Adrian took a seat beside her.
Like the rest of the Sessions Court, the courtroom was long past its glory days. The wood trim was scuffed and fading, the paint on the walls drab and worn. The windows were arched in the Gothic style and grated to keep out the birds. Eight ceiling fans were spinning at high speed, creating a downdraft and an incessant whir.
The judge was a grizzled, expressionless man with reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looked either chronically bored or ready to fall asleep. An overweight advocate was examining a witness in the dock. Thomas wondered if the judge could hear any of the testimony over the muffled roar of the ceiling fans.
Eventually, the advocate and witness finished their exchange. The judge dismissed the advocate with a flick of his hand and turned to the next lawyer in line. After two more cases, Adrian glanced back at Thomas and nodded. He stood with the public prosecutor while defense counsel took his place at the podium.
The prosecutor made an impassioned plea for the judge to deny bail for Suchir, Sumeera, and Prasad. She told the court that Ahalya was a minor and that three of the legal-aged girls in the brothel had requested care from the CWC. Adrian whispered a number of additional points to the prosecutor, and she conveyed them to the judge.
At the end of her argument, the judge turned to the defense counsel. The man was short, with a thick crop of black hair. He spoke at some length about the unfairness of the raid, the involvement of “imperialist interests from the United States,” and the incompetence of the Nagpada police. He pointed out that none of the girls had been age-verified and that the evidence that Ahalya was under eighteen was merely anecdotal. He also contended that Suchir’s confession about Sita’s disappearance had been extracted from the brothel owner under duress. The man had a golden tongue and spun such a suggestive web of doubts and veiled accusations that the judge glanced at the prosecutor with visible irritation.
Thomas’s heart sank. He knew at once that Suchir would walk.
Sure enough, the judge set bail at ten thousand rupees for Suchir and five thousand each for Sumeera and Prasad.
Adrian shook his head and motioned for Thomas to join him in the crowded hallway. They stood close together beside an open window.
“They’ll pay the money this afternoon,” Adrian said with a scowl. “This judge is contemptible. He never listens to the public prosecutor.”
“What happens next?” Thomas asked.
Adrian looked out the window just as a flock of pigeons took flight. “We’ll push for an early hearing and try to get Ahalya’s testimony into evidence.”
“How long will that take?”
Adrian shrugged. “With this defense lawyer, it could be months.”
On Saturday morning, Thomas ate breakfast with Dinesh on the terrace, overlooking the gray-blue ocean. After his meeting with Priya at the Hanging Garden, he had told his friend the truth about Mohini’s death and Priya’s departure for Bombay. Dinesh listened with his typical sangfroid and gave Thomas a hug, waving off his apology.
“Now I understand why you didn’t e-mail me during the fall,” he said.
“I was in a fog,” Thomas replied, and with that they put the matter to rest.
Thomas reached out and took a bunch of grapes from a bowl on the table. He broke off a grape and chewed it thoughtfully, wondering when he would hear from Priya. Three and a half days had passed without word, and he had begun to worry. Her assessment of their situation had been accurate. They were in a tangled mess. The past was immutable, the pain of it was indelible, and Priya wanted her father’s forgiveness. Beyond that, there was the problem of his lies. He had no intention of staying in India more than a year or of giving up his dream of the bench, but he had led her to believe otherwise. And then there was Tera.
“What do you want to do today?” Dinesh asked, leaning back in his chair.
“I’ll probably read for a while on the Bandstand,” he said. “After that, I don’t know.”
Dinesh studied his face. “You still haven’t heard from her.”
Thomas shook his head.
“Well, cheer up. She said she’d think about it. I’m sure she’s busy.”
Thomas was about to reply when he heard his BlackBerry ring. It was inside on the kitchen counter. He stood up quickly and collected the phone. Warmth spread through him when he saw her number on the screen.
“It’s Priya,” he said, and Dinesh gave a thumbs-up.
Thomas placed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Thomas,” she replied. She let his name linger in the air for a few seconds and then put her words together in an uncharacteristic rush.
“I’ve been thinking, as I promised to do, and I want to see you again.”
He began to smile. In all the years he had known her, she had been nervous only when something significant was at stake.
“Okay,” he said. “How do you want to do this?”
She took an audible breath. “My second cousin is getting married tomorrow. The mendhi ki rasam will be held this afternoon at my grandfather’s bungalow. My father should be in a festive mood. And there will be many witnesses so he will have to be kind to you.”
Thomas closed his eyes. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked. He was elated that she wanted to see him, but the notion of confronting her father at a gathering of her entire family terrified him.
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“No, no. I just … never mind. Tell me how to get there.”
“Meet me at the entrance to Priyadarshini Park at five thirty. The taxi-wallas at Churghgate know the way.”
“What should I wear?”
“Did you bring a suit?”
“Just one.”
“One is enough. And Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to bring your sense of humor. You’re going to need it.”
He arrived at Priyadarshini Park five minutes ahead of schedule. The sun was low on the horizon and the sky was tinged with blush. He called Priya and she picked up on the first ring. She sounded nervous again.
“Stay where you are,” she said. “I’ll find you.”
He stood at the side of the road, watching for her. After a minute, she emerged from a rickshaw and walked toward him. She was dressed in a salwar kameez the color of a tropical sea. The neckline of the dress was low-cut but tasteful, complimenting her almond skin. She wore minimal makeup. She didn’t need it.
She stopped five feet from him and smiled shyly like a schoolgirl. She had given him the same look the first time they met in Fellows Garden.
“Do you like my outfit?” she asked. “I can’t wear this in the West.”
“It’s our loss,” he said.
“You look nice.”
“I feel like a stiff in a suit.”
Her laughter was spontaneous. “You’ll be right at home, then. My family is full of them.”
“I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the book of poetry his mother had given him. “My mom bought it for you for Christmas.”
Priya looked at him with surprise. She took the book and admired it. “How did she know I love Naidu?”
“She must have guessed.”
“Please tell her thank you,” she said, clutching the book tightly. “It is a precious gift.” She paused. “Did you … ?”
He nodded. “I told them.”
“I’m sorry. It must
have hurt.”
Thomas shrugged. “They’re grown-ups.”
She looked away and recovered her composure.
“So where in the world is this party of yours?” he asked.
She led him to the rickshaw and gave the driver directions. After a short trip, they arrived at a wooden gate flanked by plane trees. Two uniformed watchmen let them into the property. Beyond the gate lay a garden of breathtaking beauty. The soft light of dusk framed the trees in silhouette. A circular lawn lay in the midst of the garden, and upon the lawn was a candlelit pavilion. At the center of the pavilion sat a young woman—the bride—in a yellow sari and a matching head scarf. An older woman wielding a tube of henna paste busied herself painting the bride’s hands and feet with mendhi designs. Off to the side, a quartet of musicians serenaded them with Hindustani music.
Thomas stood inside the gate for a long moment. He saw the bungalow in the distance, situated in a grove of acacia trees. Its roof was tiled in terra-cotta, and its window shutters were open, inviting the breeze. Beside the house was a terrace dotted with guests.
“We called it Vrindavan when we were children,” Priya said, making reference to the enchanted forests in which Krishna had been raised.
He nodded. “I have a hard time imagining you growing up in this world.”
“Now you see why we left. My father would never have made his own name.”
“Are all these people part of your family?”
“No. Some are friends. But don’t worry, I won’t introduce you to all of them.”
Thomas smiled. “I’m okay so long as I can call all the guys Rohan and the girls Pooja.”
Priya laughed again. “Behave yourself tonight. First impressions are everything.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “You know, it’s been ages since we flirted.”
She looked away and grew quiet.
“I’m sorry,” he said, worrying that he had pushed too far, too fast.
“No,” she responded. “Don’t apologize.”
Sensing her discomfort, he changed the subject. “Is your brother here?”
She gave a little laugh and the mood seemed to lighten again. “Abishek is on the guest list, but I doubt you’ll see him. He’s no doubt found some secluded spot to romance his new girlfriend. They’ve been inseparable for at least a month. All of us keep wondering when the novelty will wear off.”
“And your father?”
She pointed toward the terrace. “He’s up there, holding court with the intellectuals.”
“In other circumstances, I would join him.”
She took a deep breath and tried to sound optimistic. “You’ll enjoy talking to him once he warms up to you. You have a lot in common.”
“Too much, I think.”
She didn’t respond. “Come along. My mother wants to see you.”
“Wait,” he said. “You told her about me?”
“She asked me about it when I came home on Wednesday. I couldn’t lie to her.”
“And?”
“She has never objected to you, Thomas. She only wants me to be happy.”
“So it’s your father alone I have to convince.”
She shook her head and looked into his eyes. “No. You only have to convince me.”
He spoke carefully. “Then why are we here?”
Pain flashed through her eyes, and he knew that he had miscalculated. He held up his hands, entreating her forbearance, but she spoke before he could.
“These people are a part of me. Things can’t be different between us unless they are involved from the beginning.”
“You’re right, of course. I didn’t mean it like it sounded.”
She studied him for a long moment, and he wondered whether she was going to escort him back to the gate. Then she smiled again and the moment passed.
He followed her down the twisting path through the garden. They crossed onto the lawn and walked toward the pavilion. Surekha Patel sat on a cushion, chatting with her neighbors. She was dressed in a purple sari, and her hair was tied in an elegant bun. Seeing them coming, she excused herself.
“Priya, dear,” she said in accented English, taking her daughter’s hand and strolling toward a tamarind tree on the edge of the grass, “isn’t the music beautiful?”
“It is, Mama,” Priya replied, her expression subdued. “As is Lila.”
“She does make a lovely bride.” Surekha turned to Thomas, her expression inscrutable. “Welcome to Bombay. How do you find the city?”
“Fascinating in all respects,” he said, trying not to appear nervous.
“I suppose that is a compliment.” Surekha looked at her daughter and then back at him. “I do not blame you for taking Priya away from me. It was her decision, and I have always tried to understand it. Still, we are delighted to have her with us again.”
Thomas plunged in, feeling like a man and a coward at the same time. “I understand, Mrs. Patel. Six years ago, I traveled to England to ask for Priya’s hand. Your husband was gracious, but he didn’t give me his blessing. I should have persisted until he did.”
“You would have failed,” Surekha said. “You were not what he wanted for his daughter. You couldn’t have changed his mind then.”
“And now?”
She looked away. “His mother is close to death. Perhaps he is different.”
“If he gives me a chance, I will earn his respect.”
Surekha nodded. “It is a worthy goal. But you must understand how difficult it will be. He has always been idealistic. When Priya was young, he told me that the man who married her would have to possess the character of Lord Rama. In Hinduism, Rama is a guiltless man.”
“Yes,” Thomas replied, “but even Rama questioned Sita’s fidelity without cause.”
“It is true.” Surekha looked impressed. “Priya told me that you know our stories.”
“Not as well as I would like.”
“It is a beginning.” Surekha looked at him again. “Come along. I will introduce you.”
Thomas traded a glance with Priya as they walked toward the terrace. They climbed the steps to the veranda and turned toward a cluster of men ranging in age from twenty to seventy. A few were dressed in traditional sherwanis—long embroidered coats with matching pants—but the rest wore Western suits. Surya stood at the center, his distinguished face and silvered hair glowing in the firelight. His audience was silent, captive to his every word.
Surekha stood on the periphery, waiting for her husband to see her. At last he did.
“Pardon me, friends,” he said and slipped out of the circle.
He glanced toward Priya and stiffened when his eyes fell on Thomas. He walked to the stone railing, looking out toward the mendhi tent where Lila was receiving her adornment. After a moment, he turned around.
“Surya,” Surekha began, “your daughter has a guest.”
“I remember him,” Surya replied.
Surekha frowned. “Try to be nice, dear. They have made vows.”
“And neither of us was there to witness them,” he retorted.
Thomas bore the brunt of Surya’s anger without surprise. Priya, however, was far less sanguine. Her eyes filled with tears and she began to tremble.
“Why have you come to Bombay?” Surya asked.
A cascade of thoughts passed through Thomas’s mind, but only one answer seemed right. “I gave your daughter a ring,” he replied.
Surya bristled. “Against my wishes.”
“She gave me her hand.” Thomas felt the heat rising under his collar.
“Your morals confuse me,” the Professor replied. “You betray my trust and take my daughter from her family, and you attempt to justify it. This is the way of things in the West. The young have no respect for their elders.”
“I tried to honor your family,” Thomas replied. “I asked your permission. And you denied me. What was I supposed to do?”
Surya’s eyes flashed and he balled his hand into a fist. “What were you
supposed to do? What an infantile question! You were supposed to return to your life in the United States and leave her alone.”
“Baba,” Priya whispered. “Please. Don’t do this.”
Surya turned to his daughter. His fist unclenched when he saw her pain. He looked back at Thomas, searching for a target.
“You can never know what it means to me, to Surekha, that Priya didn’t have a proper wedding. You can never know what it was like for us when she had a child and we were not there to see her born.” Surya’s voice broke. “Or to hold her before she died.”
For the first time, Thomas felt the true weight of Surya’s pain. Two thoughts came to mind in opposition to one another. First: The fact that he wasn’t there is his own fault. Then: He’s just trying to figure out how to deal with the pain. Thomas stayed silent.
The Professor turned around and leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms. “Are you here to take her back to America?”
Thomas shook his head. “I’m here to work in Bombay.”
Surya stared at him. “Doing what, exactly?”
“I’m working with an NGO in the red-light areas.”
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “yet another Westerner who thinks he can fix all that is broken in India. My friend, you are neither the first nor the last to carry the white man’s burden.”
Thomas simmered. He could handle the accusation of stealing Priya, but to be called a racist was infuriating. He considered walking out, but he knew it would be a defeat.
“What is broken here is broken everywhere,” he countered.
Surya was quiet and regarded Thomas through veiled eyes.
“And you feel you are contributing something with this work of yours?”
“We helped the Nagpada police take down a brothel on Monday night.”
Surya shook his head. “There will always be brothels.”
Thomas persisted. “We rescued a minor girl.”
Surya paused. “Well, good for you.” He looked across the terrace at the group of men he had left. “Pardon me, but I have friends to rejoin.” He kissed his daughter’s forehead and purposely avoided his wife’s eyes.
A Walk Across the Sun Page 17
