The deputy chief of mission at the Indian embassy made arrangements for a contingent from the CBI to meet them at the airport in Bombay. After the International Organization of Migration completed its home study, the deputy chief promised that Sita would be placed at the Sisters of Mercy facility with Ahalya. At Thomas’s behest, Agent Pritchett made a special request concerning the Holi holiday, which the diplomat enthusiastically granted.
When all of the pieces of the puzzle were in place, Pritchett drove them to the airport. Agent Dodd, a matronly, forty-something woman, occupied the front passenger seat, and Sita and Thomas sat in the back. After suffering the past sixteen days in bureaucratic confinement, Sita was brimming with questions about her sister. Thomas answered each of them as thoroughly as he could without embellishing anything. The only thing he left out was Ahalya’s pregnancy, which was something he felt Ahalya should explain herself.
When they reached the airport, Pritchett escorted them through security to the Continental Airlines boarding gate. Pritchett shook Thomas’s hand and gave him an apologetic reminder about the confidentiality agreement he had signed. Then he squatted in front of Sita and gave her a lapel pin bearing the emblem of the U.S. flag.
“You know,” he said, “I have a daughter about your age. She’s the light of my life. A bit difficult at times, but that goes with the territory. I speak for all the agents in my office when I say that I’m honored to know you.”
Sita gave Pritchett a shy hug and then followed Thomas and Agent Dodd to the boarding line.
Late the next evening, they reached the sprawling, light-studded city of Bombay. Two CBI constables met them at the gate and whisked them through customs to a Land Rover at the curb. One of the constables retrieved their baggage from the carousel, and then they were off.
Sita spent the entire ride staring out the window at the midnight cityscape. The return to Mother India evoked in her a range of conflicting emotions: rage and sympathy at the memory of Ahalya’s violation, renewed grief over her vanished family, confusion about her future, and fear at the knowledge that Suchir was nearby. Yet for all the angst that the homecoming stirred in her, nothing could diminish her overwhelming sense of relief. Breathing the sticky Bombay air reminded her of all the reasons she loved her country. These were her people. This was her land.
It had wounded her, but she owed it her life.
The CBI constables—who had introduced themselves by their surnames, Bhuta and Singh—drove them to the Taj Land’s End hotel just south of the Bandstand in Bandra. Dinesh met them in the lobby, holding a bouquet of flowers.
“Nice digs,” he said, shaking Thomas’s hand. “I take it this was your idea.”
Thomas nodded, delighted by his friend’s appearance.
“The government wanted to put her up in some third-class dump outside the airport,” he said. “I couldn’t let it happen. Not on her first night back.” He paused. “What are you doing here? I told you I’d meet you at your place.”
“I didn’t come for you,” his friend said with a grin. “I came to meet Sita.”
“Sita,” Thomas said, turning to her, “meet Dinesh. Dinesh, Sita.”
“Ghara mem svagata hai, chotti bahana,” Dinesh said, welcoming her home using the familiar sobriquet “little sister.” “You’re going to really like this place.” He handed her the flowers. “These are for your room.”
Sita blushed, warming to him immediately. She chatted with him in Hindi while Bhuta checked them in.
After a few minutes, the manager of the hotel appeared and escorted them to a suite on the top floor. After some negotiation, the CBI men allowed Dinesh to tag along. The manager showed them the spacious room and left the CBI constables with keys. Agent Dodd, who had slept little on the long flight, found a couch in the bedroom and turned in for the night. Sita, meanwhile, walked to one of the windows overlooking the Arabian Sea. She stood quietly, enjoying the sights of the slumbering city.
“Where is Ahalya?” she asked Thomas. “When can I see her?”
“She is at the ashram in Andheri,” he said. “You will see her tomorrow.”
Sita nodded. “It is beautiful here.”
In time, she yawned.
“The bedroom is yours,” Thomas said. “Our friends from the government will find somewhere else to sleep.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’m going to stay with Dinesh. His place is close by. I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Good night, then,” she said and left them with a little wave.
In the morning, Dinesh prepared a gourmet breakfast of deep-fried Indian bread, chickpeas, and mahim halwa—a dense buttery cake—and he and Thomas took it to the hotel to share with Sita. Agent Dodd, looking refreshed and contented after a good night’s sleep, nursed her halwa and sipped her glass of chai. She caught Sita staring at her and tried to explain.
“Back in the States, I live on Chinese takeout,” she said. “This is much better.”
Dinesh laughed and said, “You’ll have to come back to India someday.”
“I just might do that,” the FBI woman replied.
After breakfast, the CBI constables retrieved the Land Rover and picked them up in front of the hotel. Thomas reminded Constable Singh that they were due at the ashram at nine o’clock. The CBI man looked at him strangely and traded a glance with Dinesh. Thomas didn’t notice that Singh wasn’t following his directions until they passed the entrance to the Western Express Highway and continued south along Mahim Bay.
“The ashram is the other way,” Thomas exclaimed, touching Singh on the shoulder.
The agent didn’t respond.
Thomas looked at Dinesh and then at Sita. Dinesh had a sly expression on his face.
“Something’s going on,” Thomas said. “What did you do?”
“It wasn’t me,” Dinesh replied. “You’ll see.”
Saturday traffic in the city was one giant snarl. Despite Singh’s repertoire of daredevil maneuvers, the drive to Malabar Hill took almost an hour and a half. When they entered Breach Candy on Warden Road, Thomas turned toward Dinesh.
“We’re going to Vrindivan, aren’t we?” he said.
“Vrindivan?” Sita asked. “You mean the forests where Krishna played?”
Dinesh shrugged and Thomas sat back against the seat, a thousand thoughts racing through his head.
“It’s a little bit different,” he said to her. “But there are similarities.”
When the Land Rover entered the grounds, Thomas couldn’t believe his eyes. The driveway was lined with well-wishers. Along with the many faces he recognized from Priya’s extended family, he saw Jeff Greer, Nigel, Samantha, and the entire CASE staff standing in the shade of a banyan tree. Sister Ruth stood beside Anita, her brown habit rustling in the breeze.
Surya and Surekha Patel met them at the end of the drive. Priya’s father looked dashing in a white linen suit, and her mother, robed in a jade sari, exuded the aura of nobility. Constable Singh stopped the Land Rover, and Bhuta opened the rear doors. Dinesh climbed out of the vehicle as Thomas turned to Sita.
Her eyes were wide with incomprehension. “Who are all these people?” she asked.
“Some are my wife’s family,” he replied. “Some are the people who rescued your sister.”
“Why are they here?”
He shook his head, trying to figure out how his plans to celebrate Holi had been hijacked and how Vrindivan had been chosen as the new location.
“They came to see you,” he said, certain of that at least.
He reached for her hand, but she looked pensive.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, watching her closely. “The driver can turn around and take us someplace private where you can meet with Ahalya.”
Sita surveyed the crowd through the window. “No,” she said, “it is Holi. It’s right this way.”
Thomas smiled. “Welcome home,” he said and drew her into the sunlight.
When Si
ta appeared, the crowd erupted in applause. Sita clutched his hand and he gave her a squeeze, scanning the faces before them, looking for Priya. She has to be here, he thought. It wouldn’t be like her to miss Holi.
Suddenly, he saw another face in the crowd. It was Ahalya, emerging from the cluster of CASE volunteers. She ran toward Sita with tears streaming down her face. She wore a sunflower-yellow churidaar and a rose-shaped bindi on her forehead.
Sita let go of Thomas’s hand and met her older sister halfway. Their embrace was almost too intimate to watch, yet Thomas couldn’t bring himself to look away.
The sisters held one another for what seemed like ages, oblivious to all else. Then the moment passed and Ahalya approached Thomas. She knelt down and touched his foot with the deepest respect. Afterward, she stood before him, beaming with gratitude.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I owe you my life.”
“Many people had a hand in this,” he replied, his eyes moistening.
“Perhaps. But you wore my bracelet. I will never forget.”
On the terrace, a traditional Hindustani band began to play, and Surya Patel appeared in front of them holding a golden bowl. Thomas looked into the Professor’s eyes, searching for a sign of judgment or resentment, but he saw neither of these things. Instead, Surya raised his hand and asked for the attention of the chattering crowd. As one, family and friends fell silent.
He addressed them in English in a stentorian voice. “As you all know, Holi means many things. It is a day of play in which we remember Krishna and the good-natured fun he had with the maidens of the forest. It is also a day in which we commemorate the changing seasons, the end of winter and the arrival of spring.”
He held up the shining bowl. “In our family, we have a tradition. Every Holi, we select a child to place the tilak on the forehead of an elder. After that, the festival of colors may begin, and everyone—even those who would prefer to stay clean—is fair game. It is only fitting that this year the child should be Sita Ghai.”
He turned and lowered the bowl so that Sita could see the vermilion powder.
“Happy Holi,” Surya told her. “You and your sister are welcome at our home any time.”
With a smile that occupied her entire face, Sita dusted her thumb in the red powder, reached up and made a tilak on Thomas’s forehead.
“To me, you will always be Dada, elder brother,” she said. “Happy Holi.”
The crowd began to cheer. And then, with humorous suddenness, bags of powder appeared and the air began to shimmer with color. Reds and yellows, blues and purples, greens and golds, the palette of Holi was the palette of India, regal, unashamed, resplendent, and true.
Surya, however, was not quite finished. Dipping his hand into the bowl, he retrieved a handful of powder and smeared it all over Thomas’s face. Thomas coughed and laughed at the same time, trying to wipe the fine grains from his eyes.
“Happy Holi,” Surya said. “I believe someone is waiting for you.”
With that, he turned around and began to pelt his family with red powder. Surekha held out a woven basket filled with bags of color, and Sita and Ahalya armed themselves. Ahalya giggled as Sita sprinkled lavender powder on her hair. Ahalya, in turn, took Sita’s face in her hands, leaving orange handprints on her cheeks.
Thomas, meanwhile, searched for Priya. He finally spotted her on the veranda. She was looking at him. His heart clutched in his chest. He weaved his way through the guests and climbed the steps. He stopped a few feet from her, not knowing what to say.
“It seems my father has accepted you,” she said, breaking the ice.
He touched the red dye on his face. “It does. But why?”
She looked away. “You impressed him. And you reminded him of the Ramayana.” She waited a beat and then went on. “I told him the news about Sita after I got your e-mail. I’ve never seen him so moved. I overheard him tell my mother that he misjudged you. He said you’d done something worthy of the highest honor.”
Thomas took a breath, thinking of the little statue of Hanuman that Sita had given him. A word came to him then, almost as if spoken. It was a word Priya had cherished. Serendipity. A variant of providence. “Yes, he thought to himself, “there is light beyond the veil.”
“So all of this was your father’s idea?” he asked.
Priya nodded. “Ironic, isn’t it? You rescued Sita from the fire, and he had to give her the homecoming of a queen.”
She walked toward the far side of the veranda, and he followed her. They went down the steps and crossed the grass into a grove of flowering trees. She stopped beside a fountain.
“It was a good poem,” she said when they were alone.
“It wasn’t much.”
“It spoke to me,” she replied. “It told me you meant everything else you said.” She turned away and looked at the flowing water. “You have to understand that I will never leave my family again.”
He nodded. “I realize that now.”
“And I won’t tolerate it if you abandon me for your work. Whatever you decide to do, I need to know that I come first.”
Thomas began to smile. “Does that mean you forgive me?”
She closed her eyes. “I started to forgive you on the beach when you told me you loved me,” she said. “But I had to know if it was the truth.”
He reached out and touched her face. She turned toward him, and he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. She took one step, and then another, until she was only inches away from him. He drew her into his arms.
“I’m so glad you came to Bombay,” she said. “I thought I’d lost you.”
He looked down at her and brushed a hair out of her eyes.
“Will you kiss a man covered in vermilion powder?” he asked.
Her smile began at the corners of her mouth and spread outward until it infused her entire face with radiance.
“I think our colors go well together,” she whispered and proved that she was right.
Epilogue
Mumbai, India
The call came at six thirty in the morning on the seventh of October. Thomas’s BlackBerry was on the nightstand. He caught it on the second ring and put the phone to his ear, listening.
“We’ll be there in forty minutes,” he said and hung up.
“Is it time?” Priya asked, rolling over and looking up at him. Her face was bathed in the blue light of dawn. The sun had not yet risen.
He nodded. “She said an hour at most.”
They dressed hurriedly, he in chinos and a linen shirt, she in a red and black salwar kameez. They took the elevator to the garage where their Toyota SUV was waiting for them. Priya climbed into the passenger seat, and Thomas threw the truck into gear and headed out of the driveway, tossing a wave at the night watchman who was smoking his charas by the gate.
He drove north along the Bandstand until the road wrapped around to the east. Ten minutes on Hill Road to S. V. Road. Fifteen minutes on the Western Express Highway to Andheri, and then another five minutes to the ashram. Although it was a Friday morning, traffic was fairly light. The majority of vehicles on the highway were rickshaws, and Thomas cut through the pack with ease.
Priya took his hand off the gearshift and placed it on her belly.
“What shall we call her?” she asked him.
The week before, they had gone in for Priya’s twenty-week ultrasound, and their doctor in Breach Candy had announced the baby’s gender with unflinching certainty.
“I don’t know,” he said, glancing at her across the cabin.
She smiled. “I am leaning toward Pooja.”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Every girl in Bombay is Pooja. She needs an original name.”
Priya began to laugh. “You are such an easy target. I have a much better idea.”
“Tell me,” he said.
“When the time is right.”
They lapsed into silence and his mind drifted to the events of the day before. After nine months of corruption-
induced delays, Ahalya at last had been called to testify in the Sessions Court against Suchir, Sumeera, and Prasad. The brothel owner and his son had been present in the courtroom, which was unusual. But their strategy soon became apparent. When Ahalya stepped into the dock, her belly swollen beneath the fabric of her churidaar, Suchir and Prasad stood up and stared her down. At a distance of fifteen feet, their menace was palpable. The prosecutor objected, but the defense attorney spun some nonsense about their inability to sit for long periods of time. The judge, clearly irritated by the dispute, waved the prosecutor on and allowed the malik and his son to maintain their challenge.
From the back of the courtroom, Thomas saw the look of trepidation in Ahalya’s eyes. But she stood her ground, and in the end her testimony rang forth like a bell on a clear day. She told the whole story of her captivity, from the tsunami to Chennai to Bombay, first in eloquent English and then in equally articulate Hindi. She recounted her first rape at the hands of Shankar and her second rape at the hands of the birthday boy. Until then, Suchir and Prasad stood shoulder to shoulder. Ahalya, however, went on to describe the night Prasad came to her and the forced trysts that followed. Suchir’s expression didn’t change, but he turned his head slightly and muttered something to his son. Prasad’s complexion turned a shade paler.
Then came cross-examination. The defense lawyer mounted a scandalous attack on Ahalya’s credibility. He insinuated without a shred of proof that Ahalya was a promiscuous schoolgirl who had many amorous affairs with boyfriends. When she denied it, the advocate simply increased the pitch of his delivery, emphasizing the fact that the child in her womb was the product of consensual sex outside the brothel. Ahalya patiently explained that she had been a virgin when Suchir bought her and that the only men who could have impregnated her were Shankar, who paid a princely sum not to use a condom, and Prasad, who had been so feverish in his interest that the question of protection had never arisen. The defense lawyer pranced and gesticulated, and even shouted at her at one point, but the damage had been done. Ahalya stood victorious on the stand, and even the judge, who had started the hearing jaded, gave Suchir and Prasad a look of censure at the end.
A Walk Across the Sun Page 37
