A Walk Across the Sun (56 page)
What I can offer you is a promise grounded in personal experience. Though it may not seem possible to you now, tomorrow will come. On the other side of this darkness, a new day will slowly dawn. I know because I lost a daughter not long ago. I went to her grave today. Every time I see her name on the headstone, my heart breaks again. I couldn't protect her any more than you could protect Abby. But Mohini and Abby have something that we do not. Death no longer has power over them.
Wherever they are, they have found peace.
After signing his name, he folded the pages and slid them into an envelope addressed to Andrew Porter at the Justice Department. Once again stretching the limits of protocol, Porter had given Thomas her name and had made arrangements with Detective Morgan for the letter to be hand-delivered by the Fayetteville police.
Thomas took a last look at the gravesite and then drove back to the gate. He looked at the angels as he rounded the circle, their trumpets perched on silent lips, heralding a day when every tear would be wiped away. He fingered the envelope in his lap and wished the day would come.
A week later, Thomas sat in the boarding lounge at Dulles airport, waiting to catch the early evening Delta flight to Atlanta. He had spent the past six days tidying up his affairs and addressing the damage from a leak that had sprung in the pipes at his brownstone over the winter. A large puddle of water had formed on the dining room floor and seeped into the basement. The nightmare hadn't ended until the last contractor left the house, payment in hand.
Thomas took out his BlackBerry and checked his e-mail. His found an assortment of spam in his inbox along with queries from friends, but nothing from Priya. In fourteen days, she had made no attempt to contact him. She had every right to be disgusted with him. But their weekend together had proven the fact of their love beyond doubt. Wasn't that enough?
Out the window, he watched the clouds play on the wind and remembered the poetry she had read to him in Goa from the little book Elena had given her. She had initiated the reading sessions after they made love. He had rolled his eyes at first, but she had insisted, and the cadence of the words had won him over. Or maybe it was the fact that she had read the poems lying naked on the bed. He smiled at the memory, despite himself.
He was struck then by an idea. What if he wrote a verse for her? Not some Byronic love sonnet, but a few lines of honest poetry, something like Naidu or one of the Sufi mystics she was always quoting. He shook off the thought. Why would the sophomoric attempt of an amateur matter to her? She would laugh at it, if she even read it.
Looking toward an overhead monitor, he listened to the news until he grew bored. Then he turned back to the window and watched a plane take off. The plane climbed into the sky and traced a path across the setting sun. At once a string of words appeared in his mind:
We walk across the sun.
For some reason the image arrested him. What did it mean?
He opened up his BlackBerry notes and exercised his imagination. He wrestled with a few ideas and fashioned a broader theme. Before long, the words turned into lines, and the lines into a stanza. He stared at the poem.
We walk across the sun
And our shadows fall
Upon the dial of time
In names spoken by the light
That gives us birth.
He saved the file and stood up, stretching his legs. Boarding would commence in twenty minutes. He visited the restroom and returned to his seat, feeling restless. He took out the photograph of Priya from his wallet and read his poem again. It wasn't Tagore, but it wasn't bad. He put the picture back in his wallet and threw caution to the wind. He typed until his thumbs began to hurt. When the last word was written, he read the e-mail again. He had written:
Dear Priya,
I wish I could say this to you face to face, but e-mail will have to do. I left Goa a complete wreck. I didn't want to hurt you. I'm a world-class idiot. I don't know how to say it better. I'm sorry for deceiving you. I'm sorry for the mess with Tera. You deserved to know the truth, but I was ashamed.
I'm in the United States. We found Sita. I'll tell you the story someday if you like. But I won't force it on you. I don't know what to do right now except bring her back to India and finish my year with CASE. I can't see beyond that. Except that I hopeâplease believe meâI hope that you are a part of it.
I wrote a poem a few minutes ago. I don't know precisely what it means, but somehow it makes sense of my life like nothing else. I'm attaching it to this e-mail. Whether you write me back or not, know that I love you.
He sent the message and heard his flight being called. He looked out the window at the clouds high aloft, reflecting the last light of day. He collected his laptop bag and headed to the boarding queue, relishing the thought of chasing them again.
Let not your heart be burdened with what is past and gone.
âT
HE
R
AMAYANA
Atlanta, Georgia
On the morning of March 24, the Fulton County Juvenile Court entered an order granting leave for Sita to return to India. Both the American and Indian governments agreed that Agent Dodd, the victim specialist, should serve as her guardian on the trip home, and Thomas was deputized as their official escort.
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 constablesâwho had introduced themselves by their surnames, Bhuta and Singhâdrove 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
âa dense buttery cakeâand 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.
