The World We Found (17 page)

He stepped onto the busy, noisy street full of hawkers and beggars and automobiles and felt the piety of just a few moments ago begin to drain out of him. In its place grew the familiar burdens of worry and resentment. He had a name for this syndrome: Allah Left and Iqbal Returned. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he prayed, it was always like this. In the old days, the feeling of contentment used to linger longer, sometimes he was able to hold on to it all the way home, and then, wanting to continue that delicious, precious feeling, he would stop by the sweetmeat shop and buy some halwa for Zoha. And when she would protest about weight gain, he would tell her that as far as he was concerned she was still the most beautiful woman in the world, and he would mean it. But such moments of sweetness seldom arose between them anymore.

Iqbal looked at the night sky and swallowed the sob that was forming in his throat. Did Zoha think he was enjoying this, monitoring her every move? Did she not realize that when he had struck her for the first time in their married life, it was himself that he had really hurt? What had she called him last night? Her jailer. Him, Iqbal, who had battled the world for her sake. Zoha had been his first religion. From the day he had met her in college, he had lived to make her happy. Did she forget this? Or had she never known? He had fought with his own parents when they had balked at the news that their son wanted to marry a Hindu. He had even been willing to convert to Hinduism—Iqbal pinched himself now as punishment for that early blasphemy—for her sake. Apart from his college friends, everyone he knew had tormented him for marrying a Hindu girl. That much he had to give Adish and the rest—they had been open and total in their support. But they were mere children then. What did any of them know about the ways of the world? Leaving college and getting a job at the bank had been like waking up from a dream: the jokes on Eid about whether he had slaughtered a goat before coming to work that morning; the automatic assumption that he supported the Pakistani team during the India-Pakistan cricket matches; the hostile looks directed his way every time there was a terrorist attack anywhere in India.

The day he left the bank had been the happiest day of his life. Even though his colleagues had slighted him, taking him to a Udipi restaurant for a farewell lunch, instead of the expensive Chinese restaurant they usually went to for dinner when someone left. Even though Zoha had looked at him in disbelief for the whole two weeks that he worked there after handing in his resignation letter. And, yes, even though—Ya Allah—she had suffered a miscarriage two months later. Because he had never believed, as she had, that it was her worry and stress over money that had caused her to miscarry.

A beggar woman trailed after Iqbal and he dug into the pocket of his pajama and flung a coin into her open palm. “God bless you, sir,” she said before moving on, but he didn’t hear her, thinking as he was about his scrotum.

He had had the vasectomy after Zoha miscarried the third time. The doctor kept saying he saw no rhyme or reason for the miscarriages. Be patient, he counseled. You are both still young and healthy.

But he could not deal with the stricken expression on Zoha’s face after each mishap. Or the snide comments made by his mother about the barren womb of his “foreign” wife. And once they moved into the new neighborhood, he didn’t
want
children with Hindu blood. Although Zoha had converted by then, it was too difficult, too risky, too confusing. He imagined seeing in his children’s faces their Hindu grandfather’s visage—the same man who had refused to look at Iqbal when he’d gone over to ask for Zoha’s hand in marriage, a man who had never set eyes on his daughter since she’d married Iqbal, as if a dead daughter were preferable to a Muslim son-in-law. The Hand of God, he had thought after the third miscarriage. Allah the All-Knowing is behind the miscarriages, to spare us future grief. He did not consult Zoha about the vasectomy. But, still, he had not expected her outraged reaction. Some part of him had thought of the vasectomy as an act of love, of heroic self-sacrifice, a way of protecting his wife from the barbed comments of those around them. From now on, he could be the reason for the unnaturalness of being a young, healthy couple without children.

But she didn’t see it that way, did she? Iqbal now said to himself. Of course she didn’t. Why should she, when all she’s been doing is looking for reasons to leave you?

His attention snagged by this last thought, Iqbal abruptly stopped walking, causing a bicyclist to almost run into him. He ignored the man’s muttered curse. Of course.
Of course
. That explained the disquiet, the upheaval he had felt ever since she’d told him about Laleh’s visit. Because even without knowing it, he had sensed this agitation, this restlessness in Zoha for—how long now? And the intelligent part of him, the Allah-blessed part, had figured it out before the rest of him had, the threat posed by Laleh’s return into their lives.

But why now? Iqbal railed as he resumed walking. Now, when everything was already so hard? Even in his all-Muslim neighborhood it was impossible to escape the madness of a world thirsty for Muslim blood. How wrong their analysis in college had been. Back then they had seen the fight as between rich and poor, a global class struggle. Maybe the world had changed since then, or maybe Allah had seen fit to drop the scales from his eyes, but everywhere he looked these days, someone was out for Muslim blood. Iraq. Afghanistan. Chechnya. Kashmir. Sudan. Gujarat. Even on the streets of this cursed city. Hadn’t he seen it firsthand?

But the affairs of the world were not his concern. He had humility now, unlike during his arrogant student activist days, when he had believed he could change the world. Now he knew that only Allah can change the destiny of an ant or an emperor. Now he had more pressing concerns, like the conversation with Murad earlier this week, when the latter had told him that business was bad and so he would have to take a pay cut. At first he had assumed that Murad was bluffing, getting even for his calling in sick the afternoon of Adish’s visit. But when he realized Murad was not joking, Iqbal had been unable to look his uncle in the face, afraid that his eyes would show his contempt for Murad’s obvious lie. Business was good, and for two months now Iqbal had been trying to muster up the courage to ask for a pay raise. It didn’t come easy to him, this asking, this talking about matters of commerce. But Murad must’ve sensed something and had thought to preempt him with his outrageous untruth. And because Murad had no shame, the burden of shame had fallen on him, on Iqbal. He had been the one to look away, afraid of calling the thief a thief.

As he walked, Iqbal renewed his vow to hide the news of the pay cut from Zoha for as long as he could. He didn’t want to revive the old discussion about allowing her to find a job. He was the man, the head of the household. It was his duty to support his wife.

At least there have been no new calls on Zoha’s cell phone since the day Adish stopped by to see me, he thought. Seems like they have finally gotten the message. A car horn sounded, setting off a long string of horns, like the firecrackers that the Hindus set off at Diwali. Iqbal blocked his ears as he walked, frowning slightly. In retrospect, he was glad he had agreed to chat with Adish. He had almost refused, so upset had he been by Adish’s showing up at his workplace. But he had noticed the unexpected wetness in Adish’s eyes at his rudeness and something in him had weakened. Some hand of friendship had reached out from the past and tugged at him and he had agreed to lunch.

Iqbal sighed heavily. Could things have gone differently? he asked himself. Or was it inevitable that those college friendships had to end? Zoha had always blamed him for pulling away from the group. But this was not his recollection. What he remembered was that they had begun to go their own ways even before graduation. Iqbal squinted hard, trying to part the veil of the past, and what emerged was a memory of him carrying a small vase of roses to the hospital for Armaiti the morning after the march. He remembered the large bruise on Armaiti’s forehead and how she had drifted in and out of sleep, while her mother spoke in whispers and rearranged the pillows on Armaiti’s bed. Where were the others that day? And then Iqbal remembered: he had left the hospital and gone directly to the courthouse, where Adish was waiting for him, Laleh’s father at his side. Rumi uncle, who had agreed to represent the arrested students in court, had lectured both of them about their naiveté, about the perils of political activism, but Iqbal had barely listened, anxious as he was to see Zoha, who had been arrested along with twelve of their comrades the previous day.

Even now, after all these years, in the middle of a crowded street, the hair on Iqbal’s neck stood up as he remembered the shock of seeing Zoha and Kavita as they made their disheveled court appearance. It is as if they’ve been in jail for a year instead of a day, Iqbal had marveled to himself then. Kavita especially had looked half-crazed, but when he’d asked her if she was okay, she had looked straight through him.

It all began to come apart after that, Iqbal now thought. Laleh seemed to continually apologize to us for having missed the march. Kavita developed those strange eye tics and nervous habits, spinning around to look behind her even if we were just walking down a street. And if we asked her what was wrong, she just shook her head.

No, Zoha was wrong. He remembered that a few months before graduation Armaiti had won a writing contest cosponsored by the Indian and Czech governments which took her to Czechoslovakia for eight days. Upon her return, she had described to them in hushed tones how dark and drab Prague was, the soldiers with machine guns on the streets, the old ladies in black coats standing in food lines, the ever-present surveillance cameras in the hotel elevators. There had been a stunned silence, none of them knowing what to say or believe. “You’re making it sound like something out of a CIA propaganda film, yaar,” Laleh had finally said, and they had all looked at Armaiti, wanting her to deny it. Armaiti had kept quiet.

He and Zoha had gotten close in the months that followed. He knew it without her having to say it—for the first time, Zoha was letting herself imagine a future that featured him in a starring role, rather than her three friends. She was seeking him out now. Laleh was spending more and more time with Adish; Kavita had grown secretive and distant; Armaiti seemed disenchanted by the movement. Now, finally, there was a place for him.

Well, he would not let that place be usurped by the others. Not now, not after all these years, not after everything he’d sacrificed. Did Laleh and Kavita really think that they could swoop down into their lives after years of zero contact and scoop up his wife? Zoha was so impressionable. Always had been. And so influenced by Laleh, especially. And Armaiti. Iqbal increased his pace as his building came into view. He was very sorry for Armaiti’s suffering. But what did she expect? That she could pick up Zoha as easily as he could buy a tomato at the vegetable market near his house? How blithely these Americans—yes, he considered Armaiti an American now—thought they could buy and sell people. Out of the whole lot of them, Adish was the only one he truly trusted. It was a good thing Adish had visited him, Iqbal decided as he walked past the vegetable market. He trusted Adish to keep his word. Let the others go to see their sick friend. Let them spend their money to visit a country that they had once condemned. None of this had anything to do with him. All he asked was to be left alone.

But there was still the matter of Zoha’s cell phone. When to return it to her? When was it safe? Did he have the right to confiscate it? Was Zoha right? Was he holding his wife a prisoner? He had tried to ask such a question of the imam at his mosque earlier today, but the old man had looked at him with puzzled eyes. “What’s the question, son?” he’d asked. “Cell phone belong to you. Wife belong to you. What is the problem?”

He had not dared tell the imam about slapping Zoha. To this question, he knew the answer. He was wrong. It was an unforgivable thing he had done, a gesture born out of a desire to protect his family from the intrusions of the outside world. But never again, he promised himself. I swear to you, Allah. May you chop off my hands if I ever strike a woman again.

He had almost reached his building when he remembered. The bruise. An ugly purple bruise and swelling had risen on Zoha’s face where he had struck her. Mumtaz would notice immediately. Would Zoha cover for him? He could not be sure. Iqbal suddenly felt tired to his very bones. He glanced at his watch. Zoha would be dressed, waiting for him so that they could leave for Mumtaz’s house. But the thought of facing his sister’s hostility made him sick. Not tonight. He just didn’t have it in him to put up with Mumtaz’s attacks tonight. He took out his cell phone and dialed his sister’s number as he climbed heavily up the rickety wooden stairs of his apartment building.

“Yes?”

“Hey, Choti,” he said, lapsing into his nickname for her. “It’s me. Listen, sorry about the last-minute cancellation, but we can’t make it tonight.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nahi, I’m not feeling well, yaar. Tell Husseinbhai I’m sorry. I just need to go to bed early.”

“Is Zoha coming?”

He stopped climbing, stunned by the question. “No, of course not.”

“Why can’t she come alone?”

He could tell where this was headed. “She doesn’t want to come without me, Mumtaz,” he lied. “I asked her.”

“Let me speak to her.”

He gnashed his teeth. Mumtaz had always been like this, even as a toddler. Relentless. “I’m not home,” he said shortly. “I was at the mosque.”