The World We Found (27 page)

She heard Ingrid’s gasp of pleasure. “Kavita? What a nice surprise.” There was a shuffling sound and then Ingrid said, “But it’s the middle of the night there, no?”

She laughed. “Almost morning.” She paused. “I was up working. And then I couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, your loss is my gain,” Ingrid said warmly, and Kavita could’ve hugged her. “So? You all set? Ready to leave?”

“Not really. There’s a million things to do. But I’ll send the drawings of the Burnside project to you later today.”

“I wasn’t worried about that. But I’m worried about you. You going to be okay in America?”

“I think so. I mean, I know it will be hard. I don’t really know what to expect from Armaiti, you know? I’m just hoping she doesn’t look too sick. And there’s the whole deal with Nishta. Just hope we get off smoothly.”

“That’s quite a plan you have there. To get Nishta out of the house.”

Kavita chuckled. “That’s Laleh and Mumtaz in action.”

There was a short silence, and then Ingrid said, “You’re gonna say something to Armaiti? About the past and all that?”

“I don’t know.” Kavita plucked at a small pimple on her cheek. “I’ll just have to wait and see. She may be too sick.” She sighed heavily. “I wish you were coming with me.”

“Me, too. But this is better. The four of you need this time with no interruptions.” There was a suggestive pause. “And if I were there, there would be interruptions, if you know what I mean.”

Kavita smiled.

“Besides, I’d be so jealous.”

Kavita was stunned. Ingrid had practically built her own religion out of espousing the evils of jealousy. “Of what?”

“Of you and Armaiti. The fact that you loved her for so many years.”

She was more moved than she could’ve anticipated. “You have nothing to be jealous of. That was—I was a girl then. A kid. What I have with you is . . .” She choked on her words, not wanting to betray the purity of her love for Armaiti while also trying to let Ingrid know how much she had come to value her.

“Hush, baby. Are you crying? That wasn’t my intention. I’m sorry.”

And then she was indeed crying. “I’m just tired,” she said. “Sorry. I . . . I’ll be glad when we get on that plane and when I see Armaiti. It’s just not knowing what we’ll find—” She shut up abruptly.

They chatted for a few more moments and then hung up. Kavita fell into a deep sleep minutes later.

T
he lovely things:

The reflection of the traffic lights on the slick asphalt streets of Bombay after a rain shower. The Atlantic Ocean during a thunderstorm, its waters turning silver and green and majestic. A solitary squirrel racing on the smooth, white skin of a snowy lawn of a ski lodge in Colorado. The sand mandalas made by the Buddhist monks at the art museum.

She was in love. Hopelessly, helplessly, tenderly, in love with the world. A sob formed in Armaiti’s throat as she lay on her couch, the weak afternoon light pouring in through the large windows. What she had believed was indignation or rage or a deep intolerance for injustice came down to this: she was irreducibly in love with this bewitching planet, this thrilling life, this heartbreaking species she belonged to, with its capacity for stupefying destruction and breathtaking magnanimity. It all astonished her—the vivid greens, the searing blue of the sky, the splendor of the ocean, the pockmarked perfection of the moon, the stunning grandeur of her own backyard. Yellow, Armaiti thought. You could devote an entire lifetime to the study of yellow.

Color. She was obsessed with color. There was the red of the Shiraz that Richard had opened the night before. The burnt orange of the handcrafted cherry table in the hallway. The glitter of a computer chip, the history of human intelligence shrunk into a capsule. The muted gold of this leather couch she was napping on. It made you greedy, intoxicated, made you want to open your mouth and bite into the richness of the world. It made you want to never leave it, never miss out on a day of this party, this wild carnival ride.

A tear rolled down Armaiti’s cheek. This was the hardest time of the day, afternoon, when Diane was out running errands, when the house was quiet and still and all she wanted to do was breathe alongside billions of others. The quiet hour when thoughts became prayers—
I want a few more years,
please. I want to live. Pain-free, of course—
and prayers devolved into bargains.

She wiped the tear away and stared at the ceiling, her mind careening between past and present.

The lovely things:

Coming home from college to find her mother asleep and waking her up with a kiss on the forehead. The green misty hills of Mahabaleshwar the summer before Daddy died. Seeing a double rainbow the day Kavita and she had skipped class and gone to the beach. The dogwoods flowering in Harvard Yard as Richard kissed her deeply and tenderly, that first time. Richard’s pale, strong hand on her darker body, his fingers spread out across her pregnant belly. Singing along to Joan Baez’s “Honest Lullaby” as Diane played on the floor with her building blocks.

Potatoes boiling on the stove, the wintry afternoon light pouring into her kitchen as the cats dozed and purred on the kitchen table. Diane coming home from preschool, jabbering away about her day, her upturned face a flower in the sun. George Winston’s “Pachelbel’s Canon” playing on the stereo on Christmas morning. A Thanksgiving Day when Richard, Diane, and she had sat on the couch, eating Chinese takeout and watching Three Stooges videos.

Armaiti lay on the couch and thought about how much she would miss the lovely things.

Chapter 22

A
dish yawned again and Laleh pivoted in the passenger seat to look at him with concern. She knew that after he dropped her off in Mahim at the women’s shelter where she volunteered every Thursday, he had at least another half hour’s drive ahead of him to the suburb where his meeting was. “Why are you so tired this morning?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Bad night. Just couldn’t fall asleep.”

“I’m sorry. I heard you get up.”

He sighed. “I kept thinking of what will happen after you leave.”

Laleh smiled. “I know. I’ll miss you, too.”

Adish looked puzzled, then shook his head. “Thanks. But that’s not what I meant.”

“What, then?”

“I was awake half the night worrying about Iqbal when he finds out Nishta is gone. He’ll come home and she won’t be there. How soon before he notices her passport is missing? Iqbal’s not an idiot. It’s a matter of time before he puts two and two together.”

Laleh shrugged. “I don’t care about Iqbal. I just want to do this to help Nishta. And to repay my debt to Armaiti.”

She regretted the words as soon as they’d left her mouth. But it was too late.

“Repay your debt?” Adish asked sharply. “Are you still obsessed with thinking you’ve caused Armaiti’s tumor? Is that why we’re going through all this, Laleh? To appease your conscience?”

“You’re not getting what I meant,” she said.

“So what did you mean?”

She shook her head impatiently. “Forget it.”

“No. I’m not forgetting it. I want to know what you meant.” Adish took his eyes off the road to look at her. “You better be sure you’re thinking this through, Laleh. It’ll be hard, but we can still back out. You better not be using Nishta as a pawn, just to satisfy Armaiti.”

Laleh felt her face redden. “Take that back,” she said. “You know me better than that.”

“Okay,” Adish said. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

They made light, desultory conversation the rest of the way until Adish pulled into the dusty compound where the shelter was housed. “Thanks for the lift,” Laleh said stiffly, not looking at him. She turned to get out of the car.

“One sec,” Adish said, touching her wrist. He looked at her for a moment, his brown eyes searching her face. “Are you sure you’re doing this for the right reasons, Laleh?” he said finally. “I mean, we’re on the verge of breaking up someone’s marriage. And the consequences could be severe.”

S
everal hours later, Laleh watched as Farhad took his third helping of rice, cauliflower, and chicken. Beside him, Ferzin sat playing with her food. Farhad eyed his sister’s plate. “You’re not eating this?” he said, pointing with his fork to the cauliflower on her plate. Before she could respond, he scooped the vegetable onto his plate. He chewed for a few seconds and then looked at his mother. “Why aren’t you having dinner?”

“I told you before. I’ll eat when Daddy gets home,” she said shortly.

“But he’s playing tennis tonight. It’ll be late when he returns.”

Farhad, she could tell, was in one of his argumentative moods. And she was in no mood for a second argument today. She got up from the dining chair. “I know. It’s okay.” She went into the bedroom, picked up the car keys from the dresser, and came back. “I’m going out for an hour or so,” she said.

The children looked startled. “Where’re you going?” Ferzin asked.

“Out,” she said, and before they could ask any more questions she walked out the front door.

As she entered the lobby, she spotted Murthi, one of the building’s watchmen, and pulled out two twenty-rupee notes. “Can you run a quick errand?” she asked. “I need a small garland. See if the flower shop is still open, would you?”

“Any special kind, madam?”

She shook her head. “Just an ordinary garland—a couple of roses, some jasmine, bas. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

“Shall I call for your driver, madam?”

“No. I’m driving.”

Ten minutes later, she was in the silver Maruti, headed toward Marine Drive. It had rained earlier in the day and the evening air felt heavy as a secret. She turned on the air conditioning. The string of flowers, rolled inside a newspaper bag, lay on the passenger seat, filling the small car with its sweetness.

She had been so busy all day that she had not had a chance to evaluate what Adish had said to her in the car this morning. But now she knew: as always, he had hit the nail on its head. As much as she’d wanted to rescue Nishta, some part of her had also wanted to present her—present the three of them—to Armaiti as a gift. And, yes, ever since she’d heard about Armaiti’s condition, she had been indulging in magical thinking. As long as she was responsible for Armaiti’s condition, she could also fix it. It had been the only way she could deal with the immensity of her grief.

But the truth was, she had lost Armaiti a little at a time over almost thirty years, starting when Armaiti had told her that she was applying to grad school in America. Laleh had been shocked but had done her best to hide the fact. “Why?” she had asked, flinging her arms open. “Everything you love is here.”

Armaiti had hesitated, a pained expression on her face. “I’m not happy, Lal,” she’d finally said.

“Why ever not?” she demanded. “And what about the movement?”

“The movement,” Armaiti repeated, as if testing the words out. She paused for a long time. “I’ve spent four years in the movement, Lal,” she said. “And I’m only twenty-one. I’m—I’m tired. Tired of being scared every time I see a policeman. Of feeling guity every time I buy a new pair of pants because someone else can’t afford bread. Don’t you ever get that way? And I’ve been thinking . . . what if we’re wrong about some of this stuff, Lal? What then?”

Laleh looked straight ahead, unable to answer. A thousand thoughts skated though her head, but the most persistant one was: Without Armaiti, what will I do?

“Why would we be wrong?” she said finally, knowing that Armaiti was waiting for a response.

Armaiti swallowed. “Czechoslovakia was horrible, Lal,” she said. “Gray. Gloomy. Depressing. Everyone looked old and tired. I tell you, the worst slums in Bombay look more cheerful than Prague did. And there were soldiers with machine guns everywhere in the city. Out in public, on the streets.”

“I know. You told us already. But maybe there was a military exercise or something going on.”

“No, Lal. It’s like that all the time.”

She was quiet then, not knowing what to do with this information—the thought that their dream might have a hollow core; the extent of Armaiti’s disillusionment with the movement; Armaiti’s abandonment of the poor, beleaguered country of their birth; the glass-coated string of loneliness that was cutting through her body at the realization that Armaiti was going to leave her, had in some ways already left her.

She did not trust herself to speak, fearing what sorrow or hurt or pleading might bubble up in her voice if she opened her mouth. They walked in silence for a few minutes. Then Armaiti asked, “Are you angry with me, Lal?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said gruffly, putting her arm across Armaiti’s shoulder. They walked down the street this way, much as they had done since childhood. “I hope you go to America. And I hope you find whatever you are seeking over there.”

T
he tears were rolling down Laleh’s cheeks as she sat at a traffic light, and she was glad for the Maruti’s tinted windows. She turned on the CD player and the second verse of “The Boxer” came on. As always, the forlorn lines made her imagine what Armaiti must have felt like when she’d first arrived in America. How friendless, how scared and lonely Armaiti must’ve been during those first months in America.