Honor: A Novel(67)

The crowd was restless. Sameer took two steps toward his sister, positioning his body to protect her.

“Today, we are going to teach that professor a lesson he will never forget,” Boss continued. “Let him write his future books in his children’s blood.”

Zeenat froze. And Sameer, sensing her terror, yelled. “Just let my sister go! You can do what you want . . .”

“Chup.” Boss slapped the boy across the face.

Holding his cheek, whimpering a little, Sameer said, “Please. I told you. We are Christians.”

“Arre, chutiya, if you are Christian, prove it. Drop your pants.”

The emboldened men laughed; someone clapped his hands, and the chant began: “Dropyourpants, dropyourpants, pulldownhispants, pulldownhispants.”

Zeenat stared at them, confused. She had no idea what they meant. Sameer was obviously pretending that they were not Muslim, but why did they want him to undress?

Boss grinned. He approached Sameer from behind and placed him in a chokehold.

“Help!” Zeenat screamed, looking skyward, praying for some farishta, or angel, to come to their rescue. And for a moment, it looked as if her prayers were to be answered because several of their neighbors were standing on their balconies, straining to see what was happening below. Her eyes moved to the familiar, third-floor balcony. How many times had she stood in the street and yelled for Chiku to come down to play? And there he was, Chiku, standing next to his mother. Did they not understand what was happening? Or had they already called for the police? “Chiku!” Zeenat yelled as loudly as she could. “Help us.” A pair of hands reached for her just then, but not before she saw Mrs. Patel pulling her son back into the apartment.

But there was no time to think because . . . a hand was reaching for her from behind and pushing itself down the front of her shorts and . . . Zeenat felt as if she would pass out from shame and humiliation. Then, a sharp pain as the hand found its target. Her face drenched in sweat, she tried to jackknife around but was held in place as the man’s hand roamed inside her shorts.

She cried out in pain and terror, then looked over to see Sameer on the ground with his shorts and underwear pulled down to his ankles. A smaller crowd had gathered around the boy, jeering. “Christian, eh?” Boss said. “Then why the fuck are you circumcised, chutiya?”

There was a scuffle at the outer edge of the crowd; heads turned and suddenly, there was Zeenat’s father, panting, sweating, pale. His eyes were wild as he took in the sight of his children. The hand digging into Zeenat froze, then extracted itself. Asif rushed to his daughter and pulled her toward him. “What is happening?” he yelled. “Your grievance is with me, not with my children.” He spoke directly to Sameer. “Get up. Get up, son. Straighten yourself,” as if it had been Sameer’s idea to lie in the middle of the street with his pants down. And miraculously, the crowd took a step back and allowed the boy to rise. Still, Zeenat knew better than to think that the danger had passed. She worried that they would injure Papa. She glanced up in desperation at their apartment building again, but the neighbors who remained on their balconies stood immobile.

Papa turned toward Boss. “Aren’t you the mechanic at Contractor Auto Repair? Your employer, Pervez Contractor, is a good friend of mine.”

For the first time, Boss looked apprehensive. But he stood his ground. “So? My religion is more valuable to me than any job.”

Zeenat could see her father fighting to control his fear. “And your religion encourages you to mistreat children?” he said.

Boss was instantly furious and raised a threatening hand. “Saala, I will chop off your tongue if you insult my religion.”

“I have made it my life’s work to study Hinduism,” Asif said, raising his voice so that the crowd could hear. “I know more about your religion than you will in five lifetimes. Tell me, can you quote the immortal words of the Ramayana? Or the Mahabharata? I can.”

A murmur went through the crowd, and Zeenat could sense a shift in its mood. Her heart surged with love and admiration for her father.

Asif must have sensed the same small victory because he pulled both children toward him, a protective hand on each of them. “Now, come on, let’s stop all this madness and everybody go home,” he said dismissively.

It was a mistake. The mob would disperse on its terms, not on terms set by the Muslim professor, no matter how learned he was. In fact, his very erudition was a poke in their eyes, even if they had momentarily cowered under it. Boss smacked Asif across the mouth. “Nobody leaves until I say so,” he said. “You understand, motherfucker?”

Asif nodded.

“Your boy says he is a Christian,” Boss said.

Asif stayed silent.

“Maybe you butchers should convert. Then, instead of the Catholic missionaries trying to convert us Hindus, they can focus on you heathens.”

“I am a believer in all religions,” Asif said. “All roads lead to one God.”

“Chup re,” Boss said, striking Asif on the back. “You talk too much, professor.” He was quiet for a moment, and they all watched to see what he would do next. “Shivaji was a great warrior,” he said out of the blue. “Say it. Say it.”

“Shivaji was a great warrior,” Asif repeated dully. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he added, “But I never claimed otherwise. You misunderstand what . . .”