Honor: A Novel(68)

“Papa!” Sameer yelled. “Shut up. Just shut up.”

Boss tossed back his head and laughed. “Wah,” he said. “The son is smarter than the father.” He jabbed his index finger into Asif’s face. “Yes. You shut up.”

Asif fell quiet.

Boss paced for a minute, lost in thought. “Where’s your wife?” he said suddenly.

The breath caught in Asif’s chest.

“I asked—where is your wife?”

He swallowed. “She’s upstairs. With the old lady. I beg you . . .”

Boss chewed on his tongue, thinking. “We have kerosene here,” he said conversationally, almost pleasantly. “We could set all four of you on fire. But first—see these rods? First, we’d beat your children to a pulp. In front of you. Then, we would go fetch your wife. While you are still alive. And then . . .”

Asif howled and fell to his knees. The sound was so sudden that even Boss took a step backward. Zeenat stared at her father, transfixed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sameer’s face harden with contempt before he looked away.

“Bhai,” Asif said. “I beg you. Take whatever you want from us, but please leave my wife and children alone. We have lived in peace with all of you all these years. Ask any of our neighbors. They will all vouch for us.”

“Ask your neighbors?” Boss laughed. “Saala, who do you think told us where you rats were hiding? You lied to them, too, eh? But your daughter couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

Asif looked stricken. “I beg you,” he said. “Spare my family.”

Boss addressed the crowd. “You see? These fuckers are tough as soldiers when they’re left unchallenged. But when we fight back, we see their true, cowardly selves.” He turned to one of his henchmen. “What should we do with this pile of refuse?”

The man shrugged. “Kill them?”

Boss appeared dissatisfied with this answer. He pulled on the hair on his chin and then turned his face upward, as if he had been struck by a bolt of inspiration. “Convert!” he proclaimed. “Convert to Hinduism, and you can live. Renounce your Allah publicly. In front of your children.”

Asif had never been a particularly religious man. But his face twisted at what Boss was asking of him. He looked up at the man towering over him. “Please,” he said, but just then a flash caught his eye and he saw a blade as it gleamed in the sun. It was being held to his son’s throat. He knew that one false move by the panicked boy would result in tragedy. “Whatever you wish!” he yelled. “Thy will be done,” he cried, and then collapsed in sobs as he saw the blade being removed from Sameer’s throat.

“Swear it,” Boss said. “Swear on your father’s head that you and your family will convert. That is the only way you walk out of here alive.”

“I swear. I swear in Allah’s name. I swear on my father’s head.”

A huge smile flashed on Boss’s face. “Well done,” he said. “You have chosen wisely.” He turned to the crowd. “Arre, one of you good-for-nothings help this poor gentleman to his feet, na,” he said humorously. And when Asif stood weakly, Boss enveloped him in a bear hug. “Hindu-Hindu bhai-bhai,” he said. “Now, come. Today is a day of celebration. Tomorrow, I will return with the priest.” He snapped his fingers. “Ae, Prakash. Go quickly and bring madam downstairs. Tell her, her Hindu bridegroom awaits her.”

“She won’t come,” Asif said miserably. “Let me go get her.”

“Okay,” Boss said magnanimously. “We’ll keep the children here. And one more thing. Don’t bother calling the police, accha? Nobody is going to come.”

And so, it was done.

Zenobia accompanied Asif back down to the street and was informed about her husband’s vow. Not a single neighbor came out to see the Rizvis being escorted back into their apartment. That night, Boss had two of his men stay in their apartment to keep an eye on them. He also made sure that their house phone was “confiscated for one day only, okay?” (They never saw that phone again.) Boss, whose real name was Sushil, returned the next day with a Hindu priest. Several of their neighbors were invited to witness the rites of conversion.

“Listen,” Sushil said, just before the ceremony started. “I myself will bestow upon you your new Hindu names.”

Henceforth, he proclaimed, Asif Rizvi would be known as Rakesh Agarwal. Zenobia would be renamed Madhu, after Sushil’s own sister. They could choose the children’s names themselves, he declared benevolently. He would give them a few minutes to decide.

The priest lit a fire in the small urn that was placed in the center of the book-lined living room. He chanted the Sanskrit hymns. Zenobia wept throughout the entire ceremony, but Asif stared resolutely ahead.

Sushil thumped Asif on the back when it was over and shook his hand heartily. “You have assured me a place in heaven, sir,” he said, as if the conversion had been Asif’s idea.

After their stone-faced neighbors had departed, Sushil produced a box of sweets. “Come on,” he said, winking at Asif. “Let’s go around the building, distributing the sweets. Now, the building is pure, one hundred percent Hindu.”

Seeing Zenobia’s head jerk back in revulsion, Asif cast a warning glance at her. “Let’s go,” he said to his wife.