Honor: A Novel(70)

Zenobia’s eyes were wild. “Dramatic? My daughter was molested in the middle of the street. My son was . . .”

“Yes, it’s very unfortunate,” said Priya, a slender, fair-skinned woman who had two children of her own. “But I don’t know what you were thinking. Pushpa says she pleaded with you to get out of town for a few weeks. But you didn’t listen. And honestly, if your husband wants to jeopardize his own family with his stupid newspaper articles, that’s one thing. But he put all of us in harm’s way. Those goondas would’ve come for our children next for associating with you people. And still you stand here and blame us.”

Asif came home that evening to find Zenobia in bed. She hadn’t made dinner, and the children had not eaten. When he woke her up, she said only one thing: “Get me out of here. Get me out of this cursed building, as soon as possible.”

Pushpa’s servant rang their doorbell at 9:00 p.m. Asif came back into the bedroom, looking puzzled as he held out a cloth sack. “I may be wrong,” he said, “but it doesn’t feel like they’ve returned all your jewelry? It feels so light.”

His wife looked at him with dull eyes. “What does it matter?” she said. “And how are we going to prove anything anyway? We are luckier than most. At least she sent some stuff back.”

Asif nodded. But at that moment, he resolved to move the family as soon as he found someone to buy their apartment.

He spent the next six months looking for a buyer. The first, a wealthy Muslim merchant who wanted to move into a “cosmopolitan” locality, was summarily dismissed by the building’s co-op board. “Forget it, yaar,” Dilip, the head of the building association, told Asif. “We are now an all-Hindu building. Let this man go live with his own kind.”

Three other buyers were rejected by the board before Dilip made his intentions clear. It turned out that his brother was looking to relocate to Mumbai. He of course wished to live near his family. Would Asif reduce his asking price and sell to his brother? It would be a win-win-win for all of them.

“How is it a win for me?” Asif asked.

Dilip smiled. “Arre, yaar, you want to sell eventually, right? How you will do that if I don’t approve the sale? You see? Win-win-win.”

Asif went home, called his broker, and told him he had changed his mind. He wasn’t selling just yet. Because he had come to a decision. There was no point in simply moving to a different neighborhood. He no longer wished to live in this godforsaken country.

Sushil had given them a new identity. Asif had been forced to shed the name bestowed upon him by his father and instead take a name chosen for him by an illiterate street thug. Everything about them was new. What was that term Christians in America used? Born again. They had been born again.

They would start afresh in a new country, among new people. He would move heaven and earth to get an appointment at a university in America.





Chapter Twenty-Nine





They sat in silence in Mohan’s living room, Smita sobbing quietly, Mohan riveted in place. Finally, after the longest time, Smita spoke. “I’m sorry. You see, I couldn’t . . .”

“Don’t,” Mohan said, his voice hoarse. He crossed the room, sat next to her, and took her hand in his. Everything that the gesture telegraphed—sympathy, solidarity, caring—made Smita come undone, and she began to cry harder.

“One impulsive phone call,” Smita said. “With one phone call to Chiku, I upended all our lives. It was my fault, you see? Everything that followed was my fault.”

“Smita, no, no, no,” Mohan said. “How can you believe this? You were a child.”

Smita barely heard him. “We had never thought of ourselves as anything but Indian,” she said. “We were not a religious family, and Mumbai was the only home we knew . . .”

“Yes, of course.”

“But, Mohan. This incident changed more than just our lives. It changed how we saw ourselves. We were suddenly made to feel like strangers in the only home we’d ever known. In some ways, we felt more welcomed in Ohio than we did in my old neighborhood, after Sushil entered our lives.”

Mohan put his arm around Smita’s shoulders in a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Smita opened her mouth to say more when her phone rang. It was Anjali calling. On a Sunday morning.

Reluctantly, she pulled away from Mohan and reached for her phone. She took a moment to compose herself before she answered, aware that Mohan was watching her.

“Hi, Anjali,” Smita said, brushing the tears from her eyes. “How are you?”

“Fine. I have news. We have a firm date. It’s on Wednesday. Okay?”

A few days before, Smita would have been dismayed by the delay. Now, she didn’t mind so much.

“Of course we won’t know the exact time until that morning,” Anjali said. “It’s at least a five-hour drive from Mumbai. So maybe you should stay at the motel the night before.”

“Actually, I’m in Surat. So it won’t take as long—”

“Surat? What’s in Surat?”

“I—I’m just visiting a friend.”

“Oh, I see. Well, it will be a shorter drive. I don’t know how many hours of notice we’ll get.”