The trouble came on the fifth day.
“Listen,” Mohan said. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to tell me. I can see how hard this is.”
But once Smita had started, she didn’t wish to stop. Part of the reason was relief at no longer having to hide the truth. And part of it was revenge. Mohan had looked at her with suspicion. She wanted him to come face-to-face with his own privilege.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I want to.” She paused. “But I want you to know—I’ve only told this story to one other person. My best friend back home. No one else. You’re only the second person. Ever.”
He bowed his head. “Thank you. But you don’t . . .”
“I want to,” she repeated.
The trouble came on the fifth day.
A Sunday.
Over Zenobia’s vociferous objections, Asif insisted that they attend the luncheon where he was getting a literary award.
“Have you gone mad, Asif?” Zenobia said. “Do you know how dangerous it is?”
“Fffft. The streets are already quiet. We will go and come, just like that. Three hours, tops.”
“And what about all our neighbors who think we’ve gone out of town? You made me lie to them for what reason?”
“I have it worked out.” Asif gave his wife a beseeching look. “But, darling, I want you to come with me. In fact, I won’t go without you.”
Jafar was once again employed to smuggle them out of their hideaway and drive them to Flora Fountain. Zenobia protested that she didn’t have anything to wear, but she’d had the foresight to pack one good silk sari, and Beatrice loaned her a gold chain and pendant.
“Mummy,” Zeenat said, “you look beautiful.”
Zenobia pulled her daughter toward her. “You be good. Papa and I will be back in no time, accha? Don’t give Beatrice Auntie any trouble.”
Zeenat rolled her eyes. “Bring me a chicken roll from Paradise on your way home.”
Zenobia looked distressed. “I wish I could, darling. But we just want to go long enough for Papa to give his speech and pick up his award.”
“Fine.”
“As soon as this nightmare ends, we’ll go there for lunch, okay, my baby?”
“Mummy, it’s fine. Go.”
The children ate lunch with Beatrice before the old woman went to take her siesta. Unlike their own apartment, Beatrice’s flat didn’t have air-conditioning and even though they wore T-shirts and shorts, Sameer and Zeenat were hot and miserable as they sat in the living room. “I’m bored,” Sameer said, stretching his arms over his head.
Zeenat looked up from her book. “I have an idea. Let’s call Chiku,” she said. “Maybe he can come over.”
Sameer hesitated. “Papa said no one should know where we are.”
“So? Chiku’s not going to tell anyone.”
She could see that Sameer was tempted. “You know we can trust him,” she said. And before Sameer could react, she picked up Beatrice’s phone and dialed Chiku’s number.
“Hello, Pushpa Auntie,” she said when Mrs. Patel answered. “It’s Zeenat. Is Chiku there?”
“Hello, beta,” Mrs. Patel said. “What news of all of you? How is your mother? Let me speak to her.”
“She and Papa are out.” Zeenat coiled the phone cord around her finger. “Can Chiku come over to play?”
“Play? But, darling, aren’t you out of town?”
“We’re just across the street, Auntie,” Zeenat laughed. “At Miss Beatrice’s house. Chiku can be here in two minutes. Papa didn’t want all the neighbors to know.”
There was a long silence. When Pushpa Patel spoke, her voice had ice chips in it. “I see. Well, Chiku cannot come. He is busy. With his friends.”
“Is he coming?” Sameer asked, after Zeenat hung up. He noticed the stunned look on his sister’s face. “What is it?”
Zeenat cocked her head. “I don’t know. Pushpa Auntie sounded angry. But I don’t know why.”
“I told you. You shouldn’t have called.”
“I’m sorry. Don’t tell Papa, okay?”
“Listen, don’t worry about Pushpa Auntie. She was probably fighting with her servant again.” Sameer smiled at his sister. “Come on. Forget about Chiku. Want to play Scrabble?”
They were in the midst of a game, Sameer beating her as usual, when the doorbell rang. “Yay! They’re home!” Zeenat exclaimed.