He nodded, but she knew what he was too polite to say: He was more likely to keep his promise than she was to keep hers.
Chapter Thirty
Anjali sent her assistant to drive me to the courthouse. I wanted to take Abru with me but Anjali had said absolutely not—we may have to sit for many hours before our case number would be called. The assistant said to leave Abru with Ammi, who grumbled about taking her granddaughter to her job with her. Her mistress does not like little children.
I have not seen my brothers since I saw them in court the last time.
I am very scared.
I am praying Smita and Mohan babu will be there.
I am hoping God will be there.
I am not sure if I should pray to the Muslim God or the Hindu one.
If Abdul were alive, he would say there is only one God—and that I must pray to the God called Justice.
But I am going to court because Abdul is dead.
Maybe, when people die, they become a speck in the eye of God?
Maybe it is Abdul to whom I must pray.
Maybe he can do in death what he couldn’t do in life: save me from the devils I must face in court.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Mohan. Slow down, please. You’re going to get us killed.”
He glanced at her, irritated. “You only said we can’t be late.”
“I know. But I also . . . Jesus.” She flinched as another car brushed past them, blaring its horn as it did.
He raised an eyebrow. “Jesus?”
“It’s an expression.”
“I know.” He flicked a piece of lint off his cheek. “So . . . Speaking of Jesus, did you ever see Beatrice again?”
“Of course. Although the poor woman was so wracked with guilt, she could barely look us in the eye for several months.”
“Yah. It’s always like this. The innocent ones feel guilt. Whereas the true bastards, like these two brothers we’re about to see, walk around like they own the world.”
Smita gave him a sidelong look, debating whether to ask the question that had been bugging her. “And you, you . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Smita. Come on. What is it?”
“It’s just that, I was wondering. Does it change anything for you? Knowing, you know, that I was born a Muslim?”
Several seconds passed before Mohan spoke. “I guess it does. To tell you the truth it makes me ashamed to be a Hindu. And it makes me wish I’d known you back then so I could’ve protected you.”
Others had expressed their solidarity with the Rizvi family. Poor Beatrice Gonzales had apologized profusely for being unable to protect Sameer and Zeenat. The chair of Asif’s department had thundered his disapproval when he’d heard about Asif’s decision to convert. A neighbor’s servant had muttered an apology the next time he had run into Mummy. But nobody had wanted to renounce their religion because of what had happened. Nobody had wished they could have scaled the time-space continuum for them. And there was no hint of pity in what Mohan had said. There was just sympathy, a clean sympathy that burned as pure as alcohol.
“Thank you, Mohan.”
After a few minutes Mohan asked, “Your father didn’t think of shifting immediately? You lived in that neighborhood for another two years?”
They did.
Asif, the only child of an only child, had a handful of distant relatives in Bombay. When word of the conversion got to them, they cut off all ties. And of course, there was no way now to move into an all-Muslim neighborhood, even if they’d wanted to. In any case, Asif, cosmopolitan and agnostic, had no desire to live in a homogenous place, not after living in the most bohemian part of the city. Where would he go? Forced out of one religion and into another, to whom would they turn? Who were their people? For the first time in his life, Asif Rizvi, aka Rakesh Agarwal, secular humanist, faced an identity crisis.
He had been to America before, had guest-lectured at a few universities in the Midwest. Like academics everywhere, his American colleagues had complained about the lack of respect for the humanities, the heavy teaching loads. Asif had nodded sympathetically, but he’d thought: You don’t know how good you have it. Because he had lectured to attentive, polite students, strolled around beautiful redbrick campuses, visited the airy, book-filled homes of his American counterparts. Most of all, he had thrilled to the notion of academic freedom, that a professor could be in charge of his or her classroom, with no interference from the university administration, much less from ignorant government bureaucrats.
Now, faced with a hostile wife, a sullen son, and a traumatized daughter who refused to leave the house except to go to school, Asif wrote letters to every American contact that he had, explaining his situation. A few wrote back immediately, sympathetic to his plight, informing him of openings at other universities, promising to follow up on any leads on his behalf. This fraternity of academics became Asif’s lifeline during that dark time, helping him remember who he was and the importance of his work. In a few years, a new millennium would dawn; despite his own personal misery, Asif was hopeful that the new century would usher in an age in which the world would finally transcend the tired tropes of caste and creed and national boundaries. Look at what had happened in Europe, with the formation of the European Union and the melting away of national borders. Surely, that was the way of the future. The more oppressive the realities of his home life became, the more Asif longed for the life of the mind. His true compatriots were not ignorant ruffians like Sushil, crippled by not knowing what they didn’t know. They were people like Sam Pearl, professor of religion at the small liberal arts university in Ohio that Asif had visited a few years before and with whom he had since coauthored a paper. After hearing of Asif’s plight, Sam went to speak with his dean—and a year into Asif’s search, he was offered a visiting professorship. Asif’s contract would start in fall 1998.