couldn’t risk any of this getting out, you see. She would’ve never found a husband, ever.”
“You married her off? At sixteen?”
Iqbal’s face twisted. “Don’t judge me, Adish. She’s happy now. Has two beautiful children of her own.”
Adish shook his head. “It’s not my place to judge, Iqbal.” He looked at the man in front of him. How far we’ve traveled, he marveled to himself. What different paths life has taken us down. He had a sudden insight that beneath Iqbal’s bearded visage, beneath the religious garb, there lay a wreck. That he was gazing upon a broken, tormented man, whom secular society had failed completely. His eyes burned at the thought. “I’m so sorry, dost,” he said. He felt he had never meant anything more.
Iqbal’s eyes glittered with tears. “Religion gives me comfort, Adish,” he said softly. “When I’m at the mosque, I feel safe. Like I am listening to beautiful music. Or swimming in the sea.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I know Zoha thinks I’m using religion as a crutch. She even gave me a hard time when I became a trustee at my mosque.”
Adish made a wry face. “I know what you mean.” Seeing Iqbal’s surprised look, “Same situation in my house, yaar. Laleh’s still a confirmed atheist. Whereas me . . . I’ve come to believe in the power of prayer.”
To his relief, Iqbal smiled. “Laleh,” he said. There was a lifetime of wonder and awe and affection in that word.
Adish’s voice was gentle as he spoke. “I promised Laleh I would try to convince you to let Nishta—Zoha—travel with them. What should I tell her?”
Iqbal looked Adish straight in the eye. “Tell her I said no, Adish. Tell her please to not interfere with the only beautiful thing I have left in my life. Tell her I said please.”
Chapter 10
A fter they shook hands outside the restaurant and said goodbye, Iqbal stood on the busy street corner and watched as Adish walked away. For a brief second, he felt the urge to run after Adish, to ask him not to disappear from his life as he had ordered him to do minutes earlier, but instead to walk down the crowded streets with him, as aimlessly and happily as they had done a thousand times in their youth. A lump formed in his throat as he caught sight of Adish’s familiar head one more time in the crowd. He was convinced that if he yelled Adish’s name loud enough, he would hear him, hear him above the roar of the traffic and the cries of the vendors, and would turn around and walk back toward him with a wide, guileless smile. Adish had never been able to hold a grudge, and the fact that he, Iqbal, had told him minutes ago to exit their lives and leave him and Zoha alone would be forgotten in an instant. Of this he was sure.
But what then? After they’d walked for an hour or two, after they’d stopped for another cup of tea, say, after they’d exhausted their supply of new jokes and old stories, after they’d reminisced about how torturous their pursuit of their respective wives had been, what then? What did the two of them possibly have in common other than the wisps of memories that still had the power to caress and tantalize? He remembered how casually Adish had tempted Murad with the prospect of placing an order that was larger than the number of items they would sell in months. A rich sahib toying with a poor man, trading on his hope and aspirations, in order to get his own way. He remembered how puzzled Adish had seemed when he’d told him about marrying Mumtaz off. How could someone like Adish possibly understand the claustrophobic atmosphere of the basti, where everybody knew each other’s affairs and rumors ran like barefoot children from one flat to another? And despite Adish’s declaration of being devout himself, Iqbal knew it wasn’t the same—Adish probably still drank alcohol, indulged all his senses, enjoyed every decadent pleasure that the life of the rich offered. The piety, the discipline, the purity of
“You married her off? At sixteen?”
Iqbal’s face twisted. “Don’t judge me, Adish. She’s happy now. Has two beautiful children of her own.”
Adish shook his head. “It’s not my place to judge, Iqbal.” He looked at the man in front of him. How far we’ve traveled, he marveled to himself. What different paths life has taken us down. He had a sudden insight that beneath Iqbal’s bearded visage, beneath the religious garb, there lay a wreck. That he was gazing upon a broken, tormented man, whom secular society had failed completely. His eyes burned at the thought. “I’m so sorry, dost,” he said. He felt he had never meant anything more.
Iqbal’s eyes glittered with tears. “Religion gives me comfort, Adish,” he said softly. “When I’m at the mosque, I feel safe. Like I am listening to beautiful music. Or swimming in the sea.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I know Zoha thinks I’m using religion as a crutch. She even gave me a hard time when I became a trustee at my mosque.”
Adish made a wry face. “I know what you mean.” Seeing Iqbal’s surprised look, “Same situation in my house, yaar. Laleh’s still a confirmed atheist. Whereas me . . . I’ve come to believe in the power of prayer.”
To his relief, Iqbal smiled. “Laleh,” he said. There was a lifetime of wonder and awe and affection in that word.
Adish’s voice was gentle as he spoke. “I promised Laleh I would try to convince you to let Nishta—Zoha—travel with them. What should I tell her?”
Iqbal looked Adish straight in the eye. “Tell her I said no, Adish. Tell her please to not interfere with the only beautiful thing I have left in my life. Tell her I said please.”
Chapter 10
A fter they shook hands outside the restaurant and said goodbye, Iqbal stood on the busy street corner and watched as Adish walked away. For a brief second, he felt the urge to run after Adish, to ask him not to disappear from his life as he had ordered him to do minutes earlier, but instead to walk down the crowded streets with him, as aimlessly and happily as they had done a thousand times in their youth. A lump formed in his throat as he caught sight of Adish’s familiar head one more time in the crowd. He was convinced that if he yelled Adish’s name loud enough, he would hear him, hear him above the roar of the traffic and the cries of the vendors, and would turn around and walk back toward him with a wide, guileless smile. Adish had never been able to hold a grudge, and the fact that he, Iqbal, had told him minutes ago to exit their lives and leave him and Zoha alone would be forgotten in an instant. Of this he was sure.
But what then? After they’d walked for an hour or two, after they’d stopped for another cup of tea, say, after they’d exhausted their supply of new jokes and old stories, after they’d reminisced about how torturous their pursuit of their respective wives had been, what then? What did the two of them possibly have in common other than the wisps of memories that still had the power to caress and tantalize? He remembered how casually Adish had tempted Murad with the prospect of placing an order that was larger than the number of items they would sell in months. A rich sahib toying with a poor man, trading on his hope and aspirations, in order to get his own way. He remembered how puzzled Adish had seemed when he’d told him about marrying Mumtaz off. How could someone like Adish possibly understand the claustrophobic atmosphere of the basti, where everybody knew each other’s affairs and rumors ran like barefoot children from one flat to another? And despite Adish’s declaration of being devout himself, Iqbal knew it wasn’t the same—Adish probably still drank alcohol, indulged all his senses, enjoyed every decadent pleasure that the life of the rich offered. The piety, the discipline, the purity of
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