The World We Found by Thrity Umrigar Page B

Islam—how could Adish know the joys of sacrifice and self-restraint? What could he, Iqbal, have in common with a pampered, middle-aged man who had the spirit and look of an overgrown baby, who had never known a day’s suffering or deprivation? All the while that he had sat across from Adish in the restaurant, he had observed him—the expensive haircut, the big, gold watch, the soft, delicate hands, hands that had never been empty, that had seldom curled into a fist, clean, manicured hands, hands that had never known a hard day’s labor, that had never had to grasp, fight, claw.
    Out of the blue, Iqbal remembered the old rivalry between him and Adish about their grades. Despite their almost identical ranking at the top of their class, he had always believed that Adish was the more gifted, the more naturally talented student. Adish had always boasted about how he never did homework, about how he would start studying a few days before their exams, that any more preparation was a waste of time. And Iqbal was too embarrassed to admit that he actually began to study for their final exams months earlier, thinking of this striving as some kind of an intellectual defect. But now, his lips twisted with bitterness as he thought back to the conditions in his home during his youth—all of his family crammed into a sunny but modest two-bedroom apartment, his mother insisting that Iqbal turn off the lights as soon as his father went to bed, so that there was no chance to pull an all-nighter like most of his classmates did, the constant quarrels between his parents about money, his guilty awareness of how much his mother endured so that he could go to college. Adish, on the other hand, had his own bedroom where he could read late into the night, a mother who woke up early each morning during the exams to prepare him a special drink made with almonds and saffron and milk, parents who groomed him for academic success as if he were a thoroughbred racehorse.
    Why had it never occurred to him before, the unfair advantages that Adish had had over him? But even as he asked, he knew the answer: he had been deluded by all the bullshit talk of comradeship and equality. Just as he had almost been lulled, a few minutes ago, while watching Adish’s retreating back, into believing that they still had something in common, that there was a possibility of friendship between them.
    Iqbal shifted from one foot to the other in his agitation. Adish had disappeared into the crowd, had probably stopped thinking about him the minute he walked away, and still, here he was, rooted in the same spot. He glanced at his Timex. He had been away from work for over two hours. Murad would be phoning him any minute now. But the thought of returning to work, of facing his uncle’s inquisitive questions, Murad’s open curiosity as pungent as chili powder, produced a feeling of revulsion in him. Besides, he needed to think, to calculate what and how much to reveal to Zoha, to weigh whether he could trust Adish to keep his word. Reaching for his cell phone, he took shelter on the first step of the Irani restaurant they had recently exited, stepping away from the incessant wave of people rushing past. He dialed Murad’s number.
    “Where are you, yaar?” He could hear the annoyance in Murad’s voice. “I gave you time to go to lunch, not to go on a damn honeymoon.”
    The feeling of distaste grew. He had not taken a day off in so long. The thought of returning to that crowded, narrow strip of a shop for the rest of the day depressed him. “Listen,” he said. “I’m feeling sick. I think I ate something bad for lunch. I’m thinking of going home.”
    He held the phone away from his ear as his uncle went into this usual tirade of insults, threats, and ultimatums. “Murad bhai,” he said finally. “I have to go. I have to use the bathroom again. See you tomorrow. I’ll make up the time. I promise.”
    The feeling of freedom that he felt as soon as he hung up