A Killer in the Family by Amin Ahmad
Prologue
ALI AZEEM, JUNE 2016
A full year passed after Farhan disappeared.
Then it was June again — hot, cloudless, perfect.
I convinced Maryam to open up the summer house in Southampton. She
agreed, but during the drive from Manhattan, she hid behind her oversized
sunglasses, and I could not tell if she was asle ep or awake.
I let her be. The last year had been brutal for the whole Khan family —
raw anguish gave way to the feeling of being adrift in a vast, indifferent
ocean — but Maryam had taken it the hardest: She barely ate. Gray streaks
appeared in her thick black hair. We stopped having sex.
The family’s frantic attempts to locate Farhan had failed, but Maryam
still refused to believe her elder sister was gone. Maryam had a practical,
tidy mind, and Farhan’s sudden disappearance had unhinged her. Quiet
Maryam and mercurial Farhan — eight years apart — had often squabbled,
gone through periods of not talking, but without her sister as a foil, Maryam
was diminished.
All the way to Southampton, Maryam did not say a word. Finally, we
turned off the coastal road and drove down a long driveway paved with
crisp white river gravel. We passed rolling lawns and gardeners on tall
ladders pollarding an allée of birches. The house — an 1880 s Queen Anne
with a de ep wraparound porch — smelled the same, of sun - warmed wood
and furniture polish. Outside, the ocean glittered: green, lazy, redolent with
brine.
The place spoke of earlier, happier times.
For days, Maryam lay by the pool, never removing those huge
sunglasses. But then the magic of the house began to work: She went
swimming in the ocean and grew tan. For dinner I barbecued — red snapper,
new potatoes in their jackets, ears of sweet corn — and we ate out in the
gazebo. Maryam’s eyes lost their tense, expectant look, and she even
laughed once or twice. Fool that I was, I thought we’d been released from
the jittery, fractured spell Farhan had cast over us.
Late one evening, I was washing dishes in the kitchen — it didn’t seem
right to leave a stack of greasy plates for the houseke eper — while I sipped
on a rich, tannic Barolo. Next door, from the living room, I barely registered
the frenzied muttering of the television news — but then I heard Maryam
gasp. I turned, and she was holding on to the kitchen island for support and
scrolling frantically through her phone one - handed.
“Kya? What is it? What?” But Maryam couldn’t talk. She passed me the
phone and turned her face away.
It was a New York Post headline dated that day.
HUMAN HEART FOUND IN SALT PILE
A WORKER FOUND a “bizarrely shaped rock” in a Staten Island
salt pile early this morning — but the grisly artifact turned out
to be a human heart, desiccated after prolonged burial in salt.
Workers are now combing through the remaining salt pile
for other human remains, and a homicide investigation is
underway. An NYPD spokesperson said, “This is a complex
case. The Atlantic Salt Company purchases salt from Chile,
Mexico, and Northern Ireland, and the heart could have
originated from any of these locations.”
There is intense speculation this is the work of the so - called
Jackson Heights Serial Killer, active in the early 2000 s in
Queens. JHK murdered eight young Indian women and
removed their hearts before relocating to Miami, Florida, and
claiming three more lives. He was killed in a shoot - out with
Miami - Dade County police officers.
At the time, Orlando Epps, the NYPD detective in charge
of the case, told r eporters, “This is a Pyrrhic victory. I believe
the man killed in Florida is a ‘copycat’ killer — and that the real
JHK is still at - large...”
I swiftly skimmed the rest. There wasn’t much, and it ended with an
appeal. Phones would already be ringing in the concrete innards of One
Police Plaza, and every crank in the New York City area would be busy
pouring out their darkest fantasies. Nausea rose from the pit of my stomach.
“Baby, no.” I put down the phone and gathered Maryam in my arms. Her
heart was pounding like a bird in a cage. “No, don’t even think it. He’s
dead. They shot him in Florida. There have been no killings since then.”
“But...” She looked up at me, her eyes glazed with fear, and whispered
the rest: “... a heart, Ali. That was his trophy. What if they got the wrong
guy? What if he’s still out there? And Farhan...?”
“No, no, no. Farhan made all that stuff up to get attention. She’ll turn up
like a bad penny. Trust me. This is just a freak coincidence. That damn salt
was shipped here from three other countries. Baby, listen...”
But Maryam was not listening. The fear that had been receding for the
last month was back: in the narrowing of her eyes, the way she sucked in
her lower lip; even her skin, tan and robust an hour ago, looked ashen.
What could I do? I gave Maryam a Valium and put her to bed upstairs.
The sun was setting, and I started to lower the blinds, but Maryam insisted I
leave them up.
Before she fell asle ep, she opened her eyes with great effort and
mumbled, “Where is Farhan? Where is my sister?”
I knew exactly where Farhan was, but I k ept silent — though, believe me,
I desperately wanted to speak. Maryam turned her back to me and soon
drifted into a de ep, drugged sle ep. She always curled into the fetal position,
and her slender runner’s body melted into the bedclothes. Even on good
days, I couldn’t tell if she was still in bed.
We had been married just shy of two years. I knew all of Maryam’s
bodily habits — her love of running early in the morning; her quick, cold
showers; the way she frowned and twisted her hair around her finger as she
worked through a stack of her medical case files — but I was never privy to
her innermost thoughts. Farhan, on the other hand, showed every emotion
on her wide face, was quick to anger and explode, then let it all go with a
rueful shrug of her round, plump shoulders ...
Outside, the summer night was thick and dark as velvet. Through the
open window I could see clear across the bay to a mansion on the other
shore. Parallel points of light outlined its dock, and bigger golden rectangles
blazed in the main house. Strains of jazz traveled faintly across the water:
the snap of a snare, brassy horns. They were having a party. People out on
the South Fork of Long Island were always having parties. We never did.
Maryam and I no longer had a taste for strangers in our house.
Soon it was clear Maryam would not wake until the morning.
Downstairs, all the lights were blazing, and dirty dishes still lay in the sink,
coated with grease. I wanted to resume washing up, but Maryam’s
discovery had split the evening in two. The contentment I’d felt earlier was
r eplaced by the old sense of dread — and it grew until I was anxious and
jittery and found myself heading toward the back door.
Only one thing could calm me now.
Despite the warm days there was a sharp nighttime chill. I pulled on
boots and slipped on an old waxed canvas Barbour jacket. It once belonged
to Abbas Khan, Maryam’s father, and the fabric still held his odor: Cuban
cigars and a woody, masculine aftershave. Maryam was very close to her
father, and out in the countryside, she liked to wear his old clothes.
From the hall closet, I retrieved a metal flashlight, the kind favored by
security guards, as heavy and lethal as a club. I am not a violent man, but
the weight of that flashlight in my hand gave me a feeling of safety.
Our closest neighbors were at least a mile away. Our house sat on large
grounds, maintaining its original pastoral setting, while other grand houses
in Southampton had gradually sold off their land. Abbas Khan was a fan of
old - world architecture and had bought this house — designed by the famous
architect Stanford White — from the original owners and renovated
discreetly, fitting in a new kitchen and redoing the bathrooms, while
retaining the creaking wooden floors, the wavy windows, and the cedarlined cupboards,
which wafted out the odor of the past. Trust a Muslim
immigrant from Mumbai to emulate the old - money WASP elite: British
suits, British aftershave, a clipped near - British accent, that was Abbas’s
style. “Look British, think Yiddish,” he liked to joke, and it had worked,
hadn’t it? He had created one of the biggest real estate empires in America.
The side door led out onto a patio and the swimming pool. The
underwater lights were still on, and I made a mental note to shut them off
when I returned. I walked away from the house, toward the wild, wooded
area that s eparates our twenty - acre property from our neighbors. Much to
Maryam’s delight, it housed deer — of course — but also red foxes, cottontail
rabbits, shrews, muskrats, and even a pair of long - tailed weasels.
There was an old trail running through it, possibly Native American,
though more likely made by deer hunters, and I found its faint opening and
walked into the woods, instantly aware of their dark density. Bats flittered
above me. Twice I heard rustling and gripped the flashlight tighter, but the
sound quieted as I passed. The land sloped gently upward from the bay until
it reached a creek. There was a clearing up there that included the old brick
chimney of a vanished house, its hearth blackened from years of soot.
It took me nearly ten minutes to reach the chimney, and I was sweating
heavily under my jacket, not from my exertions, which had been minimal,
but from extreme nervousness. I sweated every time I visited — always
driven up here against my will to ensure that nothing had changed.
Taking my bearing from the chimney, I walked to the edge of the
clearing and slipped between two sugar maples. There was the spot. It was
unmistakable to my eyes — though to anyone else it would have seemed a
continuation of the wilderness: an area wide and long enough to lie down
in, covered with high grass that was constantly nibbled by deer. It was
always fresh and green, watered by the nearby creek, and fed by rich,
abundant compost below.
The spot was untouched, exactly as I had left it.
Hard to believe a body lay there, five feet down, in the coarse, sandy
earth, swaddled in a flowered bedsheet, its battered head wrapped in a
bespoke Italian twill jacket. If anyone were to dig it up, there would be no
problems with identification. But why would anyone be digging along the
hidden margins of our property? And in another hundred years, the
remaining bones would be washed away when Long Island was submerged
by global warming.
I stood in the darkness and conjured apocalyptic images to soothe
myself.
It was chillier here, de ep in the woods, and I soon turned back, twigs
crunching under my feet. At the edge of the tree line a crashing noise
startled me, and I whirled around, the heavy metal flashlight raised to strike,
but there was just the rump of a deer, its white tail bobbing as it flitted
away.
I walked the rest of the way to the house in silence. Only after I slipped
into my pajamas and lay down beside Maryam did I realize I’d forgotten
about the lights blazing in the swimming pool. The luminescence attracted
moths — soon the water would be full of small, mottled corpses — and the
next day our gardener would spend hours fishing them out with a net. This
had happened several times before, but Maryam couldn’t remember to shut
off the lights after her evening swim. Her ability to empathize with the
servants was limited.
As I lay in the dark, awash in despair, I had the sense of being trapped in
an endless story — one that played out without any regard for my wishes.
How did I wind up here, in this secluded nook on Long Island Sound,
marooned in my father - in - law’s creaking house, married to a woman whose
inner life was still a mystery to me after nearly two long years of marriage?
How had I become the ke eper of a hidden grave?
Maybe, if I carefully retraced my journey — each st ep, each decision — a
hidden pattern would be revealed, and then I could es cape it.
Where should I start my story? With my hapless birth in Mumbai thirty
years ago? No, that was too distant. Maybe I should begin with that
morning in Mumbai when I first met Maryam Khan. Oh, and Farhan — her
eyes glistening, lips parted, all appetite — I couldn’t forget her; there
definitely would be no story without Maryam’s elder sister.
Maryam and Farhan. Mumbai. A morning of heavy rain. My sense that
the future had finally arrived.
Yes, that is where my story begins.
The day I first met Maryam Khan did not begin auspiciously.
I woke late, hungover, my head throbbing.
The night before, I’d been photographing an engagement party in
Bandra, a posh suburb of Mumbai. I drank too much and hooked up with a
guest, a woman in her thirties, made raw and emotional by watching her
best friend getting hitched. And now another wasted afternoon stretched out
before me: sipping Darjeeling tea, eating Ma’s crustless cucumber
sandwiches, and exchanging non sequiturs with Maryam Khan, a girl I
didn’t want to marry.
I shuffled to my bedroom door, shouted for tea, and went out onto the
balcony for some air. It was raining hard, and a sodden crow sitting on the
railing glared at me, as if to say, What are you looking at? In Mumbai even
the crows are gangsters. I loved my hometown, and I wasn’t going to leave
it to marry some heiress from America — even if she was filthy rich.
Maybe the roads would flood, and the Khans would be prevented from
visiting.
“Excuse me, dude,” I muttered, st epped past the wet crow, and peered
down eight floors. Damn. The traffic on Warden Road was still moving with
the usual cacophony of honking horns.
I walked back into my bedroom, and a portly figure appeared with a tray
of tea and biscuits. Ma thrust a steaming mug of tea at me and frowned.
“It’s nearly ten o’clock, and you’re just surfacing? What is the matter with
you?” She leaned over and sniffed. “You smell like a goat in a distillery. Go
shower and wear something nice. The Khans are on their way.”
I groaned. “This is a waste of time. Just like all the others.”
“Oh, Ali.” Ma slumped onto my bed and ran her palm over the crumpled
sheets. “Do you know how hard it was to set up this meeting? Kulsum
Auntie’s cousin’s niece married into the Khans, and I had her put in a good
word ... Listen. From all accounts, Maryam Khan is a lovely girl. Do me a
favor and try — just try — to behave like an adult? Don’t make any of your
stupid jokes today?”
Ma’s short gray hair was immaculately set, and she wore a fine pink
cotton sari, but she’d recently had her eyebrows permanently inked in,
which gave her a startled expression. I turned away to hide my smile,
unperturbed by her outburst.
Ma still treated me like a child. I let her because she had gone through
hell to bring me into this world: After Hassan, my older brother, was born,
Ma suffered three miscarriages — and when I finally did arrive, I was
premature and spent two months in an incubator with Ma praying over me.
Also, I was the family fuckup. Hassan — overachiever that he was — had
gone to Princeton University and Harvard Business School, then married
Tanya and produced a son. I, on the other hand, had never left home. Worse,
I had dropped out of a local art school right before graduation.
So this was our routine, Ma and me: She fussed over me, yelled at me,
cooked my favorite foods. All expressions of her love. Then, a year ago, in
her early sixties, Ma had a mild heart attack, and after that, she had gone on
a let’s get Ali married kick. Her rationale? That I was an idiot man - child,
and she wanted to place me in the care of some other woman.
Never mind that I had started my own wildly successful wedding
photography business and was regularly flown out to destination weddings
in Dubai, Thailand, and the Maldives. Never mind that my clients were my
friends from high school, the scions of industrialists — the Ambanis,
Piramals, Premjis, Birlas, and Mistrys. Never mind that I drove a motorbike
and had friends all across town: I played Scrabble with old ladies in Bandra,
hung out with rich kids in Malabar Hill, shot the shit with movie producers
out in Film City. I got along with everyone.
No, for Ma, my life would begin only when I married an Ismaili Muslim
girl from our own community. A solid girl, one with Values — Ma
capitalized the word when she spoke — and, using logical jujitsu, she
declared that Girls with Values were best sourced in the Indian diaspora, as
Mumbai girls were now “spoiled” and prone to “running wild.”
For the last six months, I had been meeting Ismaili girls who’d grown up
in Cleveland, Nairobi, and Tokyo. These girls all had the same hairdo —
shiny long hair brushed back and secured with a large claw clip — wore
modest salwar kameez and could cook keema and shami kebabs. De ep
down, they were as horny and messed up as I was, but they refused to
engage in honest conversation and babbled a string of rehearsed inanities:
“So, what are your hopes for the future?”
“How many kids do you want to have?”
“Are you okay relocating to Cleveland/Nairobi/Tokyo?”
And Maryam Khan was definitely going to be the worst. The Khans
were real estate tycoons and owned half of Manhattan; they had flown to
Mumbai on their own private jet, for God’s sake. Maryam Khan was sure to
be a spoiled, insecure rich girl, unsure of what she had accomplished and
what had been bought for her.
Of course, I did not say any of this. Ma was now bustling around my
bed, muttering to herself as she fluffed pillows and pulled the sheets taut.
No, I just sipped my tea and decided I would suffer through the afternoon
and later invent some reason why Maryam was unsuitable. Then Ma would
leave me alone for a couple of months while she located the next victim.
“You’re still here?” Ma glared at me. “Go take a shower. Don’t forget to
shave.”
Obedient boy that I was, I complied.
Twenty minutes later, I stood in our living room, showered and shaved.
Outside, the rain fell, an endless curtain of thrumming water. The Khans
sent steady updates as they battled through snarled traffic on their way from
the Taj Palace Hotel:
Twenty minutes away.
Then: Ten minutes.
My starched blue button - down chafed at the collar, and it felt unnatural
to wear khakis and heavy brogues — my usual outfit was torn jeans, a band
T - shirt, and high - top Converse sneakers. I really didn’t give a damn about
the Khans, but suddenly I started to see our apartment through their eyes:
the faded peacock - print curtains from the eighties, the damp patches on the
ceiling, the threadbare Persian rugs. As my father, Towfiq, always said, “We
do not have to show that we are fancy people.”
In a city with the most expensive real estate on the planet, we owned a
six - bedroom apartment in an art deco building overlooking the Arabian Sea.
Our Breach Candy address itself spoke volumes, but I knew, vaguely, that
things were not going well at Azeem & Sons. Our family business was
machine parts, and every year, the firm cr ept de eper into the red. Still, Papa
was loath to demolish our factories, develop the land, and diversify into
something more profitable. My brother, Hassan, had many screaming fights
with Papa — he was aching to take over the family business — and then
moved to Hyderabad to launch his own wildly successful tech startup. Ever
since we were kids, Hassan had been brilliant and voluble and fought
endlessly with Papa; in response, I developed an easygoing, affable
personality and was instantly labeled wishy - washy and unambitious.
I did not take sides in the never - ending feud between Papa and Hassan.
Let those two fight it out; I was an artist. Sure, I was a wedding
photographer now, but my ambition was fine art photography, and some of
my early efforts hung on the wall: a series of black - and - white photographs
of nineteenth - century mansions on Malabar Hill. I loved these antiquated
buildings because they r epresented the old Mumbai — the city of ease and
quiet, back when the streets were lined with flaming gulmohar trees and
there was no traffic, just the clip - clop of horse - drawn carts. I had grown up
with Ma telling me stories of family picnics at Hanging Gardens and drives
to the pristine beach at Marve. Hassan accused me of being impractical,
nostalgic, but I didn’t care what he thought — I lived my life the way I
wanted.
Still, as I waited for the Khans, I began to wonder why they were
considering me for their daughter. Sure, our Muslim Ismaili community,
originally traders, was transnational — from India, we had spread first to
East Africa, and now there were Ismailis clustered in London, Washington
DC, and Lisbon — and it was common to solicit mates from different
countries. Sure, we Azeems owned factories, but we were the working rich,
while the Khans were so wealthy that they had their own investment arm.
Everyone in the Ismaili community knew the story of Abbas Khan: a
Mumbai boy, he went to New York City in the 1970 s and got his start
buying up shabby apartment buildings in the Bronx. Now he built supertall
skyscrapers and was in the running to develop a huge swathe of railyards on
the West Side of Manhattan.
Hassan had joked nastily that Abbas Khan wanted me to marry his
daughter because I was tall and fair; the Khans, he said, needed my genetics
to upgrade their average - looking stock. “Ha, ha, very funny,” I’d retorted,
but his barb had lodged under my skin.
Now, as the Khan’s huge black SUV pulled into the driveway below, I
decided that, if necessary, I would emphasize my wedding photography
business. The idea of working with one’s hands would disgust Abbas Khan;
he would associate wedding photographers with servants.
Ma pushed past me and rushed to the front door, hissing, “Buck up, Ali,
they’re here.” I followed, a neutral expression on my face, and placed
myself behind Ma, out of the line of fire. Papa appeared from his study
looking disgruntled, the front of his shirt littered with ashes from the cigars
he secretly smoked. Ma was busy brushing his shirt front while whispering,
“Really, Towfiq, really, can’t you just for once...” when the old elevator
rattled to a stop on the landing outside.
The Khans st epped out one by one and moved slowly down the corridor
toward us.
This was my first impression: The Khans glowed.
They seemed to absorb all the light in the corridor and send it back out
like a benediction.
At the time, I attributed their radiance to their wealth. The three women
were smooth skinned with burnished dark hair, clad in sleeveless cotton
tops, flared linen pants, and those cork - soled espadrilles that signify highend leisure.
Abbas Khan wore a blue - and - white pinstriped seersucker suit,
like a banker out of Gatsby. He was in his late sixties, shorter than I
expected, compact, muscular, with a neatly trimmed gray beard, and his
shaved head only added to his air of confident masculinity. The family even
smelled rich: freshly showered, all tart citrus and mint.
I gaped at them like an onlooker at a red - carpet event.
The way these things usually worked, the mothers would rush forward to
meet each other, exclaiming with pleasure, while the fathers gruffly shook
hands and sized each other up; the “boy” and “girl” would be introduced
only at the end, with a kind of exasperated affection, as if they had
unwittingly tagged along. Both families would sit awkwardly in the living
room and drink tea, and at some point — assuming neither the “boy” nor
“girl” showed signs of being a homicidal maniac — the pair would be invited
to “spend some time alone” on the veranda.
Abbas clearly wasn’t following this sequence. He bounded down the
corridor, kissed my mother on the cheek, pulled Papa into a hug — “Towfiq,
how have we not already met? I grew up two streets from here” — and
exclaimed, “Ah, Ali, the photographer. Young man, I need your advice.
Which emerging Indian photographers should I be buying for my art
collection? Who is the new Atget, the new Cartier - Bresson?” All the while
he shook my hand vigorously, covering our joined hands with his free one,
signifying with his intimate touch that he liked me, that I was special.
I was astounded that this hard - nosed businessman was a true art lover,
but Abbas went on to confess that he had attended his first Venice Biennale
ten years ago and had been smitten. “I need art that speaks to my soul. None
of that blue - chip nonsense. So, Ali, who do you recommend?” I managed to
stutter out some recommendations — Dayanita Singh, Dabboo Ratnani — and
Abbas whipped out his phone. “The old noggin isn’t what it used to be,” he
said in his clipped British accent and rapidly typed the names I’d
mentioned.
Abbas then pivoted to Papa and demanded a tour of this “magical”
apartment: “Art deco, 1930 s, if I’m not mistaken? Look at that ornate inlay
work in the floor!” Papa beamed uncharacteristically and walked Abbas
through the high - ceilinged rooms, talking about the breeze that blew in
from the ocean and saved us from that modern curse, air - conditioning.
We all walked down the corridor and into the living room, and I turned
my attention to the three Khan women. Coco Khan was unlike any of the
other mothers I had seen: Lithe, with upsw ept hair and large sunglasses
pushed on top of her head, she resembled a youthful Jackie Kennedy.
Strangely, I had only a blurred image of my prospective bride, Maryam —
she was tall, athletic, with a fine - boned face — because her elder sister,
Farhan, distracted me: She st epped forward and began to intently examine
my black - and - white photographs.
“These old houses,” Farhan addressed me, without preamble, “did you
take these very early in the morning? The light...?”
“What?” I turned to her, flustered. “Oh, yes. Just as the sun was rising.
Around five.”
“I thought so,” she said with an air of satisfaction. “They’re just coming
out of the shadows. They’re time machines.”
A jolt went through me because I knew exactly what Farhan meant.
Many of these ancient mansions had been ravaged by water damage and
looked shabby in the full light of the day. I had wanted to capture their
essence, so I’d shot them at dawn: The soft light gave them back the
solidity they’d had a hundred years ago.
It wasn’t just the accuracy of the observation — it was also Farhan’s
voice that caught my attention: de ep for a girl, assured. She continued to
peer myopically at the photographs, really scrutinizing them, and I felt a
rush of buoyant joy: The shock of being seen, of mutual recognition — I had
been craving this feeling all my adult life.
Only then did I notice Farhan’s physical appearance: Midthirties. Short,
fleshy, full hipped. Messy hair pulled back into a loose bun. Bright red
lipstick. One black bra strap had slipped down a smooth shoulder. Dark half
circles of exhaustion under her eyes only made them lovelier, as if outlined
in kohl.
Farhan suddenly blushed — I must have been staring at her — and st epped
aside. “Whoops, apologies for butting in. This is my sister, Maryam. She’s
the one you want to talk to.”
Maryam st epped forward, tall and graceful; she had inherited her
mother’s height and gravitas. She reached out and shook my hand, and her
grip was warm and firm, not that dead - fish handshake you get with most
girls. I gave Maryam my full attention and launched into small talk — “How
has your trip been? Not too hot, I hope” — but she brushed my words aside
and instantly launched into a slew of questions: “Is it true that Muslims in
Mumbai are being ill - treated? That we can no longer buy or rent
apartments? That the right - wing politicians have a stranglehold over the
city?”
I stammered and did my best to evade the truth. I had been seven years
old when a series of bomb blasts rocked the Financial District, payback by
Muslims for the demolition of one of our mosques; when I was twenty - two,
Pakistani Muslim terrorists shot up our city; three years later, more bomb
blasts were traced to Muslim terror cells. These days, when I met strangers
and said my name, Ali Azeem, I felt a sudden chill — and it was now
common to hear throwaway comments about the narrow - mindedness of
Muslims, their barbarism.
Of course, I said none of this to Maryam; I didn’t want her to think ill of
my beloved city. I muttered something — “Oh, there are uneducated people
everywhere” — and as the Khan women arranged themselves on our vast,
creaking sofa, I changed the topic and asked her what she had studied at
Harvard.
Ma, who was bustling about with the tea things, paused and gave me a
sardonic look. “Don’t you listen to a thing I say, Ali? She’s studying to be a
doctor.”
“Well, actually, I am a doctor,” Maryam said, giving a gracious smile. “I
just finished medical school at Cornell. I’ll start my residency this fall, in
psychiatry.”
Harvard. Cornell. A doctor. A shrink. People who wanted to become
psychiatrists were always screwed up, but Maryam seemed calm and
composed and knew exactly how to handle my mother; she didn’t object
when Ma passed her a plate piled high with samosas and a porcelain cup of
achingly sweet tea. Unlike the other girls I’d met, dreamy adolescents
waiting for a prince, Maryam didn’t seem to need a husband. Her selfreliance was de eply
reassuring.
Anyway, I prided myself on how I could talk to anyone. I remembered a
book I’d read by a neurologist, and soon Maryam and I were de ep in a
discussion about schizophrenics, agoraphobics, dyslexics, and the
strangeness of the human brain. Maryam was also surprisingly well
informed about the psychology of serial killers; she said they were not
modern creations but had always existed in all societies — childhood
traumas shut down their ability to empathize, and their damaged brains
could not control their outlandish impulses. None of this was typical
conversation for a first meeting, and I began to appreciate Maryam’s tidy,
logical mind, her precise way of speaking.
While Maryam nibbled daintily on her first samosa, Farhan had
demolished three, slathering them in coriander and tamarind chutney. “Aah,
this is the best part of visiting Bombay,” she said, using the old name for the
city, which I also preferred. “They don’t know how to make samosas in
America. They’re huge there but tasteless. Don’t you think so, Mimi?”
When Maryam r eplied that these samosas were a little too spicy for her,
Farhan let out a de ep laugh and said, “We’re two different generations. I’m
eight years older, and I grew up in Queens, but Mimi was raised out on
Long Island. She prefers Italian food, a nice pasta; isn’t that so?”
Maryam laughed politely at her sister’s jibe, but her cheeks flushed with
irritation. So there was bad blood between the sisters. I sneaked a glance at
Farhan, and she gave me a quick, sympathetic smile, as if to say, Maryam is
such a bore. Then Farhan reached for another samosa, covered it in
coriander chutney, and took an enormous bite, dripping chutney all over the
slope of her chest.
Ma instantly rose and offered plain soda and a napkin, but Farhan
laughed off her help and said, “Oh, I’ll just rinse it off,” and vanished into
the small toilet in our hallway. Meanwhile, the topic had shifted to the
obesity epidemic among the Indian upper classes, about which Maryam was
very well informed. “You can really see the difference in nutrition in India,”
she said. “Did you know the upper classes are, on average, four inches
taller?” But I wasn’t really listening. I realized, with a shock, that I missed
Farhan’s presence. While the practiced, social part of me had been engaged
with Maryam, I was actually tracking Farhan, and only when she returned
— a large, wet stain on the front of her linen blouse — did I calm down and
turn my full attention to Maryam.
Only now, looking back, do I realize the underlying dynamics: Farhan
was the battery from which I drew my electricity, and what I felt for her —
inchoately, chemically — expressed itself on my face and fed into my
conversation with Maryam, which grew looser and more intimate. This, in
turn, affected both sets of parents, and their tense expectation was r eplaced
by a sense of relief: Maryam and Ali were a fit! Finally, the whole sordid
business of matchmaking had reached a satisfactory conclusion.
Apart from our original exchange about the photographs, Farhan and I
did not speak again. Yet I overheard everything she said to my parents, and
I felt as though she was indirectly explaining herself to me. Farhan
reminisced fondly about being sent to Mumbai for the summers when she
was a child — that was why she was fluent in Hindi, unlike Maryam, who
managed only a few words. Farhan spoke about the old Bombay, the peanut
sellers and the snake charmers who came every evening to the gate of her
grandmother’s bungalow in Bandra. She also talked about her years
studying visual arts at tony Barnard College in Manhattan — and her
subsequent career in jewelry design. She showed Ma her chunky, neo - tribal
bracelets and talked about her inspirations — Frida Kahlo, gypsies,
Rajasthani nomads — and I couldn’t help noticing how shapely her hands
were. I could even smell Farhan as she talked: The other Khans were cool
and crisp, but Farhan gave off a salty heat. Beads of sweat appeared on her
forehead, and I wanted to reach out and dab them away. Still, I continued to
maintain eye contact with Maryam and chuckled at the tales of her mental
patients: The man who suffered from abulia and could not make decisions.
The autophagic, who, when left alone, attempted to eat parts of her own
body.
Two hours flashed by.
It all went so well that nothing overt needed to be said.
The Khans finally got up to leave, and it was decided very casually
between the mothers that the next day the women would go sari shopping
together — and then Ma said, “Ali, why don’t you join us at the Bombay
Gymkhana club for lunch? And maybe, if Maryam isn’t too tired, you could
show her around the Fort area. Maryam is interested in old buildings,
right?”
I agreed to everything. I did not correct Ma and say that Farhan was the
one who had mentioned her interest in old Bombay. My assumption was
that both sisters would come along — why not?
Coco had been silent for most of the afternoon. She had listened
sympathetically to my mother’s endless monologues — on how hard it was
to get good servants, on the stress of living in this city.
“Are you interested in Zen at all?” Coco asked Ma out of the blue, and
she stuttered something about having heard about mindfulness meditation,
but who had the time to do such spiritual stuff when everyday life was so
demanding?
“Oh, Zen meditation takes just a few moments. It could help you
tremendously,” Coco said brightly. “Did you know it originated in our part
of the world? In fact, the word Zen comes from the Sanskrit dhyaan? If you
haven’t read it, I highly recommend Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind by Shunryū
Suzuki, and — ”
Ma stood there, nodding helplessly. Coco would have gone on, but
Abbas butted in genially. “Oh, my wife is very spiritual. A huge meditator
and all that. She could lecture you all day!”
Clearly, Coco didn’t like being interrupted. She glared at Abbas but
quickly gave me her dazzling Kennedyesque smile, and walked away down
the corridor to join her daughters.
Abbas moved closer, and I smelled his aftershave — woody, masculine,
with hints of rum and cinnamon. Dropping his voice into a lower, man - toman tone, he
said, “Now, son, about those photographers you
recommended. Perhaps you can introduce me to some galleries. This is just
the start of our conversation,” and I blushed and felt special; my own father
had never given me such close attention.
In the confusion of the Khans’ d eparture — a prolonged conversation
broke out at the doorst ep — I found myself farther back in the corridor,
observing the knot of people.
Farhan turned, caught my eye, and her lips moved soundlessly: Call me.
She mimed it a second time, Call me.
I was so stunned that I could not respond. I was still processing her
words as she followed her family out of our front door; the elevator
whirred, and the Khans were gone.
Call Farhan? How? I didn’t have her number.
On an impulse, I vanished into the small bathroom off the corridor, and
within its familiar, sheltering walls, I checked my phone. There was a text
on Whats App from an American number: ‘Can you meet tomorrow
evening, 11 p. m.? Lobby of Taj Palace Hotel?’
Farhan must have texted me when she disappeared into the bathroom to
sponge off her blouse. The thought of her taking a huge risk to reach out to
me made my blood thrill with excitement. How had she obtained my
number? Clearly, she was skilled at subterfuge, which I appreciated.
I stared at Farhan’s message for a long time, and then I checked
Facebook and Instagram and found three dozen girls with the same name,
stretching from Doha to Frankfurt, but none of them was her. Maybe Farhan
used a fake name on social media to es cape the scrutiny of her relatives;
many Ismaili girls did.
My mind returned to the moment in the corridor when Farhan’s gaze met
mine, her eyes liquid with promise. Did her message mean she was
interested in me? Or could it be some sister - in - law bonding thing, where
Farhan spent a few hours filling me in about Maryam’s habits and
preferences?
When I emerged from the bathroom, my parents had returned from
seeing off the Khans, and Papa looked unusually relaxed. “Lovely people,”
he said loudly. “Not snobbish at all. Down to earth, like us.”
Ma was not so circumspect. She seized my shoulders and yelled, “What?
Yes?”
“Maryam is nice. But the sister, Farhan...? What about her?”
“An odd girl, isn’t she? Did you see how much she ate? And what kind
of name is Farhan? That’s a boy’s name — she should be named Farhan - a.”
Ma had clearly misunderstood my question. “So, you have heard the
rumors? Apparently, Farhan was a drug addict — and she’s already a
divorcée. A real mess. But Maryam is perfect for you! Smart. Organized. A
doctor — imagine!”
So, Farhan was divorced. No doubt she’d been married off to some
misogynist. Who wouldn’t take to drugs after that?
“I don’t know, Ma.” I let my face fall. “Maryam’s a bit too ... serious,
isn’t she?”
Papa shrugged in defeat and walked away, but Ma was not having any of
it.
“Ali. Come with me.” She walked me into our cavernous kitchen and
pushed the door shut. “Son, listen to me. I shouldn’t be telling you any of
this — but your father ... he made some bad financial decisions. There is a
lot of debt. Hassan will inherit what little is left of the business, but there is
nothing for you.”
I knew things were bad with Azeem & Sons, but Ma’s news left me
speechless. Still, even this information could not diminish the glow I felt
from Farhan’s text. Why couldn’t I choose her as a mate? Why was the
world so judgmental and narrow - minded?
I tried to respond, but Ma cut me off. “Abbas Khan has two daughters
and no sons. No heir. You saw how respectfully he treated you? Wanted
your opinion? Listen to me. You marry Maryam, okay? In America, you
will be rich. You can start a photography gallery, if you like.”
“Ma, I don’t really know. Please don’t force me — ”
“Take some time to think.” Ma reached up to pat my cheek, and her face
was tense. “But not too long. The Khans are leaving in five days, and they
will want an answer before then. Ali, you are my favorite, but you are
dreamy, immature — not strong - willed like Hassan. This country is
changing, Muslims are not welcome here anymore. If you stay, this place
will destroy you. Childhood is over, my son. Time to grow up.”
Ma stormed out of the kitchen, and I was left alone in the silence.
Soon Bhola, the servant, would return and be surprised to find me in the
kitchen. Before I left, I looked around the room. I’d been coming in here
since I was a child, but now I saw it through the eyes of the Khans: An old
avocado - colored refrigerator hummed in the corner. The granite counters
were stained golden - orange with turmeric. The air was thick with the odor
of fried samosas.
I imagined myself married to Maryam Khan, standing in a kitchen in
New York — all white Carrara marble and gleaming chrome fixtures — and
thinking back to this very moment.
It was an odd sensation: being in our old kitchen in Mumbai and
simultaneously remembering this moment from a fictitious future.
I did not like the feeling. I did not like it at all.