We celebrated Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve at Abbas’s
estate out on Long Island.
Then we slipped into January — gray, chilly, anticlimactic — and I prayed
for snow, big, fluffy piles of it, like in the movies. Finally, one weekday
afternoon, the sky grew dark. Standing at the windows in my office at Tiger
Corp, I cheered on the pristine white flakes that floated down from the
heavens, but they were soon churned into gray slush by the feet of passing
pedestrians on Fifth Avenue.
I checked my wristwatch — a brushed platinum Panerai, a Christmas
present from Maryam — and only fifteen minutes had passed since I’d last
checked. I took the watch off and read the engraved back: TO MY BELOVED
HUSBAND AT THE START OF OUR MARRIAGE. Ever since Farhan left for Tokyo,
things were going so well with Maryam.
Now it was work that was a drag.
My corner office at Tiger Corp came with a leather couch by the window
for informal meetings — but there was no one to meet. The sign on my door
said JUNIOR VICE PRESIDENT, but of what? I had no direct r eports. My boss
was Abbas, but days passed, and I only glimpsed him in the corridor,
always in motion. “Busy, busy, busy,” he’d shout to me. “We’ll talk soon.”
But we never did.
Most days, around noon, I’d slip into my overcoat — Italian herringbone
tweed, another present from Maryam — tell my assistant, “Going out to
lunch,” and stride out of the building. I’d walk around Manhattan, head
bent, overcoat collar turned up, steam rising from my mouth, merging into
the de ep, tidal rhythms of the city: The commuters surging in and out of
Grand Central. Hot dog men shivering on street corners. Kamikaze bicycle
couriers riding on the sidewalk. Ambulances stuck in traffic, wailing like
furious, frustrated banshees.
When I got too cold, I’d head over to my sanctuary, B&H Photo on
Ninth Avenue. Inside, the massive store smelled of metal, film stock, and
machine oil. I’d avoid the displays of digital crap, head for their analog
section, and salivate over the elegant vintage Hasselblads with Zeiss lenses
and waist - level viewfinders. Other times, I’d seek out one of the salesmen
roaming the floor in their green vests just to get into a heated discussion
about the Leica IIIC versus the Nikon F.
In there, surrounded by cameras, I felt at home, but stuck in my office at
Tiger Corp, I felt like an impostor. And today that feeling was even worse —
I was supposed to meet with Abbas. He said that he wanted to hear where I
fit in at Tiger Corp. I’d completed a monthlong rotation through
Accounting, Legal and Compliance, Asset Management, Development,
Property Management — and surely, with my innate business sense, I’d have
figured out my role.
The problem is that Abbas had not specified a meeting time. He could
call at any moment, and I didn’t dare duck out for lunch or even go to the
bathroom. Which was ironic — because I had no idea what my skill set was.
I could say “marketing,” couldn’t I?
After all, I’d created a highly successful campaign for Tower Seven.
We’d used a drone to film the supertall from outside, just as the dawn sun
was rising. Then the camera moved inside, to an affluent couple in plush
white bathrobes — early sixties, salt - and - p epper hair — drinking espressos
and gazing serenely at the view. There was no noise, just peaceful, tinkling
music, and the framing emphasized their connection to the unbroken sky.
Then the couple descended — refreshed and alert, dressed in business
clothes — in the noiseless wood - paneled elevator, and when the doors
opened, the cacophony of the city leaked in: car horns, construction noises,
loud conversations. As the couple parted, they whispered to each other,
“See you tonight. See you back up there.”
The tagline for the campaign appeared on the screen: “Above It All.”
People loved it. The building soon sold out and I was made a junior vice
president, r eporting directly to Abbas. I was told that until I figured out my
exact trajectory, I was to attend as many project meetings as I liked. Which
I did, and they went fine, till some project manager showed a Power Point
deck of the deal’s financial structure.
It had always been this way. Whenever anyone started to talk about
numbers, I got a dreamy, detached feeling, and my brain became cloudy. Of
course, I’d picked up some jargon, and in a pinch, I could say, “Nice, yeah,
but what’s the cap rate?” Sometimes I’d inquire about the “cash on cash,”
“Cap Ex,” or the possibility of a “1031 exchange,” but soon enough I’d be
exposed as an idiot, and so I tried to ke ep my mouth shut.
Maybe I should just tell Abbas that I wanted to stick with marketing —
but it didn’t signify that I was ambitious. I didn’t want Abbas to listen
politely, avoid eye contact, and then change the topic, which he did when he
was disappointed.
Another five minutes passed in my silent office.
My desk phone rang, and I tensed, expecting a summons from Abbas,
but my assistant said, “There is a Mr. Khob - chan - any on the line, or maybe
it’s Khabchan?”
Rishi Khoobchandani, of the shiny, tasseled loafers. He’d bought two
apartments at Tower Seven.
“Put him on.”
Surprisingly, Rishi and I had become friends. It was a relief to have
somebody who knew me from back home and at least he didn’t fawn all
over me like everyone else.
We chatted for a while about our last four - hour dinner at Masa and what
fun it had been. The omakase menu — a thousand dollars a person, Rishi’s
treat — had lived up to its hype, and we’d stuffed ourselves on caviarcrowned toro, wagyu
beef, and white truffle ice cream. Also, Maryam had
egged Rishi on, and throughout the endless courses, Rishi had trotted out
embarrassing stories: The time Ali was stoned and crashed his bike. Ali’s
first date with that tall model — and how he’d worn high - heeled boots to be
the same height as her. Maryam had giggled at every one of his stories.
“She’s nice,” Rishi said now, his voice a rush. “Maryam. She’s a straight
shooter. You did well, Ali.”
“Thanks,” I said and felt an unexpected flush of pleasure. “Yeah, she’s
great.”
It was true — Maryam and I were getting along well. She was more
relaxed and showed a human, sillier side: She’d pet the neighborhood dogs
and talk to them in a goofy voice. We went out for ice cream a lot, and she
ordered three toppings. At night, she asked me to massage her shoulders,
sighed with relief, and said, “Ali, you have magical hands.”
What had caused this change?
In our sle epy late - night talks, Maryam had mentioned her old boyfriend
from medical school, the surgical whiz. She didn’t name him but said that
they had been “serious” and that breaking up had “been hard.” In turn, I’d
told her about Christy, my old Anglo - Indian girlfriend who was darkskinned and would
never have been acc eptable to my parents; how Christy
had been crazy about me, had waited for me to propose, and then abruptly
gotten married to another man. “Oh, Ali,” Maryam had said and touched my
cheek. “That’s sad.” I’d nodded and looked verklempt and neglected to add
that it was a relief to es cape from Christy’s clutches; she was terribly
opinionated and k ept telling me to find a real job.
Rishi and I continued to chat about this and that, and then his voice
changed. “So, anyway, this call isn’t completely social,” he said. “I wanted
to talk a little business. You’re a bigwig at Tiger Corp, right?”
“Hardly. Junior VP, dude.”
“But, dude, you are Abbas Khan’s favorite, yes? Word on the street is
that he likes you.”
Really? Rishi was exaggerating, but I felt a flush of pleasure.
“So, anyway, the EB - 5 thing? I told you about it?”
I barely remembered — something about the US government handing out
green cards to foreigners who invested a million dollars in new American
ventures. Now I listened carefully as Rishi talked — and felt a sudden rush
of excitement.
After the conversation with Rishi, I decided to run the idea by Kyle.
Yes, Kyle Nowak — the same guy I’d seen on the terrace of Sher Khan
House, Farhan’s childhood friend. He had just been promoted to senior VP
of development and had the office next to mine. I’d expected Kyle to be a
dick, but he’d proved to be very helpful. Right before Christmas, I’d been
in a funk, not knowing what to get Maryam. “Maybe a watch,” I’d told
Kyle. “A rose - gold Cartier tank watch with diamonds?”
“Man.” Kyle shook his elegant head and put his feet up on his desk.
“You don’t know shit about women, do you? Let alone rich ones. Do you
think Maryam gets excited about stuff that everyone else can buy? No, you
need to get her something off - label.”
“Like what?”
Kyle sw ept his hands through his long, shiny hair and spoke definitively:
“A dog. Maryam loves mutts.”
Dogs were a pain — all that walking and picking up poop. I went to the
ASPCA shelter on 92 nd Street and chose a handsome young gray tabby cat
instead. On Christmas morning, Maryam screamed with joy. We named him
Nusrat, after the Pakistani qawwali singer, and Nussie fit right in, cuddling
with us on the couch while we watched Maryam’s hospital shows.
It turned out that I had also been mistaken about Kyle and Farhan. Kyle
talked endlessly about women, and I soon learned that he only dated Waspy
girls with straight blonde hair, girls who wore Fair Isle sweaters and loved
skiing — which was odd because Kyle was dark - haired and swarthy and was
often mistaken for Hispanic. He said that he’d gotten his dark looks from
his Polish dad — who had died when Kyle was very young — but there
wasn’t anything Polish about Kyle. He’d grown up in the Bronx with a crew
of working - class Pakistani boys and often let loose with a string of vile
curses in Urdu.
Kyle addressed me with the foul - mouthed affection of an older brother.
He listened to heavy metal at deafening volumes. He was obsessed with the
New York Knicks. In short, he reminded me of my friends from home:
Good guys. Real guys.
That afternoon at Tiger Corp, Kyle was typing rapidly, enormous
headphones clamped over his ears, mouthing the lyrics to a hip - hop song as
he worked. He pulled off his headphones and glowered at me.
“Yeah, okay, buddy, but make it quick. In a crunch here.”
He chewed on a hangnail while I talked him through my idea: “How
about using the EB - 5 visa scheme as a financing mechanism for our real
estate projects?”
“Yeah, yeah, no. I don’t think this is a fit for the old man. Now, Ali,
buddy, you gotta fuck off. We’re closing on the West Side deal next week.
I’m swamped, okay?”
Was Kyle jealous that I was getting so much attention from Abbas?
Everybody knew that the old man had hired Kyle straight out of community
college and mentored him for years. Kyle even aped the old man’s look —
dark double - breasted suits, cutaway - collar shirts, bright knit ties — but with
lesser success; Abbas had his clothes handmade in London, while Kyle
could only afford a cheap Pakistani tailor out in Elmhurst.
Kyle’s blatant hostility that day was uncharacteristic, and I was leaving,
discouraged, when I saw a glossy magazine lying on his desk, the Tokyo
Weekender. There was a cover story about Hustle & Shine, a new jewelry
store that the real estate heiress Farhan Khan had opened in Tokyo, selling
necklaces decorated with jewel - encrusted anime charms. According to the
article, the store had blown up on Instagram, and now American hip - hop
stars were flying to Japan to have necklaces custom - made.
The article was illustrated with a picture of Farhan standing in front of a
wooden temple. Her hair short in a stylish asymmetrical cut, skinnier than
before, wearing a black dress and a necklace with a huge jeweled pendant
of Bugs Bunny.
“Kid is doing well,” Kyle said. “Now that she’s put some distance
between herself and the family. They always shit on her, but she deserves
better.”
I stood there, feeling all sorts of odd emotions, and just then Kyle’s desk
phone rang. He answered it, groaned, and said, “The old man is downstairs.
He wants you to meet him in the lobby.”
“Now?”
“No, fuckhead, tomorrow. Yes, now. Get your ass down there.”
Kyle slipped on his headphones and started bopping to his music. I ran
to the elevator, and when I reached the lobby, it was snowing again. I
realized that I’d left my new Italian overcoat upstairs, but it was too late to
get it.
Later that night, when I told Maryam about my afternoon with Abbas, I
played it for laughs: My realization that we were driving to Abbas’s
storefront barbershop in Jackson Heights. The hour I spent hanging around
Punjab Haircut Salon, listening to the proprietor, “Cash” Singh,
complaining to Abbas about the white hipsters who were driving up rents in
the neighborhood. The way that the Punjabi bodybuilders from the gym
next door crowded around Abbas, silent and respectful, asking him to
autograph copies of his memoir, Making It.
I exaggerated it all: How I had left my overcoat behind and was freezing
the whole time. How Abbas had shed his clipped British accent and
bantered in Hindi and waggled his head. I turned it all into comedy, and
Maryam chuckled and said, “Classic Papa. He loves going back to Jackson
Heights. Those are his people.”
Then I told her how, on the ride back, I’d finally pitched Abbas my idea:
I’d proposed that Tiger Corp solicit rich foreigners and have them invest a
million dollars (or more) through the EB - 5 visa scheme in Tiger Corp
construction projects. It was a win - win: We’d tap into a huge reservoir of
cash, and our investors could quickly get their green cards.
Abbas had listened closely, then closed his eyes for a minute. Later on, I
was to learn this was how he worked: His mind would race ahead,
exploring the ramifications of the idea, testing it for weaknesses.
Finally, his hooded eyes snapped open. “It could work. Why hasn’t
anyone done this before?”
I’d said I didn’t know. Abbas told me to explore the idea using a small
team that he would handpick. “Ali, this is brilliant.” He put an arm around
my shoulders, and I could feel the tense heat coming off him. “This is the
kind of outside - the - box thinking I need.”
For the rest of the car ride, I was on cloud nine.
When I narrated all this to Maryam that evening, she nodded happily
and said, “Makes sense. Papa hates borrowing money from banks. How did
you get this amazing idea?” I did not mention Rishi Khoobchandani and
implied that I was a financial genius. I told Maryam that now my job at
Tiger Corp was to implement this idea — and Maryam and Farhan’s
childhood friend Kyle Nowak would be helping me; Abbas had said I
needed an experienced person on my team.
“Oh, so Kyle is working for you now?” Maryam asked innocently, and I
hurried to assure her that Kyle outranked me and that he’d be working
alongside me. “He’s a good guy,” I added. “We get along well.” But even as
I said those words, I remembered Kyle’s initial dismissal of my idea.
Later that night — after we’d eaten dinner and watched a hospital show,
after Maryam fell asle ep — I lay awake and ran through everything that I
hadn’t told Maryam.
That afternoon, on the drive out to Jackson Heights, Abbas had been
sharply dressed in a light blue gingham shirt — handmade by Turnbull &
Asser — paired with a pink knit tie, but he was uncharacteristically haggard,
and he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. I’d heard he’d been
working day and night on the closing documents for the West Side Project,
and so I let him be.
I stared at the back of the chauffeur’s neck and with a shock, realized
that it was Barey Mian. Unlike the other cars, there was no glass partition
between passenger and chauffeur, and we could have exchanged a few
words, but Mian did not acknowledge my presence in the car. He drove
with precision, always staying within the speed limit.
We were on the Queensboro Bridge, the dark waters of the East River
far below us, when Abbas finally stirred, and his voice was thick with
tiredness. “So. How are you and Maryam getting along?” He put a
reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I’m not implying anything. I’m really
asking.”
I r eplied that Maryam was very busy at the hospital but seemed fine.
That we had lunch together, twice a week. That Nussie the cat had become
like our child and was always nuzzling into Maryam’s lap. Of course, I did
not mention the postcards from the wacko: They arrived once a week —
always the same image of Jackson Heights — and I tore them up and threw
them away; Maryam did not need to deal with this garbage. Just as a
precaution, I’d mentioned the postcards to George, the new doorman, and
he’d promised to make sure that Maryam was always escorted to her car.
“So, you’re getting along. Good. Very good.”
I thought we would move on to business, but Abbas continued, speaking
slowly, processing his thoughts. “I’ve never been very good at this ...
marriage game. I’m all about the real world, and Coco, she’s so ... interior.
She spends months at this decr epit Zen monastery in the Hudson Valley.
You know what they do all day? Grow vegetables, pretend to be carpenters.
Then they meditate for hours. And now she wants to be ordained as a monk,
live up there permanently. Bloody nonsense. Of course I nixed it. Why the
hell can’t she just do Soul Cycle like all my other friends’ wives?”
I made a nondescript noise in commiseration, and Abbas continued.
“There was someone, before Coco, a European girl. Coco’s essentially a
child — she went from her father to me — but the other girl, she’d lived on
her own, gone through hardships; she had a great head on her shoulders.
Maybe if I’d had the courage to defy my parents and marry her, it might
have turned out different ... but I am getting maudlin here. The collapse of
our marriage is my fault. I wasn’t home much when the kids were little —
when Coco most needed my help. I assumed there would be time to make it
up to her later, but a marriage can, you know ... reach an inflection point.”
He made a nose - diving motion with one hand. “Coco and I fought all the
time, and Farhan, particularly, got the worst of it.”
Abbas paused. Below us smoke spiraled into the sky from the low rises
on Roosevelt Island. “Back then, I was fearful of the future — and I pushed
Farhan. When she was four, we’d stand by the window, and I’d quiz her on
the colors of cars. If she messed up, I’d shout, “No, that’s not white! That’s
blue! You’re not trying!” Poor thing. By the time she was a teenager, she
hated me. Started having all kinds of problems.” His voice became softer.
“She tried to kill herself, you know.”
The only sound was the car tires swishing across the tarmac.
I k ept my face neutral, but my mind was racing. Was this the “accident”
that Farhan had mentioned? I recalled the zigzag scar on her breast, the
puckered, sutured skin. Farhan had hidden the truth from me — and now I
felt a pang of sorrow.
I told Abbas that I was sorry to hear about Farhan’s suicide attempt — but
surely he didn’t blame himself for it? D epression was often genetically
determined.
Abbas waved my words away. “It is important to admit my mistakes. I
was a bad father — but paradoxically, because Farhan experienced so much
adversity, she is tough. Now, Maryam grew up in more prosperous times,
but she’s a bit of a hothouse flower. She’s sentimental. Easily hurt.”
Abbas looked over at me, and I realized that Farhan had the same
piercing stare.
“I’m telling you all this, Ali, because you did not grow up in this
country. You do not understand the American psyche: optimistic on the
outside, but underneath, it is weak, hollow. Americans are bred to think they
are special — so when adversity hits, they cannot bounce back. Hence all the
nostalgia these days for an older, stabler time. We Indians are realists, we
know that change is inevitable, we can adapt, and ... Hell, I’m just
rambling. What do I really know?”
We both laughed, but then Abbas became serious again.
“All this to say — it may not seem like it, but Maryam is fragile, okay?
I’m telling you this man - to - man. I want you to succeed at Tiger Corp — but
not at the expense of your marriage. You understand me, right, son?”
Abbas’s eyes were brimming with exhaustion and sadness. We held eye
contact for a second, and I nodded. “I’ll make sure that I’m there for
Maryam. And our kids.”
“Good. Good.” Abbas slumped back in his seat. “Now. How are things
going at work?”
“Kyle’s been very helpful. He has a great head for numbers. I’m lousy at
math.”
Abbas sighed. “Kyle Nowak is a blunt instrument. That boy works like a
demon — don’t get me wrong — but he’s rough around the edges. Do you
think I could send Kyle to woo the planning commissioner over dinner at
Le Bernardin? Do you think Kyle could talk Renzo Piano into altering one
of his designs? He is not a people person — whereas you are, Ali. People like
you. They want to eat dinner with you. Go golfing with you. All your
clients in Mumbai — rich assholes, excuse my French — only had good
things to say about you. In our business, that’s a huge asset ... Don’t let
Kyle intimidate you, okay, son? I’ve heard how rudely he speaks to you. If
you don’t demand respect, you will not get it.”
I knew that Abbas had investigated me before the wedding — but it was
shocking to hear that he’d even talked to my wedding photography clients.
Still, Abbas was right. Kyle had been helpful — but he’d also treated me like
an idiot younger brother, and I’d gone along with it. Years of being abused
by Hassan had accustomed me to that role.
Soon we’d turned onto 74 th Street in Queens and were in the heart of
Little India, surrounded by jewelry stores, sari emporiums, Indian groceries,
eating houses — awash with hand - lettered signs: ROOPAM THREADING AND
WAXING. ROOPAM IMPORTS. M. K. SINGH ACCOUNTANT AND FAXES. JAI HIND
APPLIANCES. The air even smelled different, of jasmine and frying ginger
paste. The concentrated, bustling energy reminded me of Mumbai, and I
made a note to return here on the weekend with my camera and take some
photos. After the dreary sameness of Manhattan, Jackson Heights was
vibrant, messy, human.
I could understand why Abbas returned here when he felt low. His eyes
were bright after his power nap, and he once again exerted his particularly
male charisma. We arrived at his barbershop, and everything happened as I
had told Maryam — but there was one detail I’d left out.
We were all crowded into Abbas’s barber shop when an older Indian
woman walked in, regal, gray - haired, clad in a thin red shawl and the plain
white sari of a widow. She went straight over to Abbas, and he stood up
from the barber’s chair and embraced her. The woman wordlessly presented
him with a tin box full of homemade sweets, and Abbas thanked her
profusely, his eyes filling with tears. He then offered her a ride home in the
car, but she declined and left. Abbas sank down into the barber’s chair,
visibly touched, and for a few seconds, he closed his eyes tightly, as if
r eplaying the episode, and then snapped back into his social, exuberant self.
There was a loud buzz of conversation after the old woman’s d eparture.
I asked the man next to me if he knew her, and he hesitated and then said
yes, there had been a great tragedy in Jackson Heights over a decade ago.
Eight Indian girls had died, and Abbas had paid for their funerals and also
financially supported the families of the victims for years. The old lady in
the red shawl was the mother of one of the dead girls. “Abbas Sahib has a
heart of gold,” the man added. “He has spent hundreds of thousands of
dollars on helping these families. A savior to our community.”
I’d wanted to ask more about the deaths — was it an outbreak of some
disease? — but just then, Abbas had gestured to me and said, “Ali, you
should get a haircut. You came all this way.” I’d protested, not wanting to
mess with my three - hundred - dollar cut by a hip East Village barbershop,
but Abbas had insisted, and so I spent thirty minutes in the chair as Cash
Singh snipped and clipped. To my surprise, it was not a bad haircut — very
short on the sides, with an engraved part — though later Maryam teased me
and said I looked like an Indian mama’s boy.
Anyway, that night, at dinner with Maryam, I relayed my version of that
afternoon in jocular terms. I did not want to spoil the mood, and so I did not
ask Maryam about the old woman in the red shawl, how those eight girls
had died, and why Abbas felt obligated to support their families.
In any case, Maryam and I were having lunch that Wednesday, at a
Vietnamese pho place around the corner from her hospital. During the lunch
Maryam would be in doctor mode, and I could ask her about the exact
nature of the tragedy in Jackson Heights.
In retrospect, I should have just looked up those dead girls on the
internet. It would have been easy to find more information, but back then I
did not understand what I was dealing with.
Back then, I thought those dead girls were something distant, external —
and that they had nothing to do with the Khan family.