During the sweltering summer months, New York City was a ghost town.
Everyone was on vacation.
I only got a couple of photography gigs — a Punjabi wedding out on
Long Island and an engagement party in Westchester — and after my shoots,
I sat in coffee shops, elbow to elbow with strangers, sipping lattes and
endlessly color correcting the photographs.
Meanwhile, my days were really given meaning by my furtive afternoon
visits to Farhan’s apartment. Whenever I got off the subway and smelled
Chinatown — body odor, fish sauce, rotting vegetables — it gave me an erotic
jolt. Some days Farhan was grumpy and wasn’t in the mood for sex, and I
would make myself a cup of tea and ke ep her company as she worked at her
dining table, sketching out designs for Frida Kahlo – inspired chandelier
earrings. On other days, we would spend all afternoon having sweaty sex,
and once we were done, Farhan would throw my T - shirt at me and say, “Get
out of here. I have to get back to work.” I did not mind Farhan’s dismissals;
I’d grown up with a brusque mother, and I took her casual rudeness as a
sign of real intimacy.
Farhan’s blunt ways were a sharp contrast to Maryam’s politeness — she
was always saying “please” and “thank you.” Sometimes, after we had sex
— always in the dark, no for eplay, no conversation — she’d say “Good night,
Ali. Have a great day tomorrow” with such formality that I felt de eply
distanced. Though we had dinner together every night, we didn’t really talk;
Maryam just listened abstractedly to my lies and muttered platitudes: “I’m
glad you’re exploring the city” and “Oh, that’s a lovely photograph.” Back
then, I thought Maryam’s athletic physique and fine - boned face hid the fact
that she was an introverted nerd in capable of real closeness.
Now I look back on those weeks, as the sunlight faltered, as the
mornings grew chillier, and I realize Maryam was patiently waiting — but
for what? Maybe she herself didn’t know, exactly, but something was on the
way. Maybe I sensed it too, for I woke every morning with a strange tension
coiled in my gut.
Subconsciously, I waited for the other shoe to drop.
And it did, just not in the way I expected.
One Sunday in mid - October Maryam and I were summoned to Abbas’s
estate on Long Island for an all - family lunch.
Normally, we would have driven, but that day Abbas had sent his
Sikorsky S - 76 to the heliport on West 30 th Street, and we had just taken off
when a clipped, precise British voice came through my noise - canceling
headphones.
“Mr. Khan, we will soon be flying right over the Lady. Would you care
for a look?”
Abbas’s love for the British extended to his choice of staff — the pilot of
his helicopter was a ruddy ex - RAF pilot. I was not used to being called
“Mr. Khan,” and I did not realize I was being addressed, but the pilot
r epeated his question, and I finally leaned forward and gave him a thumbsup through
the open cockpit door.
The helicopter altered course obligingly.
We skimmed over the calm blue surface of New York Harbor, scarred by
the wakes of tugboats and launches. In the distance was the tidy green
outline of Governors Island, and off the southern tip of Manhattan, two
bright orange Staten Island ferries glided past each other. The chopper
dipped slightly, and there she was: a rear view, oddly chunky and
masculine, the great bolted plates of verdigris copper, the spiky crown, the
upthrust arm holding up the enormous cartoony torch.
Despite the anxieties crowding my mind, I gawked at the statue. New
York was full of images like this, burned into my brain from movies and
television. No wonder sixty million tourists visited the city every year: You
needed to know nothing about art, architecture or history; you could just
tick off the iconic sights — Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Times
Square, Rockefeller Center — and go home feeling satisfied.
During this past month of marriage, I’d experienced another, rarefied
world, guarded by maître d’s and doormen: a small circuit, frequented by
the same people — Maryam’s acquaintances from Brearley, Chapin, and
Horace Mann, often overlapping with her contemporaries from Harvard,
Princeton, and Brown. The young men all had high - powered jobs in
investment banking or trading, and the women dabbled in nonprofits and
publishing. The same crew smartly but carelessly turned out, with their
Waspy nicknames — Chip, Buffy, Missy, Tad — nibbled garlicky mussels at
Elio’s; lunched at the Harvard Club (jacket and tie required); played tennis
at the R&T; sipped dirty martinis in the dimly lit murk of Bemelmans Bar.
A cozy circle of old money, and it reminded me of Mumbai. So much for
egalitarian America.
Still, that sunny morning in Abbas Khan’s chopper, I turned into just
another tourist. I marveled at Lady Liberty passing below us. I admired the
helicopter’s cream leather seats, cherrywood paneling and cocktail cabinet
— but Maryam barely glanced up from her American Journal of Psychiatry.
This trip was routine for her, just another family lunch.
Since the wedding, Abbas had been away, on his yacht in Monaco — or
was it Luxembourg? Now he was back and had summoned the entire Khan
clan for the customary monthly Sunday lunch at his estate. The rest of the
clan had to inch along the congested expressway all the way to Long Island,
but Abbas had sent his private helicopter to fetch Maryam and me, and I
should have been flattered.
Instead I was tense and stiff.
“Papa likes to see everyone together,” Maryam had said. “Maybe it’s a
good time to talk to him about opening a fine - photography gallery.”
“Maybe some other time,” I’d said, remembering my conversation with
Farhan. Abbas certainly wasn’t as evil as she portrayed him, but there was
no way I wanted to be indebted to my mercurial father - in - law. I’d just have
to scrape together more photography gigs till I had enough cash to send my
parents.
But right then, Abbas was not my primary concern. What frightened me
was that Farhan and Maryam would be in the same room all afternoon.
Farhan was an expert at dec eption, but would I, through my unwitting body
language, betray my allegiance to her? Abbas was a sharp guy, and he’d
make me out right away.
I’d raised my concerns with Farhan during one of our afternoon trysts.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she had said breezily. “Just start up a conversation with
some boring old uncle. I’ll be all the way on the other side of the room, and
everybody will ignore me. Just follow suit.”
Really? Would it all be so simple?
The helicopter clattered through the sky, and soon the sparkling water of
the bay gave way to the gray pancake sprawl of Long Island. I felt my face
flush at the thought of the Khans treating Farhan so badly.
I mean, what the hell had she done to them — apart from wanting to live
her own life?
I’d heard about Abbas’s legendary château but had never visited.
Sher Khan House sprawled along the crest of a ste ep man - made hill
amid rolling green fields. If you approached by car, you’d drive up an
endless allée of London plane trees — the view hidden on both sides by tall
hedges — and go through a masonry portal, arriving at a vast, stone - flagged
forecourt enclosed by high walls. It was impossible to take in the
surroundings. Once you were inside the L - shaped building, you would get
glimpses of the view, but only after you made your way out onto a
balustraded terrace would the full panorama be revealed: the long, elegant
rectangle of the formal gardens — and, beyond them, the sheer cliffs of
Huntington Bay, overhung by a dramatic sky.
The entire entry sequence was constructed by a skilled architect: The eye
was first hemmed in, then teased, and finally released.
That first visit, approaching godlike from the air, I was not constrained
by this architectural logic and could take in the entire vista at once: the
giant château with its pitched roofs and a round corner tower with a conical
top. The blue - gray slate roofs gleamed, the limestone base shone an
immaculate yellow, and it looked just as it did when it was built in the
1920 s by a Jewish steel magnate.
Yet — as Farhan had told me — when Abbas bought it, in the late nineties,
the château was a derelict hulk. After the death of the original owner, the
house had fallen on hard times and sat abandoned for decades, slowly
crumbling, entire trees taking root inside. Farhan remembered roller - skating
down the length of the ballroom’s parquet floor, looking up and seeing the
blue sky. During the real estate bust of the early aughts, Abbas became
insolvent and was forced to sell the house to a Japanese magnate, but after
Tiger Corp rebounded, he bought it back and continued his obsessive
efforts, importing slate roof tiles from Wales, reconstructing the Guastavino
tile arched ceilings, even buying up period furniture from bankrupt English
country houses.
Abbas had renamed the place Sher Khan House, a complex joke; Sher
meaning “tiger” and Khan, of course, being his last name, but also Sher
Khan as a tribute to the voracious tiger in Kipling’s classic The Jungle
Book, Abbas’s favorite as a child. Also, it was a fuck - you to the Waspy
world Abbas both admired and detested; the ethnic sound of the name was a
great source of upset to the locals, who had always referred to this place as
“Huntington Castle.”
The Sikorsky swooped lower, revealing more details: the allée of
London plane trees blazed russet and gold, the geometric pools in the
sunken formal garden shone with reflected light, servants scurried across
the forecourt.
The copter settled down onto a helipad with barely a bump. I gave a
double thumbs - up to the pilot, but Maryam alighted without a word and
stretched luxuriously. I remarked on how cool it had been to fly over Lady
Liberty and how, one day, I hoped to traverse the entire length of
Manhattan. “I wonder what Central Park looks like from up there,” I added.
“Oh, sweetie,” Maryam said. “Why didn’t you say something? I could
have asked Phillip to swing over.”
Phillip was the pilot. “But I thought you had to submit a flight plan.”
“Yes, but...” Maryam shrugged. “There’s always wiggle room, isn’t
there?”
Her words echoed in my ears as we strolled over to the waiting Range
Rover. Farhan always mocked Maryam’s entitled ways, but I’d disregarded
her belittling tone, thinking of Maryam’s long days at the psych ward. Yet
here it was: There’s always wiggle room, isn’t there?
Of course there was: If Maryam Khan had instructed the pilot to do
figure eights over Central Park, he’d have done it.
A whippet - thin Indian man in his sixties was standing patiently by the
waiting Range Rover, dressed in a bulky white cotton cricket sweater and
pleated white pants. His distinctive bucket - shaped gray beard and cleanshaven upper lip
were familiar, and I recognized the Indian Abe Lincoln,
the man who had saved me from the drunken wedding guest. He gave me a
formal bow, but Maryam ran to him and hugged him — an unusual display
of affection — and he, in turn, ruffled her hair and called her “Mimi,” her
childhood nickname.
Maryam chattered with the man during the short drive to the house,
exchanging news of all the cousins, and he was surprisingly well informed.
I was to learn later that this man was called “Barey Mian” — a nickname,
meaning “grand old man” — and he was Abbas’s personal chauffeur and
general factotum — but that it was a mistake to regard him as just a servant.
Mian had been hired, at age five, back in Mumbai, to be Abbas’s constant
companion, and the two men had grown up together, as close as brothers. It
was one of those archaic, feudal relationships: Mian was subordinate to
Abbas but derived great power by proximity to his master, whom he
worshipped and protected.
All this I was to discover later, at great cost.
Right then, though, Mian drove us into the walled forecourt of Sher
Khan House and stopped amid a swarm of Range Rovers disgorging the
Khan clan. Abbas and Coco emerged from the crowd and strode up to meet
us. Coco’s hair was in an elaborate updo, and she wore diamond chandelier
earrings and a flowing white salwar kameez embroidered with tiny pearls.
She didn’t look monk - like at all, and when she leaned in to give me an airkiss on each
cheek — mwah, mwah — I got a whiff of her intoxicating floral
perfume. “Oh, Ali,” she said breathily, “it does my heart good to finally host
you at our home.”
Abbas looked every inch the country squire in an emerald - green
corduroy jacket, a blinding white shirt under a wool waistcoat, flannel
trousers, and suede ankle boots. A skeletal greyhound on a leash nosed
behind him. Abbas pulled me into a bear hug and boomed, “Welcome to
Sher Khan House, son. We will have to give you the grand tour.”
The greyhound jumped up and licked Maryam, who had, in this short
space of time, de volved into a delighted little girl. She petted the dog, bused
Coco and Abbas on both cheeks, and said, “Papa, you look silly in those
trousers. And are you using the royal we?” Abbas turned and gave me a
mock - annoyed look — See what I have to put up with? — and kissed Maryam
on the top of her head. Coco beamed at her husband and daughter as if she
had witnessed this interaction many times.
It was all so natural and sweet that I felt, for a minute, that the Khans
were a regular family, and I was witnessing a homecoming — but then I
remembered Farhan’s warning and stiffened again.
This encounter set the tone for the evening, and I k ept measuring
Abbas’s warm hospitality against Farhan’s warning words — “Papa is toxic.
You have no idea what evil that man is capable of.”
We entered the house and went up a grand staircase to the main level. From
the din, I could tell the Khan clan was assembling farther down the corridor
— but I did not join them right away.
Abbas asked Maryam if he could steal me away for a quick house tour,
and of course she agreed and walked away with her mother, leading the
leashed greyhound. Abbas and I strolled on, and he proved to be an
excellent guide. Clearly, he knew every inch of the house.
We first entered a Victorian - era solarium — a vast, glass - roofed garden
room, furnished with a fountain and towering palm trees — and Abbas said
that he liked to have his breakfast here, surrounded by the greenery. From
there, we progressed to the oak - paneled billiard room, decorated with the
heads of antelope and buffalos. We lingered in the breakfast room — with its
tooled - leather wallpaper — and Abbas noted he had procured (but never yet
used) the appropriate chinaware: gold - trimmed porcelain by Minton, etched
with the monogram of the original owner of this house.
After that, the rooms began to blur: A Turkish salon room. A music room
with painted wooden box beams. A long gallery, hung with vast, faded
Renaissance tapestries, all naked maidens and cherubs.
Then we plunged into the basement level. Here, de ep within the thick
masonry foundation walls, Abbas was rehabilitating the original vaulted
swimming pool and a Victorian - era bowling alley. We even entered the
kitchens — updated, of course, but with the original cast - iron stoves still
intact, and Abbas insisted on showing me the pantries stocked with caviar,
pâté, and jeroboams of champagne.
I was struck by the servants: The maids, waiters, cooks and helpers were
all Indian, and I asked about them. “I fly in our own people from Mumbai,”
Abbas r eplied loftily. “They are the most trustworthy. Some of their
families, in fact, have worked for the Khans for generations.” And unlike an
American staff, who would have been coolly professional, this loyalty
showed. As Abbas passed, the servants blushed, dropped their eyes, and
salaamed, lifting cupped hands to their foreheads, but they did not seem
scared of him. In fact, several times, Abbas stopped to chat with the staff in
Hindi, inquiring after their health and their families back home; he seemed
to know a lot about each person and obviously relished these conversations.
As the tour progressed, Abbas’s careful, cultivated Britishisms gave way
to a thick Indian accent, and he grew more animated. He began to sweat,
stopping periodically to wipe his face with a large white handkerchief; the
sophisticated tycoon was r eplaced by an excited little boy. Initially, I’d
assumed this unique house and all its antique furnishings were about
claiming status — but as the tour continued into the boiler rooms and the inhouse
laundry, I realized that Sher Khan House meant something de eply
personal to Abbas; it was not just his kingdom but a place where he had
recreated the bonds of India.
At the time I didn’t formulate this thought clearly — because I was
distracted by something else. Abbas was not merely showing me the house:
He was instructing me in its intricacies and vagaries, the way one would
pass on information about an elderly ailing aunt. Abbas k ept looking into
my face to gauge my reaction, as if he was silently saying, Do you get what
I’m doing here? Will you continue my work?
Abbas was treating me like a son, an heir, as if one day all this would be
mine — and Maryam’s, of course.
“What you’ve done here,” I finally said, as we walked back up to the
main level, “it’s impressive. You’ve brought the past back to life.”
“Really?” His face flushed. “You don’t think of this, all this, as folly?
Delusion?”
“No. Not at all. If anything, it’s romantic — poetic, maybe, is a better
word — ”
Just then, Abbas’s cell phone rang. He glanced at it, groaned, and
ushered me into a private suite. Gesturing for me to wait in an anteroom, he
entered what must have been his study. I heard his voice change, become
curt and businesslike: “Good,” he said. “Good, yes. No, that’s garbage...”
And then he closed the door to his study, and his voice was cut off.
The anteroom had a row of tall French doors that led out to a stoneflagged terrace with a
swe eping view of the formal gardens, but I didn’t
dare go outside in case Abbas returned. Instead I perched on an
uncomfortable high - backed sofa and listened to the rest of the family
congregating down the hall, but I didn’t feel left out. After spending an
intense half hour with Abbas, I wanted to be alone, to process what had just
happened. The tour that Abbas had given me wasn’t just a walk - through of
some expensive real estate; the old man had hinted that one day, this house
would be mine — or was I imagining it?
Twenty minutes passed, but still Abbas did not return. I gazed out at the
formal gardens: Oval pools were filled with decorative carp. Fountains
plashed. Elaborate topiary — hedges trimmed into soft curves, bushes turned
into perfect spheres — was intersected by neatly raked gravel paths,
unmarred by a single fallen leaf. An hour ago, this view would have meant
nothing to me, but now ... the thought of inheriting all this felt unreal,
dreamlike — but also thrilling. I imagined bringing my parents to Sher Khan
House, standing on this very terrace and hearing them gasp as they took in
the view. I’d be hailed as the savior of the Azeem family!
And then I came back to reality. Abbas was incredibly fit — he played
squash with much younger men and beat them — and would live to a ripe
old age. It would be decades before I inherited anything, and meanwhile,
my parents were broke; I needed money now, not dreams of grandeur.
I walked over to one wall, which was hung with old s epia and blackand - white
photographs, a narrative of sorts, tracking Abbas’s trajectory:
Portraits of Abbas’s parents in Mumbai — in the 1930 s? 1940 s? His
father in a traditional Turkish fez, his mother with her head covered, as
was the custom back then.
A faded photo of a big old shabby Mumbai bungalow with a shady
front portico.
A picture of Abbas in his twenties, already with thinning hair, eyes
agleam, clad in a double - breasted suit, at the wheel of a snub - nosed
British sports car.
Then America: Abbas and a tall, muscular man standing amid the neon
clutter of 1970 s Times Square, both sporting open - collared shirts and
flared pants. I looked closer at Abbas’s companion and discovered it
was Barey Mian, clean - shaven, well built, and much heavier, his arms
corded with muscle.
Abbas and Barey Mian together in another black - and - white
photograph, both wearing waiter’s black waistcoats and aprons,
standing in front of the zinc - lined bar of a huge restaurant with velvet
booths and gilt mirrors. Behind the bar stood a pixieish young woman
in a dress with a 1960 s Peter Pan collar, her dark hair cut as short as a
boy’s. I leaned in for a closer look, taking in her sharp, intelligent eyes,
full mouth, and pointed chin: There was something compelling about
her expression — it was defiant and also somehow wounded — but right
then, this image was just a historical curiosity for me, a way to pass the
time.
Just then, Abbas slipped back into the room. I st epped back from the
photograph and tried to look casual, but Abbas hadn’t noticed my prying.
He was glowering and tense now, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, and
apologized for ke eping me waiting. He said he’d just had a distressing call
about one of his newly built skyscrapers.
“It’s a problem of aesthetics,” Abbas said. His voice had lost its yearning
and become hard and businesslike. “Which I am supremely unqualified to
solve. The nineteenth century, yes, that I understand, but what people want
today ... it’s hard to pinpoint. Our buyers are Russian, Chinese, Malaysian.
What appeals to them?”
Abbas threw up his hands in an exaggerated gesture, and I could tell he
was playacting and that his statements were not exactly true — after all, he
had successfully ridden the real estate trends of the last three decades. Then
he noticed I was still glancing at the photographs and moved closer.
“I see you have found my little display. An attempt to impose a narrative
on the chaos of my life.”
I asked him about the photograph taken in the restaurant, and Abbas
peered at the picture. “Nachtmann’s, up in the Bronx. Not a restaurant in the
current sense of the word. A Polish eating house. Pierogi, gołąbki, pork
cutlets. I can still smell them ... Barey Mian and I arrived in America with
two hundred dollars between us. We needed jobs, so we both took positions
as waiters. A rude shock for me, but still, the owner treated us well. Jewish.
He’d gotten out of Poland right before the war, had a soft spot for
immigrants, I suppose. The rest of his family remained in the old country,
and the Nazis, they...” He paused. “Well, you know.”
Abbas was no longer a curt entr epreneur. He spoke with de ep feeling,
and I saw a different side of him, haunted by some unidentifiable regret.
“Back to business.” Abbas stood straighter and adjusted the cuffs of his
shirt. “Tell me about your photography business back in Mumbai. Why
were you so successful?”
The sudden change of topic puzzled me, but I tried to respond as
honestly as I could.
“On a technical level, I’m not the best photographer. But I supplied
something others didn’t. A storyline. You see, each wedding is a different
story, and you want to capture what is unique about — ”
“Good. Yes. Exactly. Let’s discuss this down the hall. I’ve been doublebooked, very
inconvenient, but it won’t take more than a few minutes.”
Double - booked? On a Sunday afternoon?
Curious, I followed Abbas into yet another room, this one empty exc ept
for racks of clothing and a huge floor - to - ceiling mirror. A distinguishedlooking white
man in a gray flannel suit stood with a tape measure hung
around his neck, assembling pieces of cloth onto a tailor’s dummy, assisted
by a ferrety red - haired younger man.
“Oh, hello, Charles,” Abbas said, his accent becoming subtly more
English. “How are things on the Row?” He turned to me. “These gentlemen
are from Gieves and Hawkes. Been making suits since 1771, so they are
doing something right. Won’t be more than a few minutes.”
Abbas clambered onto a wooden st ep stool, and the two men draped
pieces of half - sewn blue serge over his shoulders; they examined their work
critically, frowned, and marked the cloth with a triangle of white wax. I had
grown up going to the tailor with my own father, and this was a familiar
process. At one point I interjected that the jacket waist was too high, and
Abbas agreed, causing the red - haired tailor to scribble furiously in a
notebook.
Twenty minutes passed. Just when I thought we were done, the tailors
produced books containing samples of materials, and we all had a long
debate about the merits of two competing houndstooth patterns. Abbas took
my side and said, “Yes, this one is too loud, the lad is right.”
All this while Abbas was monologuing, in brief snatches, about an
aesthetic problem he was having with this new building. He’d entrusted the
marketing campaign to Hamza, a young n ephew, and didn’t like the results
— too “pedestrian,” too “cliché,” the tagline being “A Palace in the Sky.” It
was then I realized Abbas was talking about Tower Seven, the new supertall
he’d built on Billionaires’ Row, at the southern edge of Central Park —
perhaps the same one that had cast its uncouth shadow over me. Abbas went
on about how hard it had been to deal with the architect, an “Italian
maniac,” and how he’d battled to build one of the skinniest, tallest buildings
in the world, an engineering marvel — and all his n ephew could come up
with was “A Palace in the Sky”?
“This generation,” Abbas snorted. “Raised in America with silver spoons
in their mouths. Do you know some of my great - n ephews spend their
summers out in Amagansett, at the yacht club, learning how to sail? Ah,
these people, they think life is a Ralph Lauren commercial ... Look, son, I
need someone hungry, with fresh eyes. Someone from the outside. This
isn’t exactly your wheelhouse — but would you take a look at the marketing
materials? Big picture. Thoughts, ideas. A temporary job but well paid. I
can set you up with an office, an executive assistant, whatever you need.”
It appeared that Abbas’s request for help was spontaneous, prompted by
his phone call, but I remembered what Farhan had said and wondered if the
intimate tour of the house was a performance to soften me up.
“Abbas, I don’t know the first thing about real estate. I’m not sure I can
be of help to you.”
He brusquely waved away my words. “Don’t sell yourself short, Ali.
I’ve seen what you did with your photography business. You made a niche
for yourself — and dealing with those pompous Mumbai billionaires isn’t
easy.”
Later on, I learned this was classic Abbas.
You would enter his world for what you thought were a few minutes, but
he was always multitasking — and you’d find yourself at his barbershop or
going along to a meeting with architects or lunch with some bigwig from
the zoning board. It was bewildering because you did not know what your
role was, and all the while Abbas would be talking to you about the issue
you were supposed to discuss but in such a distracted way that you found
yourself frantically trying to piece together what he was saying. You came
away from the encounter convinced he had said something clear, while he
had actually talked in the vaguest terms — and now it was your job to solve
whatever problem he had delegated to you, and you would labor day and
night to define the task and conquer it. In this way, Abbas did not have to
spell out the problems he was facing. He could pass on all the uncertainty
and risk — and, at the same time, get the best out of you.
I knew none of this at that time.
The two tailors scurried around Abbas, now showing him bolts of
materials for custom shirts. He felt each fabric and shot them questions:
“Do you have this in a silk - cotton pique? How about an Italian linen?”
And all this time Abbas continued to describe to me — in half sentences
and pauses — the challenges that he was facing with Tower Seven. I nodded
frantically to express my comprehension, but the more he spoke, the more
muddled I became.
When he finally finished his monologue, I realized that he had offered
me a job, but I wasn’t very clear about what it actually entailed.