Ten minutes later, Abbas and I walked down the hallway to the banquet
hall, his arm draped around my shoulders. As we entered the vast room, he
smiled at me and said, “I enjoyed our little talk, son. I hope you’ll be able to
help me out,” and I glowed with pleasure.
Abbas headed to the center of the table, where an empty chair awaited
him, right next to Coco. Only later did I realize this seat was the power
position, the spot Abbas claimed in real estate negotiations — the head of the
table can easily become isolated, but the middle of the table commands
access on all sides.
As I walked down the far end of the long table to join Maryam, Coco
gave me a little wave and her dazzling smile. Several cousins greeted me
warmly, and others nodded hello. I thought to myself that I had really
misjudged the Khans: They were welcoming and friendly, not scary at all.
And Maryam must have noticed Abbas’s arm draped around my shoulders,
because as soon as I sat down, she turned to me with a relieved smile.
“Well, you two seem to be getting along famously. Did you ask him
about the photography gallery?”
Maryam spoke in a low whisper. Despite the vast dimensions of the
room and the barrel - vaulted ceiling, the acoustics were perfect, and
anything we said could be easily overheard.
“Nope,” I whispered back. “But he offered me a job. And there’s
something else.”
I told Maryam about how Abbas had talked at length about the problems
with Tower Seven and asked me to come up with ideas for a new marketing
campaign — and how, after that discussion was concluded — much to my
surprise — he’d insisted on having me measured for a bespoke suit. I’d been
stunned and stuttered out my thanks, but Abbas had waved them away and
said, “A mere trifle, you don’t need to thank me.”
Maryam lit up like a proud mother. “That’s amazing. He’s never had a
suit made for anyone else. That’s huge.”
“The suit or the job? Did you put him up to this?”
“I had nothing to do with it. He likes you. You’re a Mumbai kid, like
him.”
“But marketing advice? I don’t know anything about real estate, and — ”
“People think real estate is about numbers. Yes, it is — but we have
people who handle that. It’s really about vision. You dream up what is
possible, and you sell that dream, and people either feel your excitement
and buy it — or not. Everything d epends on the strength of your vision.”
It all sounded airy - fairy, and I was supposed to email Abbas concrete
marketing ideas.
“I told your father I’d think about it. I haven’t acc epted the job yet.”
“Don’t be scared, Ali. Papa’s a real softie. All bark and no bite.”
After the tour with Abbas, and his generosity, I was inclined to agree
with Maryam. Maybe photography had been just a phase. Maybe I was
ready to move on to more adult responsibilities and kill two birds with one
stone: make Abbas happy — and prove to my parents that I could be a
responsible son. But then I remembered how vehement Farhan had been
about not putting myself under Abbas’s yoke. Maybe I could run this offer
by Farhan and get some tips on how to handle the old man ... But where
was she? I gazed around the long mahogany table, crowded with Khan
family members, but there was no sign of Farhan’s tousled hair and bright
red lipstick.
“Maryam,” I said, “have you seen Farhan?” It came out with more
emphasis than I intended. “I mean, I assumed she’d be here? Whole family
has to attend these lunches, right?” I turned away, mortified at what I might
have betrayed, but Maryam didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh, she’ll turn up.” Maryam smiled and then clapped her hands. “Look,
the biriyani is here! Smell that!”
Other family members were applauding too, because two bearded men
in spotless white kurtas had just carried in a giant covered cauldron.
They chipped away at the dough that was used to seal the lid shut, and a
dense, mouthwatering aroma filled the air: fine basmati rice, saffron,
caramelized onions, chicken, and golden potatoes, slow cooked for hours
and now meshed harmoniously into a food that was eaten by the Mughal
emperors of North India. This was the sole dish to be served at lunch, and
only later did I realize what a genius move it was: Tough luck if you were a
vegetarian or a vegan — this was it. Abbas demanded loyalty from his family
and monitored closely how much biriyani everyone ate.
Not that the Khan clan seemed to mind. Fine porcelain plates were piled
high with mounds of biriyani, and each family member shouted out their
preferences: “Not too much rice!” “More potatoes!” “I’d like a chicken
leg!” For Abbas’s siblings — old Sultan Ali, wheelchair - bound after a stroke;
Bilquis, a sprightly spinster with a hawklike profile; plump, pale Fauzia,
apparently harmless but as toxic as a cobra — biriyani was the food of the
old days in Mumbai, and they ate with gusto. For the adult cousins, raised
in America, biriyani anchored the memories of many childhood Sundays in
this very room. Only the young kids, second - generation Americans raised
on pasta and burgers, picked at their lunches. It was Abbas’s only
concession that they could also eat crispy paratha, topped with keema,
which resembled pizza and proved to be popular.
I was to make these observations later, over many Sunday lunches, both
before and after Farhan’s disappearance.
Right then, I searched the sea of faces for Farhan, but she wasn’t there.
Maybe she’d called in sick. She hated her father — and these shows of
family solidarity — but now that I’d spent significant one - on - one time with
Abbas, I couldn’t reconcile my experience with Farhan’s characterization.
Look at Abbas, I thought, his face is shining with happiness.
The old man was tough, yes. Ruthless, yes, but what successful
businessman wasn’t? Look at the pleasure Abbas took in this house, in his
family. He bantered with everyone and urged them to eat, eat, eat more.
Maybe Farhan, raised in luxury, was too thin - skinned and interpreted
Abbas’s ambition as brutality. Didn’t Abbas have to be hard - driving to
make it in New York as a lone brown - skinned Muslim man? He had built an
immense fortune out of risk - taking, canny investments, and sheer
willpower. I thought of my own father, unable to adapt to a changing world,
running Azeem & Sons into the ground. Abbas would never allow that to
happen: He’d fire people, raise fresh capital, strategize.
The only basis I had for not trusting Abbas was Farhan’s insistence that
the old man was morally bankrupt, but she had cited only gossip to back up
her claim. Surely these kinds of rumors — about lovers and mistresses —
surrounded all powerful men? Okay, fine, Abbas had been distant at times,
and he’d lost his temper once — but overall, hadn’t he been kind and
welcoming to me?
I ate biriyani and chatted distractedly with Munnavar, the eldest cousin
and chief operating officer of Tiger Corp. He sat on my left, a big sprawling
brute with a squashed nose and a comb - over. He’d been a boxer in college
and preferred to be called “Big Mike.” It was r eputed that he was the
company enforcer, but he was also de eply shy and making conversation
with him was tedious. I was looking for a way out of our desultory
exchange when a murmur went through the room — and there was Farhan,
walking through the door.
Farhan, head bent, sidled over to an empty seat at the far end of the
table. Finally!
All conversation ceased. The mood in the room had become charged,
and it wasn’t difficult to figure out why.
Sunday lunch at Sher Khan House was a dress - up affair. Abbas did not
mandate this, but he set a certain tone, and everybody followed. The men
wore either blazers, sports coats, or traditional Indian Nehru jackets — I had
donned a blue nautical blazer — and the women were clad in bright saris,
accessorized with gold bangles and diamond necklaces. Having
photographed the weddings of the Mumbai nouveau riche, I can verify that
none of the outfits were outrageous. The clothes elevated the occasion,
made it festive but not stuffy.
That day, Farhan wore faded denim farmer’s overalls. Underneath was a
paint - splattered white T - shirt. Her hair was up in her usual messy bun. She
hadn’t bothered to put in her contacts and wore an oversized pair of Lucite
hipster eyeglasses. It was a look I would have welcomed in the privacy of
her Chinatown apartment, but here? She might as well have raised a middle
finger to the Khans. And worse, the overalls, which must have been
formfitting at one time, were now tight and displayed a bulge around her
waist.
If Farhan’s intent was to look confident and ind ependent, it wasn’t
working. She had the air of a defiant juvenile who knew she had crossed a
line, and was now afraid, but also realized it was too late to change her
course of action.
Farhan sat down, spotted me, and flashed me a quick, tentative smile.
I’m sure no one else noticed. It was intended for me — and I knew I should
smile back, a brief display of solidarity.
I’m ashamed to say I was de eply embarrassed by Farhan’s ridiculous
outfit. Maybe it was my social instinct — that Indian herd mentality — or
maybe I had been corrupted by Abbas’s tour, his insinuation this house
would one day be mine. Sometime during that long, event - filled afternoon,
my loyalties had shifted.
I did not smile back at Farhan. Instead, I turned away and continued my
halting conversation with Big Mike. One could argue that it was an act of
omission, a minuscule oversight — but I might as well have driven a knife
into Farhan’s heart: Her face fell, and she stared fixedly down at her plate.
Instantly, I regretted my response, but it was too late. Hell hath no fury
like a woman scorned. That was the line that flashed through my mind.
To make things worse, when a server tried to put chicken biriyani on her
plate, Farhan covered it with both hands. She sat, head bent, and when Coco
said gently, “Beti, aren’t you going to eat? You must be hungry — you drove
a long way,” Farhan at first did not r eply and then said loudly, her voice
bringing all conversation to a halt, “No thank you. I don’t eat meat. As you
well know, I’m vegetarian.”
This was an amazing performance. I’d eaten many pastrami sandwiches
with Farhan — not to mention spicy chicken wings from our favorite Korean
place, our preferred post - sex snack.
“This is not good,” Big Mike murmured at my elbow. “Hope she’s not
using again.”
I stared at Farhan, and, indeed, her eyes were slightly glazed. “Oh,” I
whispered back, “is that a thing?”
“Coke, mostly, though heroin recently. In and out of rehab. I don’t blame
Farhan — it’s a disease, I understand — but poor Abbas Uncle. He has the
patience of a saint.”
I’d known, from what my mother said, that Farhan had addiction issues
in the past, but I’d assumed it was a onetime reaction to her bad marriage —
not an ongoing problem. Now I began to wonder. Sometimes Farhan lay in
bed all day with the shades drawn, popping pills and complaining of
migraines; the next day she might work like a demon, barely eating, and her
nostrils would be raw and pink. Until this moment, I hadn’t thought much
of it. Many of my artist friends in Mumbai used coke to fuel their creativity.
“And that’s not all. Man, oh man...” Big Mike sighed dramatically. He
clearly wanted to fill me in, but I instantly felt protective of Farhan and told
myself to disregard what I heard next.
“... she goes through new guys every few months. Losers she meets in
bars. Always married men, for some reason. Real assholes. A couple of
them figured out she was wealthy and wanted to get on the gravy train, if
you know what I mean. Abbas Uncle had to get in volved.”
I told myself that surely Big Mike was being simplistic. Farhan was an
artist, a free spirit, and she had a right to live her own life. Anyway, to the
Khans, “a real loser” was anyone who wasn’t pulling down millions.
Yet the seeds of doubt were planted, and something inside me recoiled.
Farhan sat motionless, staring down at her empty plate. She seemed
diminished, and I remembered the long, jagged scar over her heart. What
“accident” had caused it? Farhan was a great raconteur, but none of her
stories revealed much about her inner life. We mainly had sex and ate. All
the rest of the narrative I had created in my own mind: I’d projected
victimhood and vulnerability onto her — but what if Farhan was not trying to
live a free, artistic life? What if she was just a junkie with bad judgment,
hooking up with a never - ending string of men?
An hour later, the meal finally came to an end.
There was no grand dessert — Abbas did not believe in it.
Instead, mint tea and the cookies Abbas liked — pistachio, rose water,
lavender — were served in the wood - paneled library next door. It was a
perfect recreation of the Victorian aesthetic: walls lined with leather - bound
volumes, swagged curtains in the windows, marble busts of dead
philosophers set in high - up alcoves. Even the furniture was from that era:
overstuffed horsehair sofas and brass pots holding hoary ferns.
Maryam and I stood by the bookshelves, nibbling on cookies. Coco
instantly came over and began telling us about a retreat she had just
completed: The Zen Cliffs monastery was only a three - hour drive from
Manhattan, but it was high on a mountaintop, with swe eping views of the
Hudson Valley. Cloistered in her cell, Coco had remained silent for three
days, and a thicket of memories had arisen from de ep in her unconscious:
She had been able to visualize her past lives in great detail, stretching back
to medieval times. By addressing these ancient traumas through meditation,
Coco said that she felt much freer. “I’ve been liberated from eons of bad
karma,” she exclaimed.
Maryam listened respectfully. “Mama,” she said, “you know that
medical studies have measured the brain waves of meditating monks and
found increased alpha waves — which indicate profound relaxation.”
“Exactly!” Coco beamed at Maryam. “You see, I’ve been right all these
years!”
Clearly, Coco was into wacky new age stuff — but she seemed far from
withdrawing from the material world, as Farhan claimed. And I was struck
by the adult way in which Maryam dealt with her mother, never
contradicting her. There was a de ep reservoir of affection between Coco and
Maryam, and Farhan’s odd performance at the dinner table now seemed
exc eptionally juvenile. Maybe what I’d interpreted as her artistic,
ind ependent behavior was simply the actions of a petulant rich kid.
The first generation of American Khans were all born with silver spoons
in their mouths. Look at all the cousins: urbane, affable, with their Ivy
League pedigrees. Their conversations filled the library, inane chatter about
summer vacations in Bali, Lake Cuomo, Nantucket. Their kids were badly
behaved brats who ran wildly around the perimeter of the room, chased by
hapless Indian nannies. I suddenly thought, These people think they’re
exc eptional. They’ve forgotten that not long ago, our great - greatgrandfathers were sitting
cross - legged in a bazaar in India, chewing paan
and haggling in Gujarati over the price of tea and jute.
The Khan cousins would be mortified by their ancestors: sweaty, crude,
ruthless two - fisted men. Abbas was the last of that line, but the next
generation — all of them, even Big Mike — had lost that bazaar edge. The
Khan cousins acted like they had earned this — but they’d simply ridden the
coattails of one canny, driven man.
Abbas stood across the room from me, chatting with his middle sister,
Fauzia — but he must have felt my attention. He looked over and gave me a
warm smile, and I automatically smiled back. The whole interaction took
barely a second. Abbas continued to converse with his sister, but Farhan —
who had just slunk into the library — had noticed our exchange and was
staring at me, her face contorted, as though she was close to tears.
Right then, all my arrogant thoughts vanished, and I was flooded with
guilt. This was a woman who had sheltered me, given me what I needed
without asking anything in return. Here she was, alone, amid all these
snobbish people who were acting as though she didn’t exist. In that
moment, I resolved to talk to her and reestablish our rapport.
I’d overlook the faded overalls and the paint - spattered shirt. They were
just signs of Farhan’s distress. I’d let my lover know I still had her back.
But Farhan was nowhere to be found. In the library, I’d turned back to
Maryam and Coco for a few minutes, and when I looked around, she had
vanished. I searched for her in the dining room and even circled back to
Abbas’s study, but the entry door was now locked. Had Farhan driven back
into the city?
The main floor of Sher Khan House was massive, and I wandered
aimlessly for about twenty minutes before finally glimpsing Farhan through
a pair of glass doors. She was standing on a terrace, smoking a cigarette and
blowing the smoke out of her mouth sideways so that it would not land in
the face of the young man she was talking to, though he was at least a head
taller than her. He was smoking too, and it was clear they had sneaked out
together, for they had the air of naughty children.
The man reached out to touch Farhan’s shoulder as he talked, and he
bent his head to listen to her — solicitously, with real interest. He said
something, and Farhan rocked back on her heels and guffawed. I had never
made Farhan laugh like that, and I flushed with jealousy. It did not help that
the man was tall and elegant, of some intermediate ethnicity, with longish
dark hair parted in the center. His cheap gray business suit and ordinary,
unpolished shoes did not detract from his aura — he was the kind of male
who was not tied to fashion and would be considered attractive in any era.
My mood instantly soured. I had assumed I’d find Farhan alone and in
need of comfort — not yakking away with some good - looking rake.
As I got closer, I heard Farhan say, “They didn’t invite you to lunch?”
“Nope. I’m just the messenger boy. Boss man needs some papers.” The
young man gestured to a thick manila envelope tucked under his arm. “It
couldn’t wait, so I schl epped from the city.”
I opened a door and walked out onto the terrace — and the man quickly
took a st ep back from Farhan, creating a space between them.
Farhan acted out a clumsy double take. “Well, well, well.” The nastiness
of her tone threw me. “Is that a new blazer?”
“This?” I bunched up the fabric of the navy blue nautical blazer I wore,
complete with brass buttons. “Maryam said I couldn’t wear a T - shirt to
lunch, and she bought this outfit for me — ”
I waited for Farhan to introduce me to her companion, but she didn’t. He
gazed warily at me and k ept puffing at his cigarette. There was definitely
history between the two of them. I remembered what Big Mike had said
about Farhan’s lovers, and I have to say, it made me jealous. Not the idea of
Farhan having sex with this guy but the ease between them.
“Better get going. Got a lot of work to do.” The man did that thing
where he stubbed out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe, and then held
the butt cupped inside his hand. Farhan wasn’t so considerate — she threw
her cigarette down and ground it viciously with her high - top sneaker.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Farhan said cryptically, and the man laughed,
showing perfect white teeth. He handed the manila envelope over to her,
said something in a low voice, nodded to me, and walked inside the house.
He disappeared down the corridor, and then Farhan and I were alone.
“Hey.” I smiled my biggest smile. “Just wanted to check in. You seemed
out of sorts at lunch. And sorry to interrupt your conversation. Who ... who
is that guy?”
“I don’t need your sympathy,” Farhan hissed angrily at me. “I’ve spent
years dealing with this bunch. You seemed really at home at lunch, didn’t
you? All that backslapping and smiling with Papa. Has he bought you off
with a glamorous job?”
“Well, not exactly. Just some temporary thing. And I didn’t say yes. I’m
still considering it...”
“Considering it? Are you deaf? Haven’t you heard a thing I said? Once
you take his money, he’ll own you.”
Normally I would have backed down, but after my interactions with
Abbas, I was ready to defend him. “The thing is ... he’s been pretty nice.
He’s even having a suit made for me, a really expensive British suit. So
now I feel obligated, and — ”
“A suit? That’s your price? You’re pathetic. Really, Ali.”
“Look, I know you’re angry. I’m sorry, I messed up in there. Sometimes
your family is hard to negotiate. I get overwhelmed, and I don’t know what
to do, and — ”
“Figure things out for yourself. I’m not your fucking babysitter, okay?” I
touched Farhan’s shoulder, but she shrugged me off, her eyes bright with
rage. “Jesus, you men are all the same.”
She swung open a glass door with a crash and stalked down the corridor.
I was left alone, my face burning. Okay, sure, I’d looked away from
Farhan when she needed me, but it was a minor lapse. Didn’t she
understand how uncertain my position was in the family? Jesus, if Farhan
was so angry about this tiny thing, what would happen when we had a real
difference of opinion?
And from observing Farhan chatting so freely with the tall, elegant man,
I realized that I had no idea how she really spent her days. What if this guy
was someone she still hooked up with? Farhan had proudly admitted that
the Khans operated under a different sense of morality.
I decided to stay out on the terrace until I had composed myself — but I
didn’t make much progress. It began to drizzle, a few fat drops. I stood
there miserably and became conscious of a lanky figure below, strolling
through the formal gardens, hands in his pockets. It was Barey Mian,
Abbas’s sidekick. Had he seen Farhan and me arguing?
It seemed best to wave. Mian waved back, altered course, and walked up
the st eps to the terrace. He gave me a warm and reassuring handshake, and
spoke to me in thick Mumbai Hindi, which made me homesick.
“Ali Sahib. Getting some air?”
“Yes, that was a long meal. Rich food.”
Mian nodded. There was something reassuring about him, avuncular.
“Do you,” I blurted out, “by any chance have a cigarette? I have a
sudden craving.”
“Sorry.” He shrugged. “Had to give it up.” He tapped his chest. “Lung
cancer.”
We stood there companionably, not speaking, looking at the fog rolling
in from Huntington Bay.
“Beautiful house,” I said. “And the gardens. Wow.”
“Yes.” Barey Mian spoke companionably. “Abbas Sahib likes old
houses. But you should have seen the Khans’ ancestral home in Surat.
Carved doors, huge courtyard, pomegranate trees. Peacocks wandering
through the gardens. They lost it when the family business went bankrupt.”
Aha. So that explained Abbas’s obsessive need to restore this old
mansion, right down to the last door hinge and mullion. He was
compensating for a historical loss.
“It’s nice to chat with you,” I said. “I miss talking in Hindi. Sometimes I
get so homesick for Mumbai.”
“I understand, Ali Sahib.” Barey Mian’s voice was pleasantly husky.
“We are both foreigners here. I have lived in America for over forty years,
but each year this country gets stranger. I would retire in my old age to
India, but it too, has become unrecognizable. When the mother becomes
unrecognizable to the son...”
Was Mian the kind of man who spoke in parables? I hated that.
“... but my point is — and please forgive me for offering unsolicited
advice — that coming to this country is bewildering. The first few years here
can be so confusing. We are lost, and we do stupid things. Things we later
regret...”
I could hardly breathe. Was he talking about Farhan?
“... I have known these two sisters since they were babies. Each human
being is born with their own kismet — and these two girls have very
different fates. Farhan, she has always labored with sadness and loss. It is
not our job to judge others — that is Allah’s work — but I would advise you
not to spend too much time in her company. Farhan is not capable of real
love. You might think you are the exc eption, but in the end, she will
abandon you, too.”
He knew. Did Abbas know? With a sinking feeling, I thought of Abbas’s
kindness to me: the house tour, the suit he was having made for me, the
promise of so much more.
Apparently, Mian could read my face. He shook his head slowly, no.
“It is my job to know things, to intervene, before ... there are any
consequences. Right now, I have nothing to r eport, because as far as I am
concerned, nothing has happened.” He faced me and gripped my shoulders.
“I like you, Ali Sahib. Us Mumbai boys, we must watch out for each other,
na?”
My mind was full of panicky questions: How much did Mian know?
How had he found out?
“Now, I have things to do. Would you like me to arrange a cigarette for
you?”
I shook my head to decline. Mian salaamed, turned and walked into the
house, but I remained on the terrace.
It was raining harder now. The fog rolling in from Huntington Bay grew
thicker, obscuring the formal gardens. Soon, all I could see was the tops of
the shrubs, trimmed to conical points.
It rained all afternoon, and the helicopter was grounded because of low
visibility.
Maryam and I drove back to Manhattan in one of Abbas’s sedans,
s eparated from the chauffeur by a thick, soundproof pane of glass.
We were both exhausted from the socializing. Neither of us spoke, and
then Maryam broke the silence. “Sorry about Mama monopolizing the
conversation. She’s very passionate about Buddhism. Don’t pay it any
attention, okay? She got married when she was nineteen. She’s lived under
Papa’s shadow all these years, never had a chance to develop her own life.
Now she’s searching for meaning, and she can get quite intense — but she
means well.”
“Oh, sure, yes, that makes sense,” I said distractedly. “Your mother’s
great. So sweet and sincere.”
“Yeah. Mama and Farhan are both so alike: both grown women without
a focus. Never had real jobs or careers. Pretty tragic, don’t you think?”
For somebody as compliant as Maryam, this was a harsh observation
and revealed a tougher side of her. I should have paid more attention, but
just then I was in a rush to find out more about the dark - haired young man.
“Speaking of Farhan. I ran into this tall, good - looking guy on the terrace
— he wasn’t at lunch — chatting with Farhan, but I didn’t catch his name. He
works for Tiger Corp, I think.”
I described the man, and Maryam instantly recognized him.
“Kyle Nowak! Of course. We grew up together. Our old bookke eper’s
son. He works for Tiger Corp now. He’s a junior VP, maybe? I haven’t seen
Kyle in years.” Maryam smiled fondly. “Sweet guy. He used to come to all
the boring office parties when we were kids. He’s a bit younger than
Farhan. She would boss him around, but he wouldn’t mind.”
Childhood friends. I’d assumed right away — influenced by Big Mike’s
comments — that Kyle was one of Farhan’s paramours. I must have looked
ridiculous, barreling through those doors, behaving like a jealous lover. No
wonder Farhan had become angry — she was probably just sharing
childhood stories with her old friend. Oh man, I had blown it. Blown it bigtime. And
clearly, I had been doing a lousy job of ke eping our affair secret,
because Barey Mian knew. If I’d continued with the affair, Mian would
have definitely told Abbas — and then things would really have exploded.
I was shaky inside, but a part of me was relieved. Things between
Farhan and me had taken a turn for the worse, but it was a good opportunity
to break things off. From now on, I would walk the straight and narrow
path.
I took one of Maryam’s cool hands into mine.
“I’m going to acc ept the job. Work for your dad. Can you help me figure
it all out?”
“Of course.” To my surprise, she teared up. “Of course I’ll help you. I’m
your wife.”
Wife. Husband. The words suddenly had weight. So far, I hadn’t taken
our marriage seriously, and here Maryam was, offering me help
wholeheartedly.
I could finally relax. It had all been taken out of my hands. Now I’d
focus all my energies on Maryam instead of frittering them away on Farhan.
“What are you thinking about?” Maryam gripped my hand. She slid
across the seat to be closer to me, and her pink sari rustled. She really was
very pretty.
For once, I could answer honestly. “I’m thinking about us,” I said. “I’m
thinking about the future.” I took a de ep breath and paraphrased Barey
Mian. “I think I’ve had a kind of cultural jet lag. My body has been here,
but my heart was still in Mumbai. I’m fully present now. Here, with you.”
“I’m glad,” Maryam said simply.
We drove through Long Island in the drizzle, still holding hands. We
drove past grim strip malls, cookie - cutter housing developments, brightly lit
fast - food places, and it was all such a contrast to the verdant grounds of
Sher Khan House. People had taken the exact same natural lands cape and
destroyed it.
I did not recognize it at the time, but I was already beginning to resent
ugliness. I was already offended by poverty and mediocrity.
My transformation had begun: I was on my way to becoming a Khan.