“So? Chiku’s not going to tell anyone.”
She could see that Sameer was tempted. “You know we can trust him,” she said. And before Sameer could react, she picked up Beatrice’s phone and dialed Chiku’s number.
“Hello, Pushpa Auntie,” she said when Mrs. Patel answered. “It’s Zeenat. Is Chiku there?”
“Hello, beta,” Mrs. Patel said. “What news of all of you? How is your mother? Let me speak to her.”
“She and Papa are out.” Zeenat coiled the phone cord around her finger. “Can Chiku come over to play?”
“Play? But, darling, aren’t you out of town?”
“We’re just across the street, Auntie,” Zeenat laughed. “At Miss Beatrice’s house. Chiku can be here in two minutes. Papa didn’t want all the neighbors to know.”
There was a long silence. When Pushpa Patel spoke, her voice had ice chips in it. “I see. Well, Chiku cannot come. He is busy. With his friends.”
“Is he coming?” Sameer asked, after Zeenat hung up. He noticed the stunned look on his sister’s face. “What is it?”
Zeenat cocked her head. “I don’t know. Pushpa Auntie sounded angry. But I don’t know why.”
“I told you. You shouldn’t have called.”
“I’m sorry. Don’t tell Papa, okay?”
“Listen, don’t worry about Pushpa Auntie. She was probably fighting with her servant again.” Sameer smiled at his sister. “Come on. Forget about Chiku. Want to play Scrabble?”
They were in the midst of a game, Sameer beating her as usual, when the doorbell rang. “Yay! They’re home!” Zeenat exclaimed.
“So soon?” Sameer said. He went to the door and opened it.
But instead of Asif and Zenobia, there were five men, each one carrying a long iron rod. Sameer froze for a moment, then tried slamming the door, but they pushed him aside and entered the living room. The men looked around, eyes narrowing as they saw Zeenat. One of them approached her, even as she tried to pull her T-shirt as far down over her shorts as she could in a vain gesture of modesty. He laughed at the futility of her effort.
“Muslim bitch,” the man said. He ran his index finger against Zeenat’s barely developed breasts.
“Hey!” Sameer yelled. His eyes bulged with rage. “Don’t you dare. I forbid you to . . .”
One of the other men pushed him so hard that Sameer stumbled a few steps before righting himself. “You forbid us? Muslim scum.”
Sameer met Zeenat’s eyes. “There’s a mistake,” he said. You have the wrong house. We’re not Muslim. We’re . . . Catholic. Our auntie lives here.”
The first man laughed. “Is that so? And who is your auntie, chutiya?”
“It’s our Beatrice Auntie. We’re just visiting . . .”
The man slapped Sameer across the face so hard that he fell back into the couch, whimpering. Zeenat screamed. Before Sameer could catch his breath, another man yanked him off the couch. “Go,” he said. “Go get the old lady.” He pushed Sameer, who, after casting a helpless glance at Zeenat, went into Beatrice’s bedroom.
“Ae, chokri. Tell me. Are you a Christian, too?”
Zeenat opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. The man slammed his hand on the Scrabble board, upsetting the tiles. “I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” she said. “We all are.”
“Your mummy and daddy, too?”
“Yes.”
“And where are they?”
“They are out.”
“Out, eh? Gone to eat beef somewhere, eh?” The man spat on the floor. “Muslim vermin.”
“My parents are not vermin,” Zeenat said angrily. “They are . . .”
The man grabbed her by the nape and pulled her to her feet. His face was inches away from hers, his breath hot and fetid. “Pimps and whores. All of you. Polluting our country with your presence.”
“Right you are, Boss,” one of the other men said.
There was a commotion in the next room, and they all stood still. Zeenat’s heart leapt with hope when she saw Beatrice Auntie enter the room. “What is the meaning of this?” Beatrice thundered. But as Zeenat took in the sight of the elderly woman in her floral dress and Bata flip-flops, her heart sank. Beatrice Auntie was old and frail. She would be no help at all.
“Who are you?” Beatrice said. “How dare you? I will phone the police if you don’t . . .”
The men looked at one another and burst into laughter. When they could finally speak, the man called Boss said, “Go back into your room, Auntie. Our quarrel is not with you. It’s with these butchers here.”
“These are children!” Beatrice cried. “What religion says to injure children?”
Boss turned toward Sameer. “Chal, chutiya,” he said. “Come with us.”
Both Zeenat and Beatrice spoke at the same time:
“Where do you think you are going with him?”
“Don’t you dare touch my brother.”
Boss motioned to one of the men. “You stay with this old fool.” He pushed Sameer in front of him. “I told you to move, motherfucker. Now, move.”
They led Sameer out of the apartment. With one final look at Beatrice, Zeenat ran out of the apartment after them, dodging the man watching over Beatrice as he tried to stop her.
On the street, a mob had gathered. The children would have recognized many of the men who hung around the neighborhood, but they were too petrified to focus. The mob was chanting, braying for blood. Boss threw Sameer into the center of the crowd.
“Kill the pigs, kill the pigs!” someone chanted. Zeenat could feel the men around her stiffen, and she rushed into the center, where Sameer stood. Her brother’s eyes widened with fear when he saw her. “Get out of here, you idiot!” he yelled. “Run.”
But there was nowhere to run. Boss was standing next to them. He held up his hand and the crowd hushed. “This sisterfucker says he’s a Christian,” he said with a laugh, and the crowd roared with laughter. Then, Boss grew serious—and the crowd grew serious, too. “You see how they mock us?” he said. “Even their children are raised to mock and lie to us. You know why? Because they think we Hindus are ignorant fools.” The crowd stirred. Zeenat could see the hardness enter the men’s eyes, their faces tight with grievance. She looked down the street, hoping that one of their neighbors would see them and phone the police.
“Look at these two spawns of the devil!” Boss yelled. “Look at their Western clothes and expensive tennis shoes, while our children go hungry. This is how they’ve humiliated us, from the time of the Mughals, who ruled and demeaned us. But do you know who fought against the Mughals?” Boss scanned the crowd. “Do you?” The men were silent. “It was Shivaji.” The men cheered at the familiar name, but Boss raised his hand and they fell silent. “Shivaji, our Hindu king. And the father of these two bastards writes fake books and newspaper articles where he desecrates our leader.”
The crowd was restless. Sameer took two steps toward his sister, positioning his body to protect her.
“Today, we are going to teach that professor a lesson he will never forget,” Boss continued. “Let him write his future books in his children’s blood.”
Zeenat froze. And Sameer, sensing her terror, yelled. “Just let my sister go! You can do what you want . . .”
“Chup.” Boss slapped the boy across the face.
Holding his cheek, whimpering a little, Sameer said, “Please. I told you. We are Christians.”
“Arre, chutiya, if you are Christian, prove it. Drop your pants.”
The emboldened men laughed; someone clapped his hands, and the chant began: “Dropyourpants, dropyourpants, pulldownhispants, pulldownhispants.”
Zeenat stared at them, confused. She had no idea what they meant. Sameer was obviously pretending that they were not Muslim, but why did they want him to undress?