Boss grinned. He approached Sameer from behind and placed him in a chokehold.
“Help!” Zeenat screamed, looking skyward, praying for some farishta, or angel, to come to their rescue. And for a moment, it looked as if her prayers were to be answered because several of their neighbors were standing on their balconies, straining to see what was happening below. Her eyes moved to the familiar, third-floor balcony. How many times had she stood in the street and yelled for Chiku to come down to play? And there he was, Chiku, standing next to his mother. Did they not understand what was happening? Or had they already called for the police? “Chiku!” Zeenat yelled as loudly as she could. “Help us.” A pair of hands reached for her just then, but not before she saw Mrs. Patel pulling her son back into the apartment.
But there was no time to think because . . . a hand was reaching for her from behind and pushing itself down the front of her shorts and . . . Zeenat felt as if she would pass out from shame and humiliation. Then, a sharp pain as the hand found its target. Her face drenched in sweat, she tried to jackknife around but was held in place as the man’s hand roamed inside her shorts.
She cried out in pain and terror, then looked over to see Sameer on the ground with his shorts and underwear pulled down to his ankles. A smaller crowd had gathered around the boy, jeering. “Christian, eh?” Boss said. “Then why the fuck are you circumcised, chutiya?”
There was a scuffle at the outer edge of the crowd; heads turned and suddenly, there was Zeenat’s father, panting, sweating, pale. His eyes were wild as he took in the sight of his children. The hand digging into Zeenat froze, then extracted itself. Asif rushed to his daughter and pulled her toward him. “What is happening?” he yelled. “Your grievance is with me, not with my children.” He spoke directly to Sameer. “Get up. Get up, son. Straighten yourself,” as if it had been Sameer’s idea to lie in the middle of the street with his pants down. And miraculously, the crowd took a step back and allowed the boy to rise. Still, Zeenat knew better than to think that the danger had passed. She worried that they would injure Papa. She glanced up in desperation at their apartment building again, but the neighbors who remained on their balconies stood immobile.
Papa turned toward Boss. “Aren’t you the mechanic at Contractor Auto Repair? Your employer, Pervez Contractor, is a good friend of mine.”
For the first time, Boss looked apprehensive. But he stood his ground. “So? My religion is more valuable to me than any job.”
Zeenat could see her father fighting to control his fear. “And your religion encourages you to mistreat children?” he said.
Boss was instantly furious and raised a threatening hand. “Saala, I will chop off your tongue if you insult my religion.”
“I have made it my life’s work to study Hinduism,” Asif said, raising his voice so that the crowd could hear. “I know more about your religion than you will in five lifetimes. Tell me, can you quote the immortal words of the Ramayana? Or the Mahabharata? I can.”
A murmur went through the crowd, and Zeenat could sense a shift in its mood. Her heart surged with love and admiration for her father.
Asif must have sensed the same small victory because he pulled both children toward him, a protective hand on each of them. “Now, come on, let’s stop all this madness and everybody go home,” he said dismissively.
It was a mistake. The mob would disperse on its terms, not on terms set by the Muslim professor, no matter how learned he was. In fact, his very erudition was a poke in their eyes, even if they had momentarily cowered under it. Boss smacked Asif across the mouth. “Nobody leaves until I say so,” he said. “You understand, motherfucker?”
Asif nodded.
“Your boy says he is a Christian,” Boss said.
Asif stayed silent.
“Maybe you butchers should convert. Then, instead of the Catholic missionaries trying to convert us Hindus, they can focus on you heathens.”
“I am a believer in all religions,” Asif said. “All roads lead to one God.”
“Chup re,” Boss said, striking Asif on the back. “You talk too much, professor.” He was quiet for a moment, and they all watched to see what he would do next. “Shivaji was a great warrior,” he said out of the blue. “Say it. Say it.”
“Shivaji was a great warrior,” Asif repeated dully. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he added, “But I never claimed otherwise. You misunderstand what . . .”
“Papa!” Sameer yelled. “Shut up. Just shut up.”
Boss tossed back his head and laughed. “Wah,” he said. “The son is smarter than the father.” He jabbed his index finger into Asif’s face. “Yes. You shut up.”
Asif fell quiet.
Boss paced for a minute, lost in thought. “Where’s your wife?” he said suddenly.
The breath caught in Asif’s chest.
“I asked—where is your wife?”
He swallowed. “She’s upstairs. With the old lady. I beg you . . .”
Boss chewed on his tongue, thinking. “We have kerosene here,” he said conversationally, almost pleasantly. “We could set all four of you on fire. But first—see these rods? First, we’d beat your children to a pulp. In front of you. Then, we would go fetch your wife. While you are still alive. And then . . .”
Asif howled and fell to his knees. The sound was so sudden that even Boss took a step backward. Zeenat stared at her father, transfixed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sameer’s face harden with contempt before he looked away.
“Bhai,” Asif said. “I beg you. Take whatever you want from us, but please leave my wife and children alone. We have lived in peace with all of you all these years. Ask any of our neighbors. They will all vouch for us.”
“Ask your neighbors?” Boss laughed. “Saala, who do you think told us where you rats were hiding? You lied to them, too, eh? But your daughter couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”
Asif looked stricken. “I beg you,” he said. “Spare my family.”
Boss addressed the crowd. “You see? These fuckers are tough as soldiers when they’re left unchallenged. But when we fight back, we see their true, cowardly selves.” He turned to one of his henchmen. “What should we do with this pile of refuse?”
The man shrugged. “Kill them?”
Boss appeared dissatisfied with this answer. He pulled on the hair on his chin and then turned his face upward, as if he had been struck by a bolt of inspiration. “Convert!” he proclaimed. “Convert to Hinduism, and you can live. Renounce your Allah publicly. In front of your children.”
Asif had never been a particularly religious man. But his face twisted at what Boss was asking of him. He looked up at the man towering over him. “Please,” he said, but just then a flash caught his eye and he saw a blade as it gleamed in the sun. It was being held to his son’s throat. He knew that one false move by the panicked boy would result in tragedy. “Whatever you wish!” he yelled. “Thy will be done,” he cried, and then collapsed in sobs as he saw the blade being removed from Sameer’s throat.
“Swear it,” Boss said. “Swear on your father’s head that you and your family will convert. That is the only way you walk out of here alive.”
“I swear. I swear in Allah’s name. I swear on my father’s head.”
A huge smile flashed on Boss’s face. “Well done,” he said. “You have chosen wisely.” He turned to the crowd. “Arre, one of you good-for-nothings help this poor gentleman to his feet, na,” he said humorously. And when Asif stood weakly, Boss enveloped him in a bear hug. “Hindu-Hindu bhai-bhai,” he said. “Now, come. Today is a day of celebration. Tomorrow, I will return with the priest.” He snapped his fingers. “Ae, Prakash. Go quickly and bring madam downstairs. Tell her, her Hindu bridegroom awaits her.”
“She won’t come,” Asif said miserably. “Let me go get her.”
“Okay,” Boss said magnanimously. “We’ll keep the children here. And one more thing. Don’t bother calling the police, accha? Nobody is going to come.”