He had been to America before, had guest-lectured at a few universities in the Midwest. Like academics everywhere, his American colleagues had complained about the lack of respect for the humanities, the heavy teaching loads. Asif had nodded sympathetically, but he’d thought: You don’t know how good you have it. Because he had lectured to attentive, polite students, strolled around beautiful redbrick campuses, visited the airy, book-filled homes of his American counterparts. Most of all, he had thrilled to the notion of academic freedom, that a professor could be in charge of his or her classroom, with no interference from the university administration, much less from ignorant government bureaucrats.
Now, faced with a hostile wife, a sullen son, and a traumatized daughter who refused to leave the house except to go to school, Asif wrote letters to every American contact that he had, explaining his situation. A few wrote back immediately, sympathetic to his plight, informing him of openings at other universities, promising to follow up on any leads on his behalf. This fraternity of academics became Asif’s lifeline during that dark time, helping him remember who he was and the importance of his work. In a few years, a new millennium would dawn; despite his own personal misery, Asif was hopeful that the new century would usher in an age in which the world would finally transcend the tired tropes of caste and creed and national boundaries. Look at what had happened in Europe, with the formation of the European Union and the melting away of national borders. Surely, that was the way of the future. The more oppressive the realities of his home life became, the more Asif longed for the life of the mind. His true compatriots were not ignorant ruffians like Sushil, crippled by not knowing what they didn’t know. They were people like Sam Pearl, professor of religion at the small liberal arts university in Ohio that Asif had visited a few years before and with whom he had since coauthored a paper. After hearing of Asif’s plight, Sam went to speak with his dean—and a year into Asif’s search, he was offered a visiting professorship. Asif’s contract would start in fall 1998.
Asif saw the offer as a lifeline that could pull his family out of India. He accepted immediately, then approached his real estate broker. Find me a new buyer, he said. I will lower the price. Next, he invited Sushil to dinner. Nowhere too fancy, like the Taj or Oberoi, which would have made the young man envious and resentful. He took him to Khyber, a good restaurant and better than anything Sushil could afford on his mechanic’s salary. Asif ordered a beer for each of them and then a lavish meal. As soon as the waiter left with their order, he took out a large envelope and pushed it across the table. “What is this?” Sushil asked.
“It’s twenty-five thousand rupees.” He heard Sushil’s intake of breath. “And it’s only a partial payment.”
“For what?
“For your help. In convincing one of my neighbors.”
Sushil waited.
“I am going to confide in you.” Asif forced himself to look directly into Sushil’s face. “Because I believe you are a man of honor.”
Sushil’s eye twitched. Still, he waited.
“I am leaving India. I am taking my family and going.” He raised his hand to stop Sushil from interrupting. “Wait. My wife has a brother in America,” he lied. “We are moving there.”
“But—”
“But I need your help. Dilip Pandit, you know him? Yes, well, he’s the head of our building association. He’s blocking me from selling my apartment at a fair price.” Asif leaned forward. “I want you to go see him. Persuade him. I know how persuasive you can be.” He smiled a no-hard-feelings smile. “And after the sale, there will be another twenty-five thousand waiting for you. As a thank-you gift.”
Sushil stared at him for so long that Asif suddenly worried that he had made a huge mistake. He could imagine Zenobia’s wrath when she found out. “Two hundred thousand,” Sushil said at last. “That’s what it will cost you.”
“Arre, Sushil, be reasonable . . .”
“Reasonable? Okay, two hundred and fifty thousand.”
Asif knew he had lost. Swallowing his distaste for the man sitting across from him, he forced a grin upon his face. “Baba, you are a tough negotiator.” He offered his hand. “Okay, you win.”
But Sushil didn’t take the offered hand. “There’s one more thing.”
Asif closed his eyes briefly before opening them. “Tell me.”
“You must promise that you will not convert back after you leave India. That you will live your life as a Hindu.”
With his intellectual curiosity piqued, Asif examined the man sitting before him. “Why does this matter so much to you?” he asked.
Sushil looked offended. “Because it’s my dharma. My faith.”
“I see,” Asif said, nodding. Even though he didn’t quite see. Still, he had no choice other than to say, “Accha. We have a deal.”
“I don’t want a deal. I want your word.”
What a strange and complicated creature Man was. Here was a man who had just extorted a larger bribe from him. And yet, here he sat, completely sincere in his efforts to gain four converts to his religion.
Distrust was gathering on Sushil’s face. “So? Do you promise or not?”
“I promise.”
But Sushil shook his head. “Swear on your children’s heads. Swear.”
Under the table, Asif’s hand curled into a fist. But he kept his face blank. “I swear.”
Later, after they’d sold the apartment and most of their possessions, after they’d left Mumbai at night and arrived in America during the day, after he’d settled his family in America and started his job, Asif had thought about converting back to Islam. And found that he couldn’t. First of all, his passport bore his new name, as did his visa and immigration papers. Secondly, between new modes of teaching, enrolling his children in new schools, getting used to doing housework that had previously been done by servants, he had his hands full. And truth to tell, given his area of scholarship, it was better to publish under a Hindu name.
But the most important reason for not changing his name a second time was the promise he had made in that restaurant that day. The best way to honor the religion of his forefathers was to keep his word, even to a man who had extracted it under duress.
“Wah.”Mohan exhaled. “Your father is a remarkable man. Imagine honoring a promise made to a thug.”
Smita remembered how angry she and her brother had been at their father for uprooting the family and moving them to America. And how, as they adjusted to their new life, that anger had softened into gratitude. “He is,” she said simply. “The most remarkable man I know. Present company excluded.”
Mohan did a double take. “Wow, yaar,” he said. “That is high praise.”
“I mean it.” She felt sad as she said those words. Mohan and Papa would never meet.
“Will you come to America someday?” she said. “To see me?”
“Definitely,” he said at once. “Inshallah.”
“God willing,” she translated. “My papa says ‘inshallah’ all the time.”
They fell silent. After they’d driven a few more kilometers, Mohan reached for a Kishore Kumar CD and played it. He sang along under his breath.
“Zindagi ek safar hai suhana / Yahan kal kya ho kisne jaana?”
“It’s a pretty song,” Smita said.
“You don’t know it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It was a very popular Hindi film song. The lyrics say, ‘Life is a beautiful journey / Who knows what will happen tomorrow?’ ”
They played the song on repeat as they drove toward the courthouse, knowing that they were coming to the end of their journey together.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Gothic exterior of the courthouse had lulled Smita into anticipating an equally gorgeous interior. But the crowds that packed the long hallway that led to the individual rooms made it impossible to linger as they inched their way to courtroom 6B. “This is more like a train station at rush hour,” she said. “I don’t know how we’ll ever find Anjali.”