Ayub, trying his best to act normal, asked through the steaming dishes, the heat rising up and sitting in a haze over the table, his eyes watering from the spices, about Peace For All: How was it doing?
“Fine,” Mansoor said, chewing down the rajma. “There was more focus and zest when you and Tara were running it.” Actually, ever since Tara and Ayub had left, the group had devolved into the languorous gossip session it had always been destined to be, with toothy, smiling members with adolescent mustaches from Jamia and JNU meeting in Baristas and Café Coffee Days scattered all over the city, backslapping and regaling one another with stories and theories about the “real India.” But anyway, Mansoor had other things on his mind. Since Ayub had vanished Mansoor had been in touch with Tara over e-mail under the guise of asking for advice about programs in the U.S. “If my visa comes through, that is,” he’d written. “One of my friends who gained admission to Wharton was denied a visa because his birthday is the same as a terrorist’s. And he’s a Hindu!” She had responded to this as he’d hoped: bitterly, in lowercase. He was quite in love with her.
Mansoor asked Ayub if he had heard from Tara, holding his breath.
“No. But what happened between us was amicable. Did I tell you I’m engaged?”
“Wow, yaar,” Mansoor said. “And who’s the girl? Who knew you were such a chhupa rustam?” He was somewhat disoriented at these rapid changes in his friend’s life.
“Her name is Zahara,” Ayub said. “She’s from my native place. Her parents know my parents. They’re also syeds.” He took a heaping of rice from the casserole. “I used to be opposed to such matches, but when the background is the same that makes all the difference.”
“Where did she do her studies?” Mansoor asked, bringing his palms together in a nervous crisscross of fingers on the table.
“She has an MA in social service from BHU,” Ayub said, taking quick bites between words. “And she did a BSc in biology through correspondence. But the parents are very liberal people. I like them.”
“Hmm. Sounds like moving back was quite good for you, then,” Mansoor said, his heart freeing up: he could contact Tara without shame now! But he also felt bad for his friend. “One day I’d like to visit—I’ve hardly seen the rest of India. Maybe for your wedding.”
“Of course,” Ayub smiled tiredly, which Mansoor interpreted as a sign.
“I’ll show you the den where you’ll be sleeping.” Mansoor said.
The “den,” air-conditioning, marble floors, servants—these were all pleasures Ayub had forgotten after those months of hardship in the hot infertile fields of Azamgarh and the forests of Hubli. He marveled at the room as he set down his bags and Mansoor switched on the light and fan and left him to unpack. So this might be the last room I sleep in, that I’ll see, he thought. What a pity. What a pity to have to do the heavy work of revolution while such rooms exist—to be out changing the country while people luxuriate, unaware, in these marble oases. He had a weird sensation that he was in a tomb.
He had told Mansoor that he’d come—astonishingly—to shop for the wedding and to find a job, and he began to go out during the day for “interviews” and “discussions.” He had not been happy working for Eveready, he told Mansoor; he felt the job of area salesman was beneath him—what he wanted was a job that made money and also did good for the world.
“I understand,” Mansoor said. “That’s hard to find.”
They were sitting on the hot veranda of the house.
“You know my friends who run the Islamic VC fund?” Ayub said. “I may talk to them.”
“You have experience in that area?” Mansoor asked.
“Don’t mind my saying this—but that’s the problem. People value experience over brains and ideas.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Mansoor said.
“I know you didn’t,” Ayub said. “I’m just revealing an attitude. How about you? When are you returning to college?”