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Authors: Thrity Umrigar
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demanded. “And why would he?”
In reply, Nishta rose from the couch. “Wait,” she said and went into a room behind a curtain. When she returned a minute later she was holding a picture frame. “Who is this?” she asked.
It was a picture of a thin-faced man with salt-and-pepper hair and a short beard. He was wearing the traditional Muslim garb of a white skull cap and kurta and pajamas. “An imam,” Laleh said. “So?”
Nishta laughed. “Look closely. It’s Iqbal.”
Iqbal? The Iqbal they knew wore bright floral shirts over tight jeans and usually had his sunglasses perched on top of a headful of long hair. Their Iqbal was a young man who cussed and joked easily, with a mouth that was forever curled into a teasing smile. The man in the picture looked so serious, as if he had not cracked a joke or said a cuss word in years.
But wait. There was the nose, straight and pointed. Iqbal’s nose. And the thin lips. And something about the flat-footed way in which the man stood, his hip jutting out slightly.
When they looked up, they couldn’t keep the wonder out of their eyes. “Wow,” Laleh said.
Nishta nodded. “Wow. This is my husband.”
There was an awkward silence. “So, does he always dress like this?” Kavita asked delicately.
Nishta’s eyes were amused when they looked at her. But beneath the amusement was something else. “He’s changed,” she said finally. “He’s not the boy you knew. He’s become very religious. Goes to mosque regularly.” Her mouth twisted. “And he dislikes Hindus. So of course, he couldn’t have a Hindu wife. So I had to convert. He badgered and badgered me until I gave in.”
“This is too much, yaar,” Kavita said. “Iqbal was an atheist. He cared less about religion than any of us.”
“You knew him many years ago, Ka,” Nishta said gently. “People change.”
And you? Kavita wanted to ask. Have you changed, Nishta?
As if she were anticipating her question, Nishta said, “As for me, I’m sure I’ve changed also.” She patted her round belly. “In fact, the mirror tells me that everyday.” She pulled a face. “How come the two of you still look so beautiful, yaar? What’s the secret?”
“I certainly don’t feel beautiful,” Laleh said. She frowned. “Seriously, though, Nishta. How could Iqbal buy into all this religious bull?”
Nishta’s face grew red and she blinked rapidly.
“I’m sorry,” Laleh said. “I wasn’t trying to be insulting. Honest.”
“Don’t. Don’t apologize. I’m not insulted. Just the opposite. You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve been with people who feel the same way I do. You don’t know—I’ve spent years now with people whose lives are governed by religion. My mother-in-law, even Iqbal’s young niece—they live in this building, you know. One floor up, only. Those are the only people I see all day. All God-fearing people. There was a time when Iqbal was my defender against them. When he used to laugh at his parents when they started on the virtues of Islam. Now the only member of his family I can really talk to is his sister, Mumtaz. But she’s married and lives in Jogeshwari. So I don’t see her as much as I’d like. Mostly we chat on the phone.”
Nishta got up again. “Something else I want to show you,” she said. She crossed the room and rummaged through a file folder that rested on top of a small corner table. She returned with a business card that she handed to Laleh. “Ahmed Electronics. See? It’s a little shop in Fountain. Iqbal works there with his uncle. They sell plugs, sockets, cables, that kind of thing.” She flipped the card over. “But even on an ordinary business card they had to have a picture of a mosque.” She sat back, an odd smile on her face. “That’s the kind of family I’ve married into.”
As the extent of Nishta’s isolation and loneliness hit Kavita, the room that she’d felt so comfortable in earlier suddenly felt oppressive. She
In reply, Nishta rose from the couch. “Wait,” she said and went into a room behind a curtain. When she returned a minute later she was holding a picture frame. “Who is this?” she asked.
It was a picture of a thin-faced man with salt-and-pepper hair and a short beard. He was wearing the traditional Muslim garb of a white skull cap and kurta and pajamas. “An imam,” Laleh said. “So?”
Nishta laughed. “Look closely. It’s Iqbal.”
Iqbal? The Iqbal they knew wore bright floral shirts over tight jeans and usually had his sunglasses perched on top of a headful of long hair. Their Iqbal was a young man who cussed and joked easily, with a mouth that was forever curled into a teasing smile. The man in the picture looked so serious, as if he had not cracked a joke or said a cuss word in years.
But wait. There was the nose, straight and pointed. Iqbal’s nose. And the thin lips. And something about the flat-footed way in which the man stood, his hip jutting out slightly.
When they looked up, they couldn’t keep the wonder out of their eyes. “Wow,” Laleh said.
Nishta nodded. “Wow. This is my husband.”
There was an awkward silence. “So, does he always dress like this?” Kavita asked delicately.
Nishta’s eyes were amused when they looked at her. But beneath the amusement was something else. “He’s changed,” she said finally. “He’s not the boy you knew. He’s become very religious. Goes to mosque regularly.” Her mouth twisted. “And he dislikes Hindus. So of course, he couldn’t have a Hindu wife. So I had to convert. He badgered and badgered me until I gave in.”
“This is too much, yaar,” Kavita said. “Iqbal was an atheist. He cared less about religion than any of us.”
“You knew him many years ago, Ka,” Nishta said gently. “People change.”
And you? Kavita wanted to ask. Have you changed, Nishta?
As if she were anticipating her question, Nishta said, “As for me, I’m sure I’ve changed also.” She patted her round belly. “In fact, the mirror tells me that everyday.” She pulled a face. “How come the two of you still look so beautiful, yaar? What’s the secret?”
“I certainly don’t feel beautiful,” Laleh said. She frowned. “Seriously, though, Nishta. How could Iqbal buy into all this religious bull?”
Nishta’s face grew red and she blinked rapidly.
“I’m sorry,” Laleh said. “I wasn’t trying to be insulting. Honest.”
“Don’t. Don’t apologize. I’m not insulted. Just the opposite. You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve been with people who feel the same way I do. You don’t know—I’ve spent years now with people whose lives are governed by religion. My mother-in-law, even Iqbal’s young niece—they live in this building, you know. One floor up, only. Those are the only people I see all day. All God-fearing people. There was a time when Iqbal was my defender against them. When he used to laugh at his parents when they started on the virtues of Islam. Now the only member of his family I can really talk to is his sister, Mumtaz. But she’s married and lives in Jogeshwari. So I don’t see her as much as I’d like. Mostly we chat on the phone.”
Nishta got up again. “Something else I want to show you,” she said. She crossed the room and rummaged through a file folder that rested on top of a small corner table. She returned with a business card that she handed to Laleh. “Ahmed Electronics. See? It’s a little shop in Fountain. Iqbal works there with his uncle. They sell plugs, sockets, cables, that kind of thing.” She flipped the card over. “But even on an ordinary business card they had to have a picture of a mosque.” She sat back, an odd smile on her face. “That’s the kind of family I’ve married into.”
As the extent of Nishta’s isolation and loneliness hit Kavita, the room that she’d felt so comfortable in earlier suddenly felt oppressive. She
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