Frustrated and wavering, I hesitated at the large, open archway of the mosque. I knew that it was permitted for non-believers to enter. People of any faith may enter any mosque and pray, or meditate, or simply admire and wonder. But I knew that the Muslims regarded themselves as a minority under siege in the predominantly Hindu city. Violent confrontations between religionists were common enough. Prabaker warned me, once, that clashes had occurred between militant Hindus and Muslims outside that very mosque.
I had no idea what to do. I was certain there were other exits, and if the boy decided to run off there would be little chance of finding him. A throbbing dread drummed in my heart at the thought that I might have to return to Khaderbhai and tell him I’d lost his nephew, not a hundred metres from where he’d entrusted the boy to me.
Just as I made up my mind to go inside and search the mosque, Tariq came into view, passing from right to left across the huge, ornately tiled vestibule. His hands, feet, and head were wet, and it seemed that he’d washed himself hurriedly. Leaning as far into the entrance as I dared, I saw the boy take up a position at the rear of a group of men, and begin his prayers.
I sat down on an empty push-cart, and smoked a cigarette. To my great relief, Tariq emerged after a few minutes, collected his sandals, and came over to join me. Standing very close to me, he looked up into my face and gave me a smile-frown; one of those splendidly contradictory expressions that only children seem to master, as if he were afraid and happy at the same time.
‘
I knelt on one knee in front of him, and seized his arms. He winced, but I didn’t relax the grip. My eyes were angry. I knew that my face looked hard and perhaps even cruel.
‘Don’t you ever do that again!’ I snapped at him, in Hindi. ‘Don’t you
He frowned at me, defiant and afraid. Then his young face hardened into the mask we use to fight back tears. I saw his eyes fill, and one tear escaped to roll down his flushed cheek. I stood, and took a step away from him. Glancing around me, I saw that a few men and women had stopped on the street to stare at us. Their expressions were grave, although not yet alarmed. I reached out to offer the boy an open palm. He put his hand in mine, reluctantly, and I struck out along the street toward the nearest taxi stand.
I turned once to look over my shoulder, and saw that the people were following us with their eyes. My heart was beating fast. A viscid mix of emotions boiled in me, but I knew that most of it was rage, and most of the anger was at myself. I stopped, and the boy stopped with me. I breathed deeply for a few moments, fighting for reasonable control. When I looked down at him, Tariq was staring at me intently with his head cocked to one side.
‘I’m sorry I got angry with you, Tariq,’ I said calmly, repeating the words in Hindi. ‘I won’t do it again. But
The boy grinned at me. It was the first real smile he gave me. I was startled to see that it was very similar to Prabaker’s lunar disk of a smile.
‘Oh, God help me,’ I said, sighing all the way from the core of my bones. ‘Not another one.’
‘Yes, okay very much!’ Tariq agreed, shaking my hand with gymnastic enthusiasm. ‘God help you, and me, all day, please!’
‘WHEN WILL SHE BE BACK?’
‘How should I know? Not long, maybe. She said to wait.’
‘I don’t know. It’s getting late. I gotta get this kid home to bed.’
‘Whatever. It’s all the same to me, Jack. She said to wait, that’s all.’
I glanced at Tariq. He didn’t look tired, but I knew he had to be getting sleepy. I decided that a rest was a good idea before the walk home. We kicked off our shoes and entered Karla’s house, closing the street door behind us. I found some chilled water in the large, old-fashioned refrigerator. Tariq accepted a glass, and sat down on a pile of cushions to flip through a copy of India Today magazine.
Lisa was in Karla’s bedroom, sitting on the bed with her knees drawn up. She was wearing a red silk pyjama jacket, and nothing else. A patch of her blonde pubic hair was visible, and I glimpsed reflexively over my shoulder to make sure that the boy couldn’t see into the room. She cradled a bottle of Jack Daniels in her folded arms. Her long curly hair was tied up into a lopsided bun. She was staring at me with an expression of calculated appraisal, one eye almost closed. It reminded me of the look that marksmen concentrate on their targets in a firing range.
‘So where’d ya get the kid?’
I sat on a straight-backed chair, straddling it, so that my forearms could rest on the back.
‘I sort of inherited him. I’m doing someone a favour.’
