The Delhi Deception (26 page)

Harry hurried inside while Kishan placed the overnight bag in the trunk. The fabric and sweets were left on the seat. Elouise kissed Harry on his cheeks and said, “I may go away with Carla to a spa in Bangalore tomorrow. Anu has kindly offered to take the kids for two days.”

“Can’t you wait for my return?” Harry frowned.

“No, not really, Carla is leaving next week, and we might not find the time again as I’ll be hectic with the fundraiser.”

“OK, but stay in touch with me.” He kissed her again and hurried to the jeep.

The traffic was heavy, but luckily they reached the airport within an hour. Presenting his passport at the check-in, he sighed with relief—he had almost missed the deadline.

“Mr. Singh? We will be landing in Lahore shortly. Is this your jacket?”

Harry looked at the Emirates hostess, and it took him a few seconds to realize that he was on a plane. He had fallen into a deep sleep on the second leg of his journey. The sky was pink as the rising sun was threatening to break through the silver clouds.

Harry mused angrily over the unnecessary time spent in getting to Lahore when it was only a couple of hundred kilometers from Delhi. It was a two-and-a-half-hour flight to Dubai with a wait of four hours, and then another three-hour flight. He sighed and accepted some coffee, smiling at the attractive hostess.

As the aircraft started breaking through the thin layer of clouds, Lahore became visible. The second-largest city in Pakistan was sprawled along the Ravi River, which looked quite dry. Harry knew that in the monsoon, however, it would spill over its banks.

Harry fastened his seatbelt when he heard the landing gear descending, and a few minutes later they landed smoothly. The immigration officer chatted amiably to him about the cricket, surprising Harry with his open admiration of Sachin Tendulkar. “Best, best batsman ever,” he said, winking at Harry. He stamped his passport and waved him through.

A driver and car were waiting for him. The driver, wearing a faded brown Pathani outfit, welcomed him in Punjabi. Harry understood it quite well from his paternal grandmother speaking it to him as a child. His father’s family was from Lahore and had escaped in 1947 during the partition riots. The driver took Harry’s overnight bag, but left Harry to carry his briefcase and the plastic packet containing the sweets and fabric. He drove him through the congested roads to his hotel. The Pearl Continental was a large modern hotel, with international guests filling the lobby dressed in business suits. The driver told him that he would be back to pick him up at lunchtime.

After a quick shower, Harry changed his shirt and ordered tea. He checked his e-mails while watching CNN, grimacing at the images of the wounded in an apparent suicide bombing in Iraq. He phoned Elouise and told her that he had arrived safely and would be in a conference for the rest of the day. His phone would be switched off, but he’d call her that evening again. She wanted to know when he was coming back, to which he replied, “Not a hundred percent sure, but most probably the day after.” Her voice sounded strained to Harry as she said good-bye.

Harry dozed off in front of the television as images of his childhood in Delhi flooded his mind. He woke up in a sweat, startled by the ringing of the hotel phone on the bedside table. “Your driver is here to collect you, Mr. Singh,” the hotel receptionist informed him. He thanked her and said he’d be right down.

The driver took him to a restaurant in the Old City called Cuckoo’s Café. This famous restaurant was opposite the Badshahi Mosque in the red light district and housed in an old five-story haveli. Harry recognized the well-known owner of the establishment sitting at a table with a bearded man wearing a turban—much like the ones worn by the Taliban, Harry thought. They were in a heated debate with the owner, pointing to his paintings that decorated most of the wall space. Harry gazed up at them and realized why the debate was so vehement; the paintings were obvious portraits of prostitutes. Harry had heard of the artist, who was well-known in the international art circle for his rather unorthodox subjects. His mother was a sex worker. The more conservative elements in Lahore disapproved of this business, but it was still frequented by both tourists and well-to-do Pakistanis.

A waiter seated him on the top floor. The restaurant was already full. He ordered a Coke and placed his mobile phone next to him on the table. After five minutes, a gray-haired, balding man, wearing black trousers and a half-sleeve white shirt with a striped red and navy tie, sat down heavily on the chair opposite him.

He smiled as he greeted Harry formally by shaking his hand.

“Dr. Malik, you’re looking well,” Harry said, noticing how the slightly built man was sweating profusely. He used a napkin folded neatly on the table to wipe his face.

“Thank you. It is very hot. What a relief it would be if the monsoons could come early this year.” The doctor ordered a mango lassi and continued, “She is better, and I’ve told her of your visit. This cheered her up immensely.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Will we see her today?”

“Of course, but let’s have some lunch. Forgive me for bringing you to this heinous place, but the food is good, so we have to turn a blind eye to these wicked paintings.” He gestured at them with an annoyed expression, keeping his eyes downcast.

Harry had no appetite but ordered a chicken kebab with naan. They made small talk, and when the food arrived they ate in silence. The plates were cleared, and then the doctor asked Harry, “Did you bring the cloth?”

“Oh, yes, of course. It’s right here.” Harry picked up the plastic bag and gave it to the doctor. “Did your wife like the piece I got her last time?”

“Yes, yes. Thank you, it was exactly what she wanted. The merchant has been supplying her family for many years, and he knows her taste well.” The doctor looked around impatiently. “So I think we should go. We will tell the driver to wait here for you. I’m afraid we’ll have to go on foot now.”

Harry paid the bill, and as they left he saw the owner giving a large brown envelope to the man he had been arguing with.
Even morals have a price
, Harry thought as they left the restaurant.

The heat was intense as Harry hurried after the doctor. The streets were swarming with people and bicycle rickshaws. Heavily made-up women were hanging over balconies, some singing in sweet, childlike voices. Towering men with fearsome expressions glared at Harry while he kept his eyes trained on the doctor’s back as he led the way. Perspiration was soaking his shirt.

After about a mile, they left the red light district and were in a more residential part of the Old City. It was filthy, with leaking sewage mingling with the daily waste of the overpopulated residential quarter. Some beggars lined the side of the street listlessly, but jumped up when they saw Harry and the doctor, lamenting and wailing. Harry ignored them, and when an old woman dressed in rags grabbed him by his trousers, the doctor lashed out with his right hand and whacked her on the head, sending her staggering and falling in the oozy muck face-first.

Harry was shocked by this reaction and said, “It’s OK, you don’t have to hit her. She’s just an old woman.”

The doctor looked at him with narrowed eyes; then he smiled amiably and said, “She is a well-known pickpocket in the area and not as old as she pretends.”

He continued walking and stopped in front of a faded blue door, knocking. The door was opened by a scrawny youth, who salaamed respectfully and showed them inside. A large desk was in the corner of the room with some bare wooden benches lining the remaining walls. A middle-aged woman dressed in a washed-out pink salwar kameez sat in front of a desktop computer at the table. Files bound in gray cardboard folders littered her desk. A mother with a toddler on her lap was sucking on the end of his mother’s dupatta, a small frown creasing his silky baby complexion.

Harry smiled whimsically as he remembered his mother scolding him for wetting the edge of her pallu. His ayah had been more patient, laughing at her tattered pallu while hugging him to her small frame, smelling of woodsmoke and incense.

“Come with me. She has been sedated but wants to see you,” the doctor said, walking toward a metal gate with a long, narrow passage behind it. The scrawny youth unlocked the gate with a large, rusty key hanging on a chain around his neck. The weight of it had chafed off some of the skin on his neck, leaving it inflamed with raw infected tissue emanating the sweetish-foul odor of sepsis.

Harry held his hand in front of his nose and avoided touching the boy as he squeezed past him. The boy looked ashamed, as if he was aware of Harry’s discomfort. The pain in his eyes made Harry feel like a villain, and he admonished himself quietly for it.

Horrific screaming came from some of the rooms behind the closed doors. Some sections were eerily quiet, but the stench of carbolic soap and soursmelling mildewed floors and walls played havoc with Harry’s digestion. He swallowed his saliva, which tasted bitter, and looked around frantically for a bathroom.

The doctor knocked on a door at the end of the passage and was ushered in by a small woman dressed in full burqa. An iron bed stood against the wall under a tiny, broken window with shards of glass lying menacingly in its old wooden frame. On the faded floral single sheet, a woman lay staring into space while muttering incoherently to herself in Punjabi. Her long, dark hair was streaked with gray and hung around her face, matted and dull. On the opposite wall an ancient-looking wooden air-conditioner droned on, not really cooling the oppressive heat in the room. The only other furniture in the room was a plastic chair, which the burqaclad woman had vacated. A glass of unfinished tea sat on the dirty floor next to a torn copy of a Bollywood film magazine.

Harry approached the woman on the bed tentatively, placing the plastic bag containing the sweets next to her. She continued staring at the ceiling, and it was only after Harry nudged her lightly on the arm that she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes didn’t seem to register his presence, but then she smiled. Tears were streaming down her face as she held his face in both hands.

“My son, my son,” she said in Punjabi, her voice hoarse with emotion.

.

CHAPTER 19

H
arry took his mother’s hand and noticed how much thinner she had become. Since the discovery of his parents’ deceit, he had been sending money regularly to this asylum. With an annoyed frown, he wondered whether the funds were being used properly. He sat down on the bed and watched her as she cried, mumbling softly. Feeling desperately sorry for her, he wished he could take her out of there, but they wouldn’t allow it, not yet.

The revelation of this discovery almost three years ago still managed to traumatize him, and staying calm was an enormous effort. He thought about his life until this moment, about what he thought to be the truth and how that truth had erupted into a thousand lies. After the tragic death of his parents, Harry had decided to return to Delhi. It wasn’t difficult convincing Elouise, as the luxury of having cooks and servants appealed to her greatly; it was one they couldn’t afford in America. The girls were less excited, but appeased when they managed to get admission to the American school.

The Indian government had snapped him up and gave him a post as researcher at their nuclear program in Mumbai, agreeing that he could take up residency in Delhi.

In May of that same year, he had been invited to deliver a lecture at a conference in Lahore. He was impressed with the high standard and efficiency of the conference. On the second-to-last day, he had the morning free and decided to explore the Old City. The hotel had organized a driver and guide for him. Yusuf Ali Khan, the guide, was elderly and dressed like a Muslim cleric. He took him to the Badshahi Mosque, where they had sweet, milky tea at a canteen opposite the mosque. That was when the old man started asking personal questions. Harry had become angry, telling him that it was none of his business. The man had replied, “But you see, it is. I am interested in your family, because I am your family.”

“What are you saying?” Harry said, looking at the old man, trying to judge the situation, wondering if this was a scam of sorts.