My parents already had tourist visas for Dubai, so that seemed the most promising choice. Unfortunately, well-heeled Muslims trying to escape India mobbed every consulate in Bombay (even the one for Pakistan, essentially manned only by the watchman ever since the ambassador fled). My father pulled every string he could to get my passport stamped, but the Dubai embassy informed him there would be a six-month wait.
With time of the essence, and Dubai only a temporary destination, we realized the only practical solution was for my parents to go ahead without me. From there, they could more effectively lobby other Arab states for a permanent haven, and get me a visa directly to that country. The UAE itself seemed promising, since my parents had lectured in several of the emirates after the democracy rumblings generated by the Tunisian revolution. The Saudis might also be interested, having recently offered them both university positions. (Akbar’s underlying tenet of a divine right to power had appeared particularly attractive ever since the Arab Spring.)
All of this looked quite bleak for the Jazter. Beggars can’t be choosers, but surely some alternative to the rampant repression against his ilk practiced in these places had to exist? Even if shikar was popular among Arabs as reports claimed, Riyadh or Sharjah weren’t exactly high on my list. I tried to find consolation in the reports that, compared to Iran, the Saudis had probably beheaded fewer gays.
Since I would be staying behind, I needed a safer place. Fortunately, we managed to exchange apartments just two days before my parents left. The new residence was located in the Muslim quarter behind Crawford Market—a shabby flat, old and crumbling, with a shared pair of toilets at the end of the outside corridor. But the place was secure—or at least relatively so, compared to our previous address.
The day before I accompanied them to Ballard Pier to catch their ship, I found my father sitting on the floor of one of the musty rooms, his books and prayer scroll collection spread out around him. I recognized the well-worn Koran by Nafi that he still pored over for hours. “See this?” he asked, holding up a copy of An Emperor’s Bequest to Islam. “It’s from the first edition—they only published five hundred of them—that’s all they expected to sell. Your mother and I worked on it for eight years—this is the original copy the publisher sent us in the mail from New York.” He opened it to the dedication page, to the inscription I’d read many times before—“May the light always shine on our son, Ijaz.” “The only thing more thrilling to hold in my hands for the first time was your tiny body, just after you were born.”
He closed the book and laid it down on the floor. “We always hoped you’d accept our gift to you, Ijaz. When you spurned it, when you showed such disdain for religion, we understood, of course. What child hasn’t experienced the need to rebel? But we felt so sad. Not because we’d lost a follower, but because you’d never see the beauty we had. All the wisdom contained in these texts, the answers to so many problems ripping us apart now.” He caressed the cover of an old textbook on comparative religions, then ran his fingers over the ornate Urdu letters on one of the scrolls. The dusty light shone around his head like rays from God.
When he looked up, though, his face was haggard. “They’ve won, Ijaz. I don’t know what we’ll do. They’ve finally taken over Islam—hijacked it completely with their threats and bombs. All our work, all our effort, all our credibility—all lost. We have to go on trying, of course, but with everything that’s happened, who’ll believe us now?” I shifted uncomfortably, unable to think of words of comfort.
“You know what makes me the most ashamed? Having to leave you in this state. Not knowing if we’ll ever see you again. I never thought I’d be the type to abandon my own son.”
“I’ll be fine. No need to worry, it’s probably only a matter of a month.”
He shook his head. “That’s been the problem, all along. We’ve never worried about you enough. Right from Switzerland, we’ve always left you to find your own path. You might have thought us disinterested, but our fault has been to trust you too much. Not interfering in your life, not asking what you liked, what you loved—we simply took it too far.” He held out his hand, and I put my palm in his. Had we enjoyed a different relationship, we might have hugged.
“Take the physicist, for instance. We could have done so much more to encourage you on. Such a sincere boy, so smart, such a relief to see you bring him home again after all these years. I told your mother we had to give you your privacy. We thought we’d stroll around while the two of you were in the apartment, but the blackout made it impossible. We ended up drinking six cups of tea at that tiny café near Lotus.”
“I had no idea—”
“I hope you’ll see more of him once we leave. Tell the neighbors he’s your cousin—it’ll be much safer with two people living here rather than just one. Plus, your mother and I will feel much better knowing you’re with someone so close.”
“But how did you know?”
My father seemed genuinely confused. “How did I know what?”
CHAOS REIGNED at the docks, the multitudes clamoring to get on the old freighter of such biblical proportions that they might have just learnt of the Great Flood. My father’s contacts had managed to procure two of the last tickets out for him, and moreover, avoid the trap of air travel which had essentially ground to a halt. Right up to the moment my parents entered the processing booth, people were offering them lakhs of rupees to buy their slots. I waited around afterwards, but couldn’t spot them in the crowd surging up the gangplank.
Watching the ship launch into the churning grey sea, I realized my odds of ever seeing my parents again were small. The Jazter would probably never succeed in migrating, never have to test Arabia’s tolerance for shikar. Back at the apartment, I could still hear my father’s words ring in my ears—get Karun to move in, live with someone I loved (I’d decided that’s what he meant after all). We could always find somewhere in the countryside to take cover, should the city situation deteriorate too much.
I called Karun—the first time since he’d left the flat in a huff eleven days ago. My news, that I would be staying behind longer in Bombay, dismayed him. “Why should you be so upset when you don’t care?” I asked, and he hung up. After that, he clicked off on all my calls.
So I decided to confront him at his institute. Nobody challenged me at the entrance—in fact, the watchman pointed the way to the correct office when I said I had an appointment. Karun stared in disbelief as I shut the door behind me. “How dare you come here?”
“I want you back, Karun. I want us to give it another shot. My parents have left for good, so we’d have the place to ourselves.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I’m not saying to move in right away. Just spend the night with me. In the morning, you can decide what you want.”
“You are mad.”
“Could you just listen? I saw it in your eyes the last time, Karun, and I can see it again standing here right now, so it would be nice if you dropped the pretense.”
I tried to kiss him, but he ran behind his desk and picked up the phone—either to call for help, or to use as a club in fending me off. “Get out of here at once.”
I began following him, both on his way to work and back. Usually, I stood at the bus stop facing his building or the phone stall right opposite the institute, but sometimes I had to conceal myself before he ventured out. A few times I accosted him along the way—springing out of the abandoned police kiosk near the church, or the ruins of the bombed-out McDonald’s, to remind him of my proposed one-night experiment. He neither slowed nor spoke, and I resisted the urge to physically restrain him. Twice, I tailed him when he emerged from the building with Sarita, but at a more measured distance. (The Jazter had to grudgingly admit she carried herself presentably enough in person. At least for a librarian.)