The rains have finally decided to come.
I sit down on the lawn, resting my back against the wall of the house, and light an aitch I’ve waited a long time to smoke. Suddenly the air is still and the trees are silent, and I can hear laughter from my neighbor’s servant quarters. A bicycle bell sounds in the street, reminding me of the green Sohrab I had as a child. Then the wind returns, bringing the smell of wet soil and a pair of orange parrots that swoop down to take shelter in the lower branches of the banyan tree, where they glow in the shadows.
A raindrop strikes the lawn, sending up a tiny plume of dust. Others follow, a barrage of dusty explosions bursting all around me. The leaves of the banyan tree rebound from their impact. The parrots disappear from sight. In the distance, the clouds seem to reach down to touch the earth. And then a curtain of water falls quietly and shatters across the city with a terrifying roar, drenching me instantly. I hear the hot concrete of the driveway hissing, turning rain back into steam, and I smell the dead grass that lies under the dirt of the lawn.
I fill my mouth with water, gritty at first, then pure and clean, and roll into a ball with my face pressed against my knees, sucking on a hailstone, shivering as wet cloth sticks to my body. Heavy drops beat their beat on my back and I rock slowly, my thoughts silenced by the violence of the storm, gasping in the sudden, unexpected cold.
The parrots the monsoon brought to my banyan tree have decided to stay awhile. There’s been a break in the downpour today, and I can see them from my window, swimming in and out of the green reef of the canopy like tropical fish, blazing with color when the sun winks at them through the occasional gap between storm clouds.
Along with parrots, the rains have brought flooding to the Punjab and a crime wave to Lahore. Heists and holdups and the odd bombing compete with aerial food drops and humanitarian heroics for headline space on the front pages of the newspapers. Looking out on the soggy city, I pretend to move my hand through a table-tennis shot, but I’m really reenacting the slap that sent Manucci away, wondering how a little twist of the wrist could have such enormous consequences.
What am I going to do? I don’t know how to cook or clean or do the wash. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to learn. The only people in my neighborhood who don’t have servants are servants themselves. Except for me. And I refuse to serve. I’m done with giving. Giving service to bank clients, giving respect to people who haven’t earned it, giving hash and getting punished. I’m ready to take.
‘What are you looking at?’ she asks me.
‘Parrots,’ I tell her.
She gets out of bed, picks up my jeans, and puts them on, rolling the waistband down so they don’t fall off her hips. ‘Do you have a shirt I can wear?’ she asks me.
‘Nothing clean,’ I answer.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
I take a white undershirt out of my closet and sniff it. Smells neutral enough. She puts it on and walks out of the room, her bare feet avoiding the dead moths and the puddles near the windows.
‘You need a replacement for Manucci,’ she says.
‘I can’t afford one,’ I reply, following her.
She sees what she’s looking for, a box of matches, and lights her cigarette. Then she sits down on the couch and pulls her legs under her. ‘I’m going to give you some money until you find work.’
I sit down next to her and shake my head. ‘I don’t want any more of Ozi’s money, thanks.’
She kisses me. ‘Well, once you’ve started having an affair with his wife, taking his money doesn’t seem like such a big step.’
I rub the corner of her jaw with my chin, feel my stubble scratch her skin, turn it red. ‘I don’t want to be having an affair with his wife.’
She smiles. ‘Tired of me so soon?’
‘I’m serious.’
She shakes her head and looks away. Her hair covers the patch of redness. ‘Don’t do this.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t make this into something it isn’t.’
‘What isn’t this?’
‘This isn’t a courtship.’
I tug at the bottom of her undershirt. My undershirt, on her. It’s old, the cotton very soft, fraying slightly around the collar. ‘This isn’t just sex.’
She turns and looks at me. One hand covers mine, stops my tugging. ‘Nothing is just sex. I care about you. I need this right now.’
‘I love you.’
‘Stop saying that.’
I pull on her shirt again, gently. ‘Do you think you can go back to Ozi as though nothing ever happened?’
‘Daru, I don’t have to go back to him. I’m married to him. I’d have to leave him to go back to him.’
‘But you started this.’
She takes my hand off her shirt. ‘You didn’t exactly resist.’
‘But you’re the one who made it happen.’
‘I just got over my guilt first.’
‘So why hold back now?’
‘Daru, I’m married. I have a son. I’m not looking to mate. I’m looking to be with a man for me, because it makes me happy.’
‘And I don’t make you happy?’
‘You do.’
‘But you don’t care about my happiness.’
‘Of course I do. That’s why I’m being honest with you. If you’re looking for a wife, you need to look somewhere else. I’m an awful wife. And I’m already married.’
I walk over to a cabinet and take out the hairy. I haven’t told Mumtaz I’ve been smoking the stuff. But suddenly I see no reason to hide. Let her be angry.
Then again, maybe she won’t even care. I’m just her lover, after all.
I light up and she asks for a puff.
‘No,’ I say.
She stays seated, hugging her knees on the sofa. ‘Why not?’
I pull the smoke into my lungs, growing calm before the aitch has even begun to work: the relaxation of anticipation. ‘You don’t want it.’
‘Are you angry?’ Her tone is neutral, neither cold, accusatory, nor warm, inviting reconciliation.
‘It’s an aitch.’
‘Aitch?’
‘Aitch. Hairy. Heroin. Bad for your health.’
She’s quiet. I don’t feel any need to say more. I like this, the sense that she’s trying to communicate with me while I hold back, waiting.
‘You’re more stupid than you look,’ she says.
I ignore her. The aitch is almost gone. I hold it between thumb and forefinger, fill my chest with a last puff.
‘Are you such a coward?’ she snaps. ‘Have you really just given up on everything?’
‘Don’t overreact. I’ve had some occasionally. Twice or thrice.’ I’m acting cool, but inwardly I’m overjoyed by her reaction. She’s furious. Which means she’s concerned.
She glares at me. ‘You have to stop it.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t be an idiot. It’s heroin. It isn’t hash or ex. It isn’t a nice little recreational drug.’
‘It depends on how much you have. I’m a recreational user.’
‘Do you think you can quit?’
‘I’m not hooked. How about you?’
She’s touching her chin with her finger. ‘How about me?’
‘Do you think you can quit?’
She shakes her head and gives me a frustrated smile. ‘I don’t smoke heroin, you maniac.’
‘Quit Ozi. He’s bad for you. You’re unhappy.’
She looks at me, still shaking her head. Then she lights a cigarette. ‘Let’s not confuse things. Your doing heroin has nothing to do with my marriage.’
‘You’re here every day. Why don’t you leave him?’