I took in the plants and trees and lawns with a more scrutinizing gaze. I didn’t see any pattern that told me anything I could identify specifically as heaven, except the flowers smelled fresh, birds sang in the peaceful surroundings, and it was quiet and safe. If quiet and peace and a sense of safety was heaven, then this place resembled it in that familiar way. But it was Padar who had figured out how to get us here.
We rested there talking for a long while until he led us through the gardens, pointing out the different plants and trees, strolling by the many fountains that dotted the green lawns. Before long, the muezzin’s call to prayer rang out over the grounds. We returned for afternoon prayers and then met up again at the same pillar.
“Do you think the police are looking for us?” Laila asked.
Padar shook his head. “I don’t think they care to, really.”
“I’m hungry,” Laila said. We all agreed it was time for a regular meal. Padar led us out to the veranda again to an elevator. As it went below the mosque, the doors opened up into a shopping mall. We were barely out of the elevator when we were hit with the strong aroma of curry. We found a restaurant and feasted on fish curry with eggplant and apple; and spicy chicken, black rice, and fried vegetables; and khejur gur, a sweet dessert made from date-palm sugar. After eating, we all sat back and let out a sigh of pleasure. We strolled the underground mall full of shops selling every type of clothing, cookware, electronics, bicycles, jewelry, and more. It made me homesick, but in a pleasant way. In some imperceptible way, we were journeying closer to what we all wanted, and here were shops full of reminders of good things to come.
The call to evening prayers was broadcast throughout the mall, and we followed the crowd upstairs to pray. Afterward we met Padar and Zia again near the same pillar, and this time Padar guided us toward the north exit, on the other side of the huge mosque. We mingled with the crowd flowing out of the mosque, and once near the curb outside, Padar hailed a taxi, and we all climbed in. No one had followed us. We were free to travel. Padar was right again that it was not Allah’s will we return to Kabul. Inshallah.
The driver took us across the city to a hotel, where we dragged our luggage into the lobby and waited while Padar checked us in. Upstairs, the three girls had our own room, and the men had an adjoining room.
In the hall by our doors, Padar handed over a key to Laila. “Let’s get cleaned up. I’ll order some food in about an hour.”
It was after seven that evening when we all met in Padar and Zia’s room. Padar slouched in a chair by the window overlooking the city, which had turned to a sea of sparkling lights—red, white, green, and flashing neon of every shade.
I sat on the bed, eating from a plate of rice and chicken. We had just eaten a few hours before, but the tension must have made us all ravenous. Padar flipped through a small address book. He puffed on his pipe as he worked through his book.
“What’re you looking for?” I asked him.
“The number of an old friend. I’m pretty sure he lives here now, or somewhere around here.”
“Who?” Laila asked.
He rested the small book on his lap. “You may remember him. He came to some of the embassy parties I used to host at our home. Ram Ispahani.”
There had been so many diplomats and businessmen and politicians that visited our home over the years. I didn’t remember anyone by the name of Ram. With a name like that, he had to be Indian or Bangladeshi.
“Was he a diplomat from the Indian embassy?” I asked.
“No, he was a pilot.”
“Did he work with Saleem?” Laila asked. “I think I remember him, the tall, handsome man with a mustache? He used to fly Indira Gandhi to Kabul. He would come to our house while Gandhi attended meetings.”
“That describes a lot of men,” Zulaikha said.
We all laughed because it was true.
“Is he going to fly us somewhere?” Laila asked.
“Not likely. But he can drive us in his car,” Padar said as he rose and went to the phone on the small desk and dialed a number. He spoke to the man that answered in the most genial way, catching up. They talked like long-lost friends or brothers. We watched TV for a while, then he had us go next door and get ready for bed. I dragged myself through changing and washing up. None of us had slept much at the airport, and the day had wrung all the energy out of us.
Sleepy and ready to climb into bed, I heard a knock on the adjoining door between the rooms. “Girls,” Padar called. “Come in here a minute. I want you to meet someone.”
Dressed in our nightgowns, we slipped into robes, and Laila opened the door. In the next room we met Ram Ispahani. He was a strikingly handsome Indian man, dark-skinned and tall, with a bushy, gray-flecked mustache. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed short, and he wore jeans and a sport shirt. He had the brightest dark eyes—they were intelligent, alert with a glint of humor. He sat on the edge of one of the beds.
“Salaam,” he said to us. We each greeted him, and he gave us the warmest smile. He then turned to Padar, who slumped in the chair by the window. “Of course I will help,” he said. “We will leave in the morning, early. I know just the place we can cross. I’ll have you on the train to New Delhi by lunchtime.”
A short while later, back in our room, we snuggled under clean, warm blankets and crisp sheets. Through the closed door, we could hear them laughing and talking loudly. The men were deep into their plans or having a great time reminiscing, or both.
“I can’t believe it. As soon as one plan falls apart, Padar just comes up with another one,” I said.
“This one better work,” Zulaikha said. “I hated getting nearly beat up by those airport guys. They were horrible.”
“Freaks,” Laila said.
“Gorillas,” I said. We all started laughing.
As we quieted down, I murmured, “Tomorrow will be different.” But I was speaking to myself. Both of my sisters were asleep. I closed my eyes. We were going to India. I whispered under my breath: “Inshallah.”
Passing through the center of Dhaka even at an early hour was no easy task. Just after dawn, the sidewalks were filled with women in saris and men in jeans trudging off to work. The streets were jammed with rickshaws: two-wheeled carts pulled by boys on bicycles. All of them were decorated as stunning works of art, in bright luminescent reds, fluorescent greens, yellows, and blues. We turned down a street and were met with a horde of rickshaws. We moved slowly through the traffic, past glass-walled buildings, cement towers, apartment houses. The city went on forever.
We left the city to the west along route N5, a well-paved two-lane highway that passed through several smaller cities, each with elaborate temples and mosques, industrial buildings, office buildings, and power plants, before reaching the countryside where we would cross the two-mile-wide Padma River.
Ram planned on taking us to Kolkata, which was in West Bengal state, India. It was a long day’s drive from Dhaka, and we should be there shortly after dinnertime. He thought we would easily blend in with the native Indians because of our dark skin. We’d be able to purchase train tickets for the ride to New Delhi. Ram talked so confidently; it seemed so simple.
As the day unfolded into a blazing morning, it became clear that Bangladesh was very different from Afghanistan. Everywhere, we passed green fields, stands of palm trees, and thick forests. We crossed small rivers and creeks, and ponds were everywhere. The fields of crops—corn, wheat, hay, alfalfa, rice—were in full bloom. Padar recognized all of them and pointed them out as we sped by. Cows roamed the fields, and Ram explained that in parts of Bangladesh, and more so in India, cows were sacred and were not to be eaten.