Chapter Twenty-Two

From the droop of her shoulders and her gait we knew that Isabel had returned with some very worrying news. The lines in her forehead were deep grooves, a veritable network of waterways as she dripped sweat and took a nervous dip into her snuff box.

She had set out to Ali’s room, labouring to make the journey surreptitious. It was a challenge for one such as her, with a tall, imposing figure that was far from discreet. Mother attracts attention; not just her size but also her very friendly relations with all around. Mrs. Olivera, who had not gone to work, stopped her as she passed their doorway.

“Isabel, how do you make veal with green curry?”

Isabel, trying not to sound impatient, said, “Veal tastes best with the traditional beef curry. I suggest the regular curry you make, Gina.”

“Isabel, is Mr. D’Souza on duty?” This from Mimosa, who, next door to Gina, was idling in the verandah and wanted the latest news on the rioting.

“Yes, Mimosa.” This was the briefest Isabel had been in a very long while.

“Any news on what is happening in the city?”

“No, Mimosa.”

“So where are you going?”

Isabel, normally a very patient woman, was trying to look at this new pest with patience and not arouse her curiosity in any way.

“Mimosa, I must excuse myself, I am going to look out from the passage window, I think I saw a friend pass,” she lied.

Mimosa stepped aside. Isabel had a clear run after that. She went to the window of the passage and looked out, tapping her foot impatiently till Mimosa went indoors, and then made her way to Ali’s home without any further interruptions.

Ali’s mother cried for the first twenty minutes. Ali and Isabel attempted to console her, but she was inconsolable. Her husband, a statistic of the casualties of the riot, and now to find themselves in a similar danger…it was too much for her to take.

“Mehroonisa,” Isabel said as she started to calm. Mother seemed to be the only one who addressed her by her first name. “You have to listen carefully. We are going to help you. You have to let us help you, do you understand?”

Mehroonisa nodded. Ali nodded too, to confirm that she understood.

“You will have to pack some clothes and food for you and Ali. You will be staying on the first floor in Ms. Ezekiel’s home. I don’t know the arrangements yet and we are discussing the details. You do not have to concern yourself with that. Please see that you take your potty; we don’t know how long you will be holed up there and you should not be using the common toilets if there is anyone in view. We will give you precise instructions later. For now, can you get this ready? And…” Isabel paused, not knowing how to do this painlessly. Anyway, this was no time for Mehroonisa to be offended by people who were trying to save them, so she just went ahead and said it. “Please do not wear the burqa. We do not want you to stand out so blatantly as Muslim.”

Isabel was in for a shock, because hardly ever did anyone say no to her.

“Nai ho sakta, not possible,” Mehroonisa said firmly. “Marne ke liye tyar hai—I don’t mind dying, but I will not take this off.”

Isabel had not anticipated this hurdle. “She refuses to take off the burqa,” she told us. “The black garment is so obvious and so dangerous. Even if we move them without anyone seeing us, how would she avoid being noticed when she goes to the toilet? How do we help her if she will not cooperate?”

“Dad,” Francis said, “at least if she had a white burqa she would look like a nun.”

Sometimes the simplest suggestions are the most logical. While we adults – and though I was often included with the children, I thought of myself as an adult – were engaged in recriminating thoughts, fighting with our frustration, some of us even going as far as cursing the oppression of tradition, the children, not so encumbered, imagined a solution. From thereon the conversation turned to the different colours of burqas and how they compared to a nun’s habit. No, not the same. The design of the burqa, the lace trimming, especially in the coloured ones that the Boris, a Muslim sect, wore…no, not the same as a nun’s habit.

“Maybe we should get a nun’s habit, in that case,” said Francis, once again the problem solver…no cluttered screen there.

We all looked at him more carefully then. He had no doubts. Unlike us, he seemed to think it was all so simple. Here we were, all the adults, with brains being exerted and looking at every solution but the obvious…at least, obvious to Francis.

“How,” I asked, a tad sarcastically, “do you propose to find a nun’s habit?”

We all looked at each other with one image in mind.