It all makes sense now. Aman always refused to tell me who her father was. I thought he was a rich businessman. Instead, it turns out he deals in the business of hate.
‘My father leads a party that thinks India should be only for the Hindus. My father thinks the only good Muslim is a dead one. My father has led riots. He’s been indicted by a court three times. He’s never gone to jail.’
Her voice is the smallest whisper in my ear. ‘Do you hate me now?’
‘No,’ I whisper back. ‘You didn’t choose your father. You don’t choose the hatred you inherit. You can only choose not to be a part of it.’
‘I would rather die than be a part of it,’ she says. ‘I hate my father and everything he stands for.’
We sit there listening to Salim bellow her name. He is heading away from us.
She shivers. ‘If he finds us—’
‘We can’t let him get you. He’ll kill you.’ I hold out my hand. She takes it. She is not just giving me her hand. She is giving me her trust. ‘Come on. We have to get to the windows. We can smash a window and jump out.’
She is scared to leave the closet. In the darkness, there is a sense of safety. But I know we can’t hide for long. He will find us. We have to get to a window.