of them monsters, perhaps, but my job doesn’t exempt me from horror or allow me to pretend such people don’t exist.”
“Sri Bhargava, founder of the Durgas,” said Max.
“Ah, Vandana told you about them?” replied Juliette.
“Yes.”
“Do you think he sponsored the attack”?
“I don’t know. Did David meet him or make contact?”
“Not at all.”
“What about members of the RSS or other Hindu groups?”
“David never mentioned it.”
“Any complaints to the High Commission about, say, ‘connections’ with the imam Khankashi?”
“Nope.”
“Any comments, accusations, or even threats from Hindu personnel? Or anyone, for that matter?”
“Never.”
“What about helping the imam … any insinuations or hints?”
“No, I’m telling you, no! David knew his job to a T, as well as his mandate. He was in New Delhi to represent Canada and its citizens, not to mix in India’s internal controversies.”
She recounted for him a discussion they’d had.
“Having tea with a Muslim extremist, isn’t that taking sides?”
“Khankashi’s no extremist.”
“That’s definitely not what the Indian papers are saying about it, David.”
“Only the ones that support the BJP, not all of them.”
Max was puzzled: “You’re sure he said it that way?”
“What do you mean?”
“Khankashi’s no extremist.”
Police and security officers were rushing down the corridor and out of the stairwells, out of breath, sweaty and excited. Orders were bellowed. Juliette got into the middle of it all as Béatrice exited the elevator, where a uniformed man stopped her from going any farther.
“What’s happened?”
“They arrested someone in the kitchen.”
They sent the two women home with an escort and a policeman to keep watch overnight. What was all this?
The Rockhill turned into a fortress with the comforting presence of a patrol car in the parking lot. Another officer with a hat too big for him said good night to them in the corridor and touched the butt of his handgun as if to say Don’t worry. I’ll be right here.
Béatrice closed the curtains with a dramatic sweep. There might be snipers hidden in the building facing them. No point taking chances. Juliette could not sleep and felt guilty for not staying with David.
The phone rang. It was Patterson back from his information hunt.
“The unidentified man was walking in a suspicious way through the hospital basement. An employee thought he looked strange, so he alerted security.”
The rest of it followed the usual pattern: The supposed cook didn’t have his ID with him, nothing. He tried to ditch the security agents before the arrival of the police; then there was a foot-race through Orthopedics, a fight in Obstetrics among a crowd of panic-stricken mothers, and finally the takedown in Rheumatology.
“Was he there for David?” asked Juliette.
The police didn’t know. They hadn’t finished questioning him. Patterson promised to keep them posted.
The next day, Dr. Migneault found Juliette at the vending machines. “I’m sorry I didn’t put things too well yesterday.”
“No, you were right. Why insist on overdoing it?”
“In the face of life’s horrors, we don’t count for much, nothing at all.”
14
Max and Jayesh went through the Palika Bazaar followed closely by bhikharis, a whole family of them in rags with hands outstretched. When the two men reached the limits of their territory, they turned back. They emerged at Connaught Place, and more beggars followed in their wake. Jayesh ignored them, the same as the others.
The two men stopped under the arcade of the Regal Cinema. Nearby, next to a column, a shoeshine boy called out for customers in a tired voice. Most people paid no attention to him, but one man stopped, rolled up his pant leg, and put his foot on the small wooden box. The shine began without a word. When it was done, the customer tossed some coins on the ground, but the shoeshine boy didn’t seem at all insulted. He fell upon the coins scattered on the pavement amongst the passersby, before returning to his spot by the column.
“Dalit,” murmured Jayesh, “untouchable.”
Max turned to him and Jayesh explained: “If the shoeshine boys touch the leather shoes, which are made from cowhide, they’re impure. That’s why that guy threw down the money instead of putting it into his hand.”
Jayesh was a Vaishya — merchant class, third rung on the Hindu social ladder — and this explained his father’s occupation. Even in America, Siddhartha Srinivasan respected, in his own way, his place within the caste system.
While Max was speaking to Juliette on the phone the day before, Jayesh was at the Kasgari Mosque impersonating a CBI investigator: “Just a few more questions about some things we need to clear up.” He’d met the “second-in-command” of the imam Khankashi. He was told the imam had kept in touch with David because both of them were on the same wavelength, especially about Kashmir. The imam would never openly acknowledge such a thing. Genghis Khan had supported the separatist movement from the beginning, while still keeping his distance from Pakistan. It wasn’t easy. The brutality of the Indian forces, especially in Srinagar, played right into the hands of Pakistan. Pervez Musharraf’s government would have welcomed this son of Islam safely home from Hindu territory with open arms. Khankashi was an idealist, though. He professed to believe in a multi-ethnic India, as Gandhi and Nehru had imagined it. An India where Hindus, Parsis, Christians, and Muslims could live in harmony with respect for one another.
“So, you’re thinking bluff?”
“Of course. The usual sitar song to put people to sleep while the Islamist killers of Hizb-ul-Mujahideen build up their arsenal, courtesy of the Pakistani secret service.”
“Sufis and jihadists fighting side by side … pretty weird, no?”
“I’m telling you, showbiz. Whatever. The imam shouting from the rooftops that Muslims are second-class citizens, worse than untouchables. From time to time, some Dalits get roughed up, but Muslims get exterminated … with the government’s blessing. No problem with putting Hindus first in everything in this country: schoolbooks get ‘revised’ to showcase Brahmin heritage.
“In a situation like this,” Jayesh
