Everyone laughed and Cook came in with a large platter of tender, savory lamb while his helpers brought the dal and rice. The table filled with excitement and the delight sounds of a good meal. Everyone was happy.
Except Bapsi. She looked at the clock. An hour had passed since when Jahan and Adar were expected home. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sit. She hurried to the open window, squinting to see who was coming down the road, listening for her phone to ring. Mother had said Bakrid had begun. Could something have happened to Jahan at the festival? Is Adar safe? There was so much acrimony between the Hindus and the Muslims. What if a hooligan caused trouble? Started a fight? What if Adar was lost in the crowd? No one would know the boy was neither Hindu nor Muslim. No one would know he’s a neutral Parsi.
“Was she one of those Black Widows?” Dastan Uncle said, referring to the female suicide bombers in Moscow.
Still standing at the window, Bapsi snapped at her father. “Not all Muslims are terrorists!” Father stared at her, shocked. Everyone was shocked. She’d never spoken disrespectfully to him or any member of the family before. Bapsi winced as she checked her cell phone again. No calls. No messages. Tears filled her eyes. “I apologize,” she choked. Father went to the window and embraced her.
“I heard she was a red Indian,” Auntie said, placing another large spoonful of dal on her plate.
“That woman was clearly insane,” Dastan Uncle said.
Bapsi checked her phone again. Nothing. She called friends asking if they’d seen Jahan or Adar. They had not. She called the zoo. No one answered. She called the police. The police told her other matters of greater urgency demanded their attention. When Bapsi told her Adar was only three years old, the police told her to fill out a missing persons report. Bapsi hung up frustrated. She hated waiting. She looked at the clock. Three hours had passed since Father and Dastan Uncle had come home. “Eat,” Mother told her.
Bapsi moved lamb about her plate. She nibbled on lentils. She thought about the two babies she’d delivered recently, a healthy girl to a happy mother and a sick boy to a worried one. Why do some have so much good fortune and others have so little? Bapsi had sought the counsel of Dr. Sharma, the hospital’s senior pediatrician.
Bapsi hesitantly tapped on the revered physician’s door. Dr. Sharma invited her in and offered her a seat. Dr. Sharma wore a traditional sari and her gray hair hung long down her back. Bapsi politely addressed the reason for her visit. “Have you noticed an increase in the number of babies born with birth defects?” Bapsi wasn’t prepared for the answer.
“And the boys?” Dr. Sharma asked.
Bapsi hesitated. “Yes,” she said.
“When I was a girl,” Dr. Sharma said. “Before the Union Carbide plant was built, Bhopal was the City of Lakes, founded by the Parmar King a thousand years ago. One of the most beautiful sites in central India. Now that image is forever brutalized.” Dr. Sharma closed her eyes, her voice rigid as she described that December, 1984, when a methyl isocyanate gas leak triggered the worst industrial accident in the history of the world. Forty tons of the gas used in the manufacture of the popular pesticide Sevin spewed from the plant. Ten thousand people died within the first seventy-two hours.
“I’m so sorry,” Bapsi said. “But what has that to do with —.