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ISLAM IS THE ONE PATH
TO HUMANITY FOR ALL
And that wasn’t as bad as those Shiv Sena slogans, which were all over Bombay. (MAHARASHTRA FOR MAHARASHTRIANS. Or, SAY IT WITH PRIDE: I’M A HINDU.)
Something evil had corrupted the purity of prayer. Something as dignified and private as Dr. Aziz, with his prayer rug rolled out on his own balcony, had been compromised by proselytizing, had been distorted by politics. And if this madness had a sound, Farrokh knew, it would be the sound of irrationally barking dogs.
Inoperable
In the apartment building, Dr. Daruwalla and Dr. Aziz were the most consistent early risers; surgeries for both—Dr. Aziz was a urologist. If he prays every morning, so should I, Farrokh thought. Politely, that morning, he had waited for the Muslim to finish. There followed the shuffling sound of Dr. Aziz’s slippers as he rolled up his prayer rug while Dr. Daruwalla leafed through his Book of Common Prayer; Farrokh was looking for something appropriate, or at least familiar. He was ashamed that his ardor for Christianity seemed to be receding into the past, or had his faith entirely retreated? After all, it had been only a minor sort of miracle that had converted him; perhaps Farrokh needed another small miracle to inspire him now. He realized that most Christians were faithful without the incentive of any miracle, and this realization instantly interfered with his search for a prayer. As a Christian, too, he’d lately begun to wonder if he was a fake.
In Toronto, Farrokh was an unassimilated Canadian—and an Indian who avoided the Indian community. In Bombay, the doctor was constantly confronted with how little he knew India—and how unlike an Indian he thought himself to be. In truth, Dr. Daruwalla was an orthopedist and a Duckworthian, and—in both cases—he was merely a member of two private clubs. Even his conversion to Christianity felt false; he was merely a holiday churchgoer, Christmas and Easter—he couldn’t remember when he’d last partaken of the innermost pleasure of prayer.
Although it was quite a mouthful—and it was the whole story of what he was supposed to believe, in a nutshell—Dr. Daruwalla had begun his experiment in prayer with the so-called Apostles’ Creed, the standard Confession of the Faith. “ ‘I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth …’ ” Farrokh recited breathlessly, but the capital letters were a distraction to him; he stopped.
Later, as he had stepped into the elevator, Dr. Daruwalla reflected on how easily his mood for prayer had been lost. He resolved that he would compliment Dr. Aziz on his highly disciplined faith at the first opportunity. But when Dr. Aziz stepped into the elevator at the fifth floor, Farrokh was completely flustered. He scarcely managed to say, “Good morning, Doctor—you’re looking well!”
“Why, thank you—so are you, Doctor!” said Dr. Aziz, looking somewhat sly and conspiratorial. When the elevator door closed and they were alone together, Dr. Aziz said, “Have you heard about Dr. Dev?”
Farrokh wondered, Which Dr. Dev? There was a Dr. Dev who was a cardiologist, there was another Dev who was an anesthesiologist—there are a bunch of Devs, he thought. Even Dr. Aziz was known in the medical community as Urology Aziz, which was the only sensible way to distinguish him from a half-dozen other Dr. Azizes.
“Dr. Dev?” Dr. Daruwalla asked cautiously.
“Gastroenterology Dev,” said Urology Aziz.
“Oh, yes, that Dr. Dev,” Farrokh said.
“But have you heard?” asked Dr. Aziz. “He has AIDS—he caught it from a patient. And I don’t mean from sexual contact.”
“From examining a patient?” Dr. Daruwalla said.
“From a colonoscopy, I believe,” said Dr. Aziz. “She was a prostitute.”
“From a colonoscopy … but how?” Dr. Daruwalla asked.
“At least forty percent of the prostitutes must be infected with the virus,” Dr. Aziz said. “Among my patients, the ones who see prostitutes test HIV-positive twenty percent of the time!”
“But from a colonoscopy. I don’t understand how” Farrokh insisted, but Dr. Aziz was too excited to listen.
“I have patients telling me—a urologist—that they have cured themselves of AIDS by drinking their own urine!” Dr. Aziz said.
“Ah, yes, urine therapy,” said Dr. Daruwalla. “Very popular, but—”
“But here is the problem!” cried Dr. Aziz. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket; some words were scrawled on the paper in longhand. “Do you know what the Kama Sutra says?” Dr. Aziz asked Farrokh. Here was a Muslim asking a Parsi (and a convert to Christianity) about a Hindu collection of aphorisms concerning sexual exploits—some would say “love.” Dr. Daruwalla thou
ght it wise to be careful; he said nothing.
As for urine therapy, it was also wise to say nothing. Moraji Desai, the former prime minister, was a practitioner of urine therapy—and wasn’t there something called the Water of Life Foundation? Best to say nothing about that, too, Farrokh concluded. Besides, Urology Aziz wanted to read something from the Kama Sutra. It would be best to listen.
“Among the many situations where adultery is allowed,” Dr. Aziz said, “just listen to this: ‘When such clandestine relations are safe and a sure method of earning money.’ ” Dr. Aziz refolded the often-folded piece of paper and returned this evidence to his pocket. “Well, do you see?” he said.
“What do you mean?” Farrokh asked.
“Well, that’s the problem—obviously!” Dr. Aziz said.
Farrokh was still trying to figure out how Dr. Dev had caught AIDS while performing a colonoscopy; meanwhile, Dr. Aziz had concluded that AIDS among prostitutes was caused directly by the bad advice given in the Kama Sutra. (Farrokh doubted that most prostitutes could read.) This was another example of the first-floor dogs—they were barking again. Dr. Daruwalla smiled nervously all the way to the entrance to the alley, where Urology Aziz had parked his car.
There’d been some brief confusion, because Vinod’s Ambassador had momentarily blocked the alley, but Dr. Aziz was soon on his way. Farrokh had waited in the alley for the dwarf to turn his car around. It was a close, narrow alley—briny-smelling, because of the proximity of the sea, and as warm and steamy as a blocked drain. The alley was a haven for the beggars who frequented the small seaside hotels along Marine Drive. Dr. Daruwalla supposed that these beggars were especially interested in the Arab clientele; they were reputed to give more money. But the beggar who suddenly emerged from the alley wasn’t one of these.
