The Ruling Caste

Ishaan was having a party. Carrie was there, but kept to herself when an elderly Indian man approached her. They chatted for a bit.

"You are American," the older man observed.

"How did you -- ? I mean, no I'm not," Carrie said feebly.

"No sense in denying it. I work for the foreign ministry," he said. Carrie recoiled.

"Am I in trouble?" he shook his head kindly.

"I think we can help each other. One moment," he said, going over to talk to Ishaan.

***

His name was Vaakpati. He talked with Ishaan for awhile, and just like that Carrie's sojourn in Mumbai was over. She landed in New Delhi, and dressed in her first outfit, her niqab.

She sat on her knees beside the Indian man. An equally old Arab man entered the room. Vaakpati gestured for him to sit.

"Our country has had precious few things to agree over. So a peace offering of sort. This is an American woman," he said, gesturing to Carrie. "Bred four times by Pakistani men. Four times by Indian men. She's 42 now. So I offer to you first, and me second. Let's bring balance to her life once more, and bring balance to our own relations."

The Paki minister looked at her, and licked his lips.