“You know her?” asked Zahra.
“It’s Rinpoche. HHC. I’ve told you about her.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never seen her up here before. I wonder how she got in.”
“Maybe she knew you were bringing me to see my house,” Zahra said, placing me down on the ground with the utmost sensitivity.
“Maybe.”
Sid crossed to open doors that led out onto the veranda. “What do you think so far?” he asked his daughter.
“I love it!” Happiness seemed to burst from within her. She wasn’t looking around at the house when she replied, though. She was staring at me.
“She doesn’t come with the house, you know,” Sid said, smiling.
“You must persuade the Dalai Lama to give her to me.”
The two adults chuckled as they stepped onto the veranda. Zahra followed them only when she saw I would accompany her.
“I wish I could go up the tower,” she said when all four of us were sitting on the cane chairs outside, me on Zahra’s lap.
“It’s not safe until the stairs are fixed,” said Sid. “Something to look forward to next time.”
Stroking me, Zahra asked, “When will next time be?”
“Not at half term, because we’ll be on vacation in Goa,” Sid explained. “And next break, you’ll be with Granny Wazir for the first two weeks . . .”
I felt Zahra go tense.
“Why don’t we just enjoy being here right now?” prompted Serena, unzipping a small cooler bag she had brought with her. “Ice cream, anyone?”
This time, Zahra’s tension made her squirm. “No thanks.”
“Zahra?” Sid’s astonishment had an edge of concern to it. “It’s one of your favorites . . .”
“I know. It’s just . . .” She leaned over me, and her hair formed a curtain around our faces as she peered into my eyes.
Serena and Sid undid the wrappers around their cones and began to nibble. The two of them discussed some of the changes that were to be made to the house. Evidently, the builder was due to arrive shortly for a site meeting.
“Daddy, do you always have to keep a secret?” Zahra suddenly interrupted their conversation and sat bolt upright.
Sid glanced over. “Interesting question,” he replied, brow furrowing as he considered it. If he was surprised by the randomness of the question, or the intensity of Zahra’s tone, he wasn’t showing it.
“I suppose there are circumstances in which you don’t have to,” he said thoughtfully. “Coercion would be one. Or if keeping the secret would lead to greater harm than not keeping the secret.”
“What’s coercion?”
“If something’s forced on you. Like if someone says, ‘You must keep this a secret, or else—’”
“‘I’ll be very unhappy with you,’” Zahra finished.
“Emotional blackmail,” confirmed Serena.
Zahra nodded solemnly, leaning over to stroke me again. As she did, Serena and Sid exchanged a meaningful glance.
Namdev Patel arrived a short while later in a van spattered with plaster and laden with building equipment. A short, stocky man in suit trousers and a white polo shirt, he approached the house with the swagger of the self-made man who worshipped his creator.