Honor: A Novel(24)
“Are you really comparing being sick for a few months to being locked up in prison for life?”
Mohan sighed. “I guess not. Not really. There’s a big difference, of course.”
They were quiet for a few moments. “Honestly, I can’t even remember how we came to this topic,” Smita said at last.
“I was saying I hope those brothers are given the death penalty. And you were defending them.”
“I did no such thing,” Smita protested. “I just don’t believe in the death penalty.”
“But that’s what these chutiyas gave to Meena’s husband, right? The death penalty?” He said it softly, but she heard the anger in his voice.
Smita was too weary to respond. The debates surrounding abortion, the death penalty, gun control—she knew from her years in Ohio how tightly people clung to their opinions. This is what she liked about journalism—she didn’t have to choose sides. All she had to do was present each side of the argument as clearly and fairly as she could. She assumed that she and Mohan were more or less the same age and came from similar class backgrounds. But that’s where the similarities ended—he held beliefs that would shock her liberal friends back home. But what did it matter? In about a week or so, with any luck, she’d be flying back home—this trip, this driver, this conversation forgotten.
The modest motel was so off the beaten path that they had to stop twice and ask for directions. As they entered the building, Smita speculated that there were probably no more than nine rooms. Instead of entering through a reception area, they walked up to a small desk. They rang the old-fashioned bell, and after a moment, a middle-aged man appeared from the back room.
“Yes?” he said. “May I help?”
“We’d like to rent two rooms, please?” Smita said.
The man looked from one to the other. “Two rooms?” he repeated. “How many in your party?”
“Just the both of us,” Smita replied.
“Then why you are needing two? I can offer one maybe. Someone called earlier today and said a big wedding party may be coming tomorrow.”
“Well,” Smita said, “we’re here today. And we need two rooms.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You are man and wife, correct?” he asked.
Smita felt her cheeks flush with anger. “I don’t see how that . . .”
“Because this is a respectable family establishment,” the man continued. “We don’t need any problems here. If you are married, you can have one room. If you’re not, we cannot rent to you. Full stop.”
Smita was about to snap back, but Mohan squeezed her arm and stepped in front of her. “Arre, bhai sahib,” he said, smoothly. “This is my fiancée. I told her that we could stay in one room and save some money. But what to do? She is a girl from a good family. She insists on having her own room. Until the wedding.”
Smita rolled her eyes, but the clerk’s face had begun to soften. “I understand,” he said nodding. “For you, sir, I will make an exception. I applaud your modesty, madam. You may have the rooms. For how many days will you be staying?”
Smita hesitated, but Mohan had begun to reach for his wallet and was pulling out a few hundred-rupee notes. “This is for being so understanding,” he said. “We will pay separately for the rooms, of course. But this is just because of the extra trouble. Because we don’t know yet how long we’ll be staying.”
“No problem,” the clerk said, sticking the bills in his shirt pocket. “You are visiting for family reasons?”
“Ah, yes and no,” Mohan said evasively, his smile filtering any insult.
“I see,” the clerk said. He pulled out a pen and pushed a sheet of yellowing paper toward their end of the table. “You please fill out these forms.”
Smita reached for the offered pen. The clerk froze. He stared intently at Mohan. “Sir,” he said, “only your signature is valid.”
There was a short, painful silence. Then, Mohan mustered a strangled laugh. “Oh yes, of course,” he said. “Forgive my fiancée. She’s a city girl and . . .”
The clerk appraised Smita gravely. “Madam is a foreigner,” he said softly. “Not familiar with our customs.”
Smita flushed, then walked away as Mohan filled out the form. A foreigner. That was exactly what she was. In this moment, she wanted nothing to do with this provincial country in which she found herself trapped.
Even as she fumed at the clerk’s casual misogyny, her thoughts turned to Meena. The damage done to Meena was far too grievous for comparison, of course, but it stemmed from a similar mindset, one that saw women as the property of men. She would get out of India in a few days, but someone like Meena probably never would.
A heavy feeling gripped Smita. This was the real India, revealing itself to her in small slights and grave tragedies. She turned her head slightly to give Mohan a sidelong glance, thankful for his presence but also envious of his male privilege. She looked out the window into the parking lot. It was getting late in the day. They would have to wait until the next morning to meet Meena.
“Come,” Mohan said quietly. He was at her side, holding a suitcase in each hand. Without thinking, she reached for hers. But he threw her a cautioning look, and she retracted her hand and lowered her eyes, for the benefit of the clerk. She bristled inwardly as she followed Mohan down the long hallway to their side-by-side rooms. He unlocked her door and motioned for her to enter. They looked around the sparse room with whitewashed walls. “It will do?” Mohan asked, and she heard the anxiety in his voice.