Honor: A Novel(34)

“What did your parents do?” she asked.

“Well, my mother is a housewife.”

“And your dad?”

“My papa?” Mohan cleared his throat. For the first time since Smita had met him, he seemed evasive. “Well, my papa was a diamond merchant. You know, Surat is famous for—”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Your dad is a diamond merchant?”

“Ae, Smita. Relax, yaar. He was just a small-time guy.”

“I see,” Smita said. “You know what they call a small-time diamond merchant, right?” She waited for him to ask and, when he didn’t, she said, “A diamond merchant.”

“Very funny.”

“You know what’s really funny?”

“What?”

“That you’ve asked me so many questions about my life and you failed to mention that your father is a diamond merchant.”

“Yah, okay, you’re right. I should’ve told you what my father did right at the airport the night I picked you up. Before you mistook me for Shannon’s driver.”

“Touché,” she said with a laugh. But then something went wrong because she kept laughing, unable to stop. She was aware that she was being ridiculous, that Mohan was throwing her a worried look. But something was fueling this hysteria—a combination of fatigue and sadness and anger and . . . the blank looks on the faces of those elderly Muslim men a few moments before. Ammi’s harsh voice as she had berated Meena. The image of Meena stroking her daughter with her melted hand. The land outside this car bore so much suffering. This land is your land . . . The words of the Woody Guthrie song she’d always loved came into her head, but somehow the lyrics seemed ironic, malicious even. Like it or not, this, too, was her land and she felt implicated and ensnared in its twisted morality and contradictions.

She pursed her lips, wanting to apologize for her hysterical laughter. But before she could explain, her phone rang. “Excuse me,” she murmured, searching her purse, hoping it wasn’t Papa calling. “It’s the lawyer,” she whispered to Mohan.

“Hello? Smita? Anjali here.” The voice was as brisk as ever.

“Hi. Have they announced the date?”

“The verdict should come day after tomorrow,” Anjali said. “That’s what the clerk told my office today. And they will give us enough notice to get to the courthouse. Are you checked in at the motel?”

“Yes. Since yesterday. But—”

“Good. That’s perfect. It’s a little over an hour from there to the courthouse. We will call you as soon as we know what time you should be there.” Anjali cleared her throat. “Have you met Meena yet?”

“We just left her place a short time ago.”

“Sad case, eh?”

“Yes. Very.” Smita made a quick calculation. “Since we have a day in between, I’ll probably go meet with the brothers tomorrow. And then . . .”

“Excellent idea. Okay, well, see you the day after.”

“Wait—”

But Anjali had already hung up.

Smita shook her head as she put the phone away. “What’s this woman’s problem?” she muttered.

“You can’t imagine how busy she must be, yaar,” Mohan said.

“Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Leap to every stranger’s defense?”

He shrugged.

“So, we’re going to meet the brothers tomorrow?” Mohan asked after a moment.

“Yes. And the village chief. Anjali thinks he’s the one who instigated the brothers.” The heaviness was back; she felt its weight. “Mohan,” she said, “you have a sister. Is there anything she could do, do you suppose, that would make you disown her? Much less, injure her?”

“What a stupid question, Smita,” he said. “You have a brother, no? Would he ever do such a thing?”

A sudden flash of memory. Rohit’s distraught face. Rohit protecting her with his body. “My brother would die rather than do what Meena’s brothers did,” she said.

Mohan nodded. “Exactly.”

“You’re very much like Rohit, you know. Decent.”

He took his eyes off the road briefly, a teasing expression on his face that she was beginning to recognize. “But you are nothing like my sister,” he said. He tapped on his brakes as a small animal scuttled in front of their car, then picked up speed again. “My sister is sweet. Simple. Uncomplicated.”

She laughed, understanding why Shannon had become close to Mohan. He was good company, and there was a lightness to him that Smita appreciated. Plus, any other guy would have hit on her already, and she was so utterly grateful that Mohan hadn’t. Ever since she’d left home at eighteen, Smita had been unapologetically sexual, a reaction to her traditional upbringing. But she had not slept with a man since Mummy had died. Smita took in Mohan’s profile and was relieved not to feel the slightest spark of interest.

Life is easier this way, she thought. Just ask Meena.





Thirteen





The noise of the sewing machines in the factory where Radha and I worked was so loud that I would get a headache after every shift. As we walked home at the end of each ten-hour day, Radha would carry our tiffin box. But if I made the smallest complaint to Govind, he would pounce on me. “This is what happens when women do the men’s job,” he’d say. “You have fallen so low, no respectable man will ever marry you. And how will we ever find a match for Arvind after the shame you and Radha have brought on us by working? The whole village is spitting on us because our sisters have turned their own brothers into eunuchs.”