Honor: A Novel(39)
“But your mummy’s nice,” Smita said.
Chiku shook his head. “I can’t stand her.”
Pushpa came into the living room, her cheeks flushed. Smita felt a pang of sympathy. She had always thought of Pushpa Auntie as being as robust and resilient as a battleship. But seeing her through Chiku’s hostile eyes, she felt a strange sympathy for her mother’s best friend. She wondered if Chiku’s mother knew how he felt about her, and her heart ached at the thought. She shut her novel as she got to her feet. “Shall I get you a glass of water, Auntie?” she said. “It’s a hot day.”
Pushpa Auntie smiled as she settled into a nearby chair. “Thank you, my child,” she said as Smita exited the room. Suddenly, she leaned forward and smacked Chiku on the back of his head. “See? See how your friends treat their elders? Unlike you, you worthless junglee. When have you ever fetched your poor mother a glass of water? Look at them, reading real books while you read your stupid film magazines.”
Chiku rubbed his head as he glared at his mother. He was still glaring at her when Smita returned to the living room, and Pushpa held out her arms and pulled her into her lap.
Even after all these years, Smita could feel Pushpa Auntie’s damp skin against her own and smell the woman’s signature perfume. How could she reconcile this memory with the cold reception that she had recently received? How could that loving woman, in whose lap she’d felt so warm and safe, betray them the way she had? The two families had been so close, all of them flitting in and out of the two apartments throughout Smita’s childhood. Smita tried to imagine her own parents not protecting Chiku if the roles had been reversed, but her imagination failed her. It wasn’t as if Papa and Mummy were perfect—they weren’t. But that was rule number three she’d learned from her years as a foreign correspondent: In every country, in every crisis, there are a handful of people who will stand against the tide. Her parents belonged to that small minority. Smita’s heart tore open with gratitude at this thought, but in the next moment, she remembered that one of those good people was dead. She bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying.
“We’re almost there,” Mohan said, and Smita nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak just yet, waiting for the hollow feeling to dissipate before she faced Abdul’s killers. Struggling to be “present in the moment,” as her yoga teacher in Brooklyn would say.
They followed a dirt road to where a small constellation of hovels stood in a loose, scattershot configuration. Still, it was immediately obvious that Vithalgaon was not as impoverished as Birwad. Chickens, stray dogs, and small children clustered in front of the huts, the dogs howling as they ran up to the car. Two men in lungis ambled up to them, staring at Smita. Mohan rolled down his window. “We’re looking for the brothers Arvind and Govind!” he called. “Where can we find them?”
One of the men grinned knowingly. “The judge-sahib has ruled?” he asked.
Smita spoke before Mohan could reply. “Can you please direct us to their house?” she asked, her tone icy.
The man leered at her, then walked around the car to her side. “Those two don’t live among us little people any longer.” He pointed toward the main road. “Go back there and at the first crossing, make a left turn. You will see a small brick house. That’s where they live. Thanks to the earnings of their sister. Yes, the same sister that they burned when the money stopped.”
“Did you tell this to the police?” Smita said.
The man shook his head. “Arre, madam, forget this nonsense about police-folice. Govind is from our caste, no? Why we would get him in trouble with the police?” He scowled. “Even though I don’t approve of what he did to that poor girl. Killing that Muslim dog? Fine. But they should not have touched that girl. No, he should have just dragged her back home and kept her locked up to do the cooking-cleaning.”
Mohan shot Smita a look and spoke before she could. “Okay, bhai, thanks for your help,” he said.
“No mention!” the man called. “All this drama will soon blow over. You’ll see.”
Chapter Fifteen
The men in my village were angry when Radha and I kept working at the factory.
Rupal’s voice was the loudest. He warned us, and when we didn’t listen, he threatened us. He said he would perform a magic ceremony and make a sea of serpents in front of our home, to prevent us from leaving. Radha laughed and told him she was not afraid. We kept to our routine—leaving the house at dawn and walking the four kilometers each way, six days a week. After we had been working for about three months, we went to leave one morning and almost stepped on the dead goat outside our door. Rupal had skinned the animal and dropped it there for us to see. Radha screamed. For the first time, her courage was shaken. When she finally stopped screaming, she looked at me. “Let’s stay home, Didi,” she said. “These men will never give up until they destroy us. Their traditions mean more to them than their humanity.”
Why didn’t I agree with her that day? I had only joined the factory so that Radha would not walk home alone or be harassed by strange men at her job. But that morning, I felt the iron come into my eyes when I saw that innocent animal lying in the dust, its tongue hanging out, flies already attacking its body. “Wait here,” I said to Radha. “We will go to work today for sure. But first, I must take care of something.”