Honor: A Novel(42)

“You mean from Meena’s marriage?”

His lips curled at the mention of Meena’s name. “Yes, of course. But even before that.” He chewed on the wad of tobacco in his mouth. “No woman in our village had ever left home to go work for strangers. It is the strictest taboo. It is my misfortune that both my sisters defied not only my authority but also the authority of our village elders.”

“Why is it so wrong for women to work?” Smita asked.

Govind looked at her incredulously. “Because it is the law, passed down from our forefathers. God made it so, this division of labor. It is the destiny of women to birth and raise children and keep the house. Men are the breadwinners. Everyone knows this”—Govind threw Smita a contemptuous look—“at least in Vithalgaon.”

“I heard you tried to stop them from working at the factory?”

“Memsahib, I did everything in my power. I begged them, pleaded with them, asked them to consider the honor of our forefathers. Our village chief forbade anyone from even speaking to them. We tried everything. But some demon had entered into them. Some people in the village swore they saw a black halo around them when they went to work each morning.”

Smita fought to hide her astonishment at Govind’s performance. Talk about playing the victim, she thought. She considered her next question, but just then Arvind came to the doorway of the house. “What do you wish me to do?” he called. “Bring the tea out?”

Govind hesitated, and Smita saw her chance. “Please, may we enter your home? The sun is really strong today.”

“Memsahib, this evil sun is always strong. Working in the fields every day—that is why my skin is tough as leather.”

Smita felt suitably chastised. “Indeed,” she said.

There was a brief pause, and then Govind appeared to have come to a decision. “Please, memsahib,” he said. “Welcome to our home.”

They walked into a long, rectangular room with three wooden folding chairs and a small television set. There was no other furniture. Smita caught a glimpse of a mattress on the floor of the next room before Govind directed her attention to one of the wooden chairs. “Please to sit,” he said, to Mohan and Smita. And after they did, he sat on his haunches in front of them.

Mohan half rose. “Won’t you . . . ?” he said, pointing to the third chair.

Govind smiled bashfully. “It is our custom, seth. You are our superior.”

Mohan laughed. “Arre, bhai. What’s all this talk of superior-inferior?”

But Govind remained on the floor. After a moment, he yelled to his brother. “Ae, where’s the chai, you good-for-nothing?” Arvind appeared with two glasses of tea, handed them silently to the two visitors, and took his place on the floor next to his brother.

Smita took a sip. “It’s good tea,” she said politely, but Arvind looked back at her blankly. She noticed that he had wetted and slicked back his hair while in the kitchen. She took another sip, set the glass on the floor, and picked up her notebook as matter-of-factly as she could, aware that the brothers were watching her every move. “So,” she said, “do you think the judge will rule in your favor?”

Arvind stole a glance at his older brother, waiting for him to speak. The minutes ticked by. In the silence, Smita heard the distant bleating of the goat. “He will definitely vote in our favor,” Govind said suddenly. “God is just, and He is on our side. That whore can go to any court in the country, but the truth will prevail.”

Beside her, Smita heard Mohan’s sharp intake of breath. “The truth?” she asked. “Did you—did you not,” she hesitated, wanting to phrase the question as delicately as she could, “did you not try to kill, that is, set Meena’s hut on fire?”

Govind’s eyes searched the room before resting on Smita’s face. “Someone did,” he muttered. “Who, we cannot say.”

Was the man really lying to her face? But then, why was she surprised? “Meena says it was the two of you. That she saw you with her own eyes.”

Govind spat on the floor. “Of course she is saying this. That Muslim beef-eater told her what to say.”

“Her husband? How could he? He’s dead.”

The man’s face grew defiant. “Maybe the kutta didn’t die straight away. How do we know what he said or did?”

Smita felt as if Govind was a large silverfish she was trying to reel in. One false move on her part, and he would slip away. “You’re saying you don’t know who killed Abdul?” she said at last.

“Memsahib, you are asking the incorrect question.” Govind shook his head impatiently. “Who cares who burned that dog alive? Why did they do it? That is question no one is asking. They did it to protect the honor of all Hindus. To teach those Muslim dogs their proper station in life.”

Smita opened her mouth to speak, but Govind raised his hand to cut her off. “It’s like this. My brother and I are sitting on the floor before you because this is our rightful place. You understand? We are all having our stations in life. God has made it so. We have allowed these Muslim dogs to live in our Hindustan as our guests. But a dog must know who is its master, correct? Muslims must keep to their own villages and, above all, they must stay away from our women. That is a fact.” He lowered his voice. “This is their jihad. You understand? They force our women to bear their children so they can multiply and take over Hindustan.”