Honor: A Novel(56)

“Rupal is a magic man, Didi. He had done this many times, no problem. But me?”

“So you refused?”

Meena began to cry. “They tied me. Tied me with a rope, like these Muslims tie a goat before they butcher it for Eid. They dragged me all the way to the village square, down the same road you just drove on. My own blood did this, Didi. And they forced me to walk on those white-hot coals. I took four steps only, and my feet smoked and crackled, just like those coals.”

Smita felt sick to her stomach.

“I fainted, and they pulled me out of the pit,” Meena said, in a low monotone. “Rupal had made his point. He made them believe that I was a soiled woman.”

“And, and, your feet?”

In reply, Meena lifted one leg and crossed her ankle over her knee. She pulled back her foot so that Smita could see. Even though Meena’s foot was dusty, Smita could see the raised burn marks. “Meena,” she said. “I just can’t . . . Oh God. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” Meena said. “These scars are nothing. It is these scars that gave me the four months of happiness with my Abdul.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are what gave me the courage to run away.”

Before Smita could respond, Mohan and Ammi came out of the house. Abru was holding Mohan’s hand. “What’s up?” Smita said, annoyed at the intrusion.

“Maybe it’s time for us to take our leave,” Mohan said in a tone that signaled to Smita that the interruption was not his idea. “We still have a long drive.”

Smita gave Meena an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Yes, yes, you two go, beta,” Ammi said, addressing Mohan. “This one here has nothing better to do than lie around in leisure, unlike us working folks. Ya Allah, if someone had told me that I have to work at my age, while this lazy cow lounges around at home, I would’ve asked Him to strike me down and bury my bones. What has the world come to?”

Smita caught Mohan’s eye, imploring him to intervene. But he simply gazed back at her and she turned toward the old woman. “I’m sure it’s difficult for Meena to work given her . . .”—she struggled to find the Hindi word for disability—“condition. But, Ammi, taking care of a child is also full-time work, no?”

She saw Mohan shake his head in warning.

The old woman’s voice grew high-pitched and aggrieved. “Out of respect for you, I will keep my mouth shut, madam,” she said. “Because we are beholden to you, I will not tell you what a snake I have let into my household.” Ammi slammed her open palm against her forehead. “I must have some awful debts to repay. That’s why I am the only unfortunate in this whole community to be saddled with a Hindu daughter-in-law. Whose lowlife brothers are the reason my son is dead. How much I begged my Abdul to not allow this travesty into our peaceful home. But no . . .”

As Ammi keened and beat her breast, Smita suspected that the theatrics were for their benefit and was reluctant to console her. Mohan, too, stood rooted in place, as if he was trying to figure out what to say or do, while Meena sat on the rope cot, staring down at her feet.

There was a sound, soft at first and then louder. Smita looked at Mohan, puzzled, then looked down. Abru, who was still holding Mohan’s hand, was making a funny noise, moving her tongue rapidly against her upper lip, and it took Smita a moment to realize that she was imitating Ammi’s keening. She fought to keep down her startled laughter but burst out laughing anyway. Ammi ceased her commotion abruptly. In that sudden silence, they all listened to the child and the half octave of sounds she was making. As it dawned on Ammi that she was being mocked, she rushed toward the girl, who turned and hid behind Mohan’s legs. “Oi, Ammi,” Mohan said in his most appeasing tone. “Let it go, yaar. The poor child is just having some fun.”

Even though Mohan’s tone was light, Ammi immediately lowered her hand. India, Smita thought, even as she was grateful to Mohan for his intervention. A country where a man of Mohan’s stature could prompt immediate deference from a woman twice his age. She hated thinking of what Ammi might say or do to Abru once they left.

There was no way to resume her conversation with Meena. “I’ll see you next week, okay?” she said gently. “After the verdict comes? We’ll need to talk then.”

Meena’s face was unreadable. “As you wish.”

“Listen,” Smita said quietly, “this is going to be behind you, soon. Once your brothers are sentenced, you’ll be able to . . . to make a fresh start.”

Meena looked at her with a strange smile on her face. “What good will that do, Didi? Will it bring my Abdul back? Will it give me the use of my left hand? Or give me back my looks?”

“But you filed . . .”

Meena shook her head. “I told you. I pursued this case for her sake.” She pointed to Abru.

Smita felt Mohan’s presence by her side. “Chalo, ji,” he said to Meena. “We will take your leave. But our prayers are with you.”

Meena rose immediately from the cot. She covered her head with her sari, then bowed her head and folded her hands. “God’s blessings to you, seth,” she said. “May He bless you with ten sons.”

Mohan laughed. “Arre, Meena ji, be careful with your prayers. I will have to work ten jobs to feed ten sons.”