Honor: A Novel(57)

Meena kept her gaze toward the ground, but Smita could see her smile.

“As-salamu alaikum, Ammi,” Smita said, as they walked past the old woman.

Ammi looked startled. “Wa alaikum assalaam, beti,” the old woman replied. “Be well.”

“Hats off to you, yaar,” Mohan said after they got in the car. “Where did you learn that Muslim greeting? I loved how casually you said it, too. Like it rolled off your tongue.”

Smita shrugged. “Don’t forget, I lived in this country for fourteen years.”

“I know. But that was a long time ago, dost.”

“True,” she said.

“Hey. How come your family left India when you were a teenager?”

“I told you,” she said. “My father got a job in America.”

“It’s an odd age to move, right?”

She shrugged. “I was happy to go.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Who doesn’t want to move to America?”

“I don’t. I don’t have the slightest desire.”

Smita eyed him cautiously. “Okay.”

Mohan looked as if he was about to say more but let the subject drop. “So, what did Meena say today?” he asked.

She told him about the coal pit. She described the raised, cordlike marks on Meena’s feet.

And was gratified to see Mohan’s hand tremble on the steering wheel when she was finished.





Chapter Twenty-Four





Ammi is in a good mood. It makes me sad to see what a sack of sugar and a bag of rice can do for her. To remember that if Abdul had lived, Ammi would not be working at her age. The plan had been for Abdul and me to send money home from Mumbai to Birwad each month so that Kabir could leave his mechanic’s job and become a farmer. Then, after a few years, they would have shifted to Mumbai, also.

I look out at the fields behind my house, overgrown with grasses taller than a man. Kabir would have enjoyed cutting down those grasses and taming that land. Now, it is simply a field of buried dreams. Sometimes, I play hide-and-seek with Abru in the grass and speak to the ghosts of the two brothers. Other than this, the short distance between Ammi’s house and mine has become my country, my cage.

But today, talking to Smita has made a restless wind inside of me. Today, I want it to carry me away like a seed and plant me in new soil. What had Smita said? That after the judgment, I could make a fresh start. But even if I were the kind of woman who could abandon Ammi, where would I go? Is there a place where my face will not cause babies to burst into tears? What foolish employer would hire a woman such as me? No, there is nowhere for me to live other than in the place where my life ended.

“So much food,” Ammi says. “God bless that boy. Maybe I will invite Fouzia for dinner tonight.”

My heart twists at those words. Fouzia is Ammi’s childhood friend. During the first four months of my marriage, before the calamity came, when our house shook with laughter and Ammi’s eyes landed like butterflies on her sons’ faces, Fouzia used to come over each afternoon to take tea with Ammi. Fouzia was like a second mother to Abdul and Kabir, but her real son has prohibited her from visiting us, afraid that our bad luck will spread to his home. Mohan babu’s gift has made Ammi briefly forget how all of Birwad has shunned us. Fouzia will not step into our misfortune.

Then, her face gets dark with anger as she remembers how alone she is, stuck with a daughter-in-law she hates and a granddaughter whose resemblance to her son is a thorn in her eyes. But she recovers. “More food for us,” she says. “That Fouzia eats like an elephant. Always did.” She begins to plan dinner, rubs her belly as if the meal is already in her. Abru looks at her carefully, ready to run away from her if scolded, ready to run into her arms if called. Now, Ammi is promising Abru some kheer, and from this I know that Mohan babu must have also given her some money. How else would she be able to afford the milk for such a treat?

Perhaps Ammi will take Abru with her to the marketplace, and I will have the peace to do the only thing that brings me peace—dream of my Abdul. It is only in my dreams that I can still see his face properly. He is beginning to fade from me, like the moon rising higher in the sky. I am ashamed of myself for such faithlessness. What kind of wife forgets her husband?

I had wanted to tell Smita about how my burnt feet led me to Abdul.

If Rupal had not forced me to walk on those hot coals, if my own blood had not roped and dragged me into the village square, maybe I would have listened to Govind’s warnings about marrying outside our faith. Maybe my fear of God would have overshadowed my love for Abdul. Because a woman can live in one of two houses—fear or love. It is impossible to live in both at the same time.

But even as my brothers tied and dragged me like a dumb beast, I knew I was not an animal. As the smoke rose from my hissing feet and just before I fainted, I said to myself: I am a woman who has walked on fiery coals and lived.

For the next two weeks, I remained at home with Radha and Arvind. Govind left strict instructions with Arvind to make sure I didn’t leave the house. Every day Radha put ointment and cool rags on my feet. My whole body burned with fever. Rupal came one afternoon to check on me, but Radha chased him out of the house with a broom. I smiled when she told me. Little Typhoon, I used to call her when she was little.