Honor: A Novel(77)

“What do you mean? Why shouldn’t she? You’ve seen for yourself how isolated she is.”

“Ammi. You forget about Ammi. Do you think Meena will abandon her so easily?”

“Abandon her? Mohan, Ammi hates her. You know she blames her for what happened.”

“Exactly. And Meena blames herself. In fact, she agrees with Ammi that she’s the reason why Abdul is dead. So she may feel obliged to stay. And in any case, my parents are not going to be back for a few months.”

The hope that had flared, died out. It would have been so wonderful to have carried this lifeline to Meena this evening. Smita knew that Mohan’s parents would have treated Meena well. But she had the sinking feeling that Mohan’s assessment of Meena’s character, of her fealty to the mother-in-law, was accurate.

Smita remembered how furious Mummy had been when she’d learned that Asif had bribed Sushil to help sell their apartment. Zenobia had accused him of collaborating with their persecutor, the man who had terrorized their children. “Where is your izzat, Asif? Or should I say, Rakesh?” she had taunted her husband. “First, you sold out your religion. Now, even your honor?”

Smita and Rohit had sided with their mother at the time. But after all these years, Smita felt a profound sense of gratitude. Papa had done whatever he needed to do to pull his family to safety. In the depths of his despair, he had refused to play dead. And the rewards for that one compromise had been plentiful: The university had created a tenure-track position for him at the end of his visiting professorship. Mummy eventually began to volunteer at the local library and built a new life; Rohit was happy in his marriage and business. Smita felt a sudden urge to call Papa and thank him for what he’d sacrificed. In fact, she’d do it in person when she visited him, take him to his favorite diner in Columbus and tell him the story of her unexpected visit to India. Papa would forgive her for lying to him, his love for her unwavering, unconditional.

“I’ll talk to her,” Smita said.

“Talk to who?” Mohan replied.

“To Meena. Tonight. I’ll . . . share some of my story with her. If need be. I’ll try and stress the importance of getting away from that wretched place. If not for her sake, for the sake of her child.”

Mohan was silent.

“What?” she said. “You don’t think I should?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure.” He paused. “I . . . I just think that enough damage has been done to this young girl by us. By people like us. I mean, Anjali helped save her life when she was in the hospital. That’s good. Very creditable. But then, she decided to use her for her cause. To fight a battle that she knew Meena couldn’t win.”

“I know. But what I’m . . .”

“How do you know?” Mohan demanded. “How do you know that asking her to leave Birwad is the right thing to do?”

“How can you ask that?” Smita didn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice. “I mean, after everything I shared with you about my own family’s experience?”

“How do you know there will be the same happy ending for her?” Mohan said. “And even in your case, Smita, how do you know that you wouldn’t have been happy here? Eventually? Listen. I’m not trying to insult you or your family. I’m just saying, I’ve seen the expression on your face when you look around the countryside when I’m driving.”

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Hungry. As if something that was yours was stolen from you. And that you wish to get it back.”

“Oh, come off it, Mohan,” she said. “I think that’s wishful thinking on your part.”

He frowned. “How is it wishful thinking?”

She couldn’t say what she believed—that despite everything, Mohan wanted her to love India as he did. Still, he wasn’t wrong. She was bristling precisely because his observations cut too close to the bone. Her feelings about India had certainly gotten more complicated, and somehow Mohan had gotten entangled in that internal debate. His blunt assessment made her feel vulnerable, his words stripping away the armor she needed to get through the rest of her time in India.

And then she thought, Why do I need an armor? What exactly am I holding on to? For years she’d clung to a dream, imagined a tableau of recriminations and remorse from her former neighbors: Pushpa Auntie realizing the error of her ways; Dilip’s widow confessing that her husband had always regretted his treatment of Papa; Chiku telling her how ashamed he was of his mother’s perfidy. But in a flash of insight, Smita saw that these images were cartoons, the revenge fantasies of a twelve-year-old girl that were frozen in time. No wonder reality had not obliged and played along.

Smita glanced at Mohan, took in the tightness around his mouth. The last thing she wanted to do, on this devastating day, was get into a meaningless argument with him. “You may well be right,” she said. “I feel like I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Me neither.”

They both exhaled, the tension in the car abating.





Book Four





Chapter Thirty-Four





The cold that entered my body after the judge-sahib gave his ruling is still present. Ammi’s ugly words, hot with contempt, didn’t chase it away. Abru’s warm hands, slipped into mine as soon as I got home, did not melt it away. I’m lying with my daughter in our hut, waiting for Abdul, but he is a no-show tonight. I wonder if, like Ammi, he is angry with me. The thought cuts my heart. Does Abdul believe I let him down in court many months ago when I told the judge my story?