Honor: A Novel(78)

The last time she interviewed me, Smita asked what future I saw for myself after my brothers went to jail. At that time, all I could see was a long, empty road ahead. I pictured myself doing the same thing day after day—cooking, cleaning, worrying about when my Abru would begin to talk and how I would pay for her schooling. I saw myself take one sodden breath after another, for my daughter’s sake.

But now I know that the jackals who killed Abdul can come again at any time. With no fear of the court, they could come for me, for Ammi, and even for my little one. And I would be unable to do the only job I was put on Earth to do—protect my child.

When I left Anjali’s office today, I took her hand in mine and thanked her for everything she had done. Her nose turned red when I said this. “Kiss Abru for me,” she said.

“You come and kiss her yourself.”

“I will. Next time I’m in the area, I’ll stop by.”

The way she said it, her eyes not meeting mine, I knew I would never see her again. “You have been a farishta in my life,” I said. “I will never forget you.”

Anjali began to cry. “I just wish we had won. I did my best. But I failed you, Meena. I’m so sorry.”

Ammi is calling me. I know she wants me to start dinner, as if today is an ordinary day, instead of the day when the last bird of hope died. I know that no matter how tasty the food is, she will complain tonight—too much salt or too little; rice too soft or too hard. It will be her way to punish me for losing in court. Because even though Ammi refused to talk to the police, she wanted us to win. To avenge her son’s useless death.

I pick up my daughter and walk to my mother-in-law’s house.

Abru hears it first, looking up from her plate. I see her curious face and then I hear it, too. It sounds like thunder, coming from far away. As we listen the sound rolls nearer, and now I know what it is—it is the beating of drums. “Kya hai?” Ammi says, cupping her hand behind her ear. “Someone’s wedding procession so late in the evening?”

But I know what it is.

This is no wedding celebration.

This is a funeral procession.

I grab Abru’s dirty hand. “Get up,” I say, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, get up.” I listen again. The drumming is closer. They are marching through the village. I turn Abru’s head toward me. “Listen,” I say. “The bogeyman is coming. Run into the field behind our house and hide in the grass. Don’t come out until Ammi or I call for you.” She looks back at me, dumb as a cow, sucking her thumb, and I smack her hand. “Go. Run!”

“Hai Allah, hai Allah,” Ammi says, finally understanding what’s going on. I turn to her. “Ammi!” I yell. “You go with Abru. Hide in the field with her, I beg you.”

Ammi picks up Abru and runs. Halfway to the field, she turns around. “You come, too.”

I shake my head. “Go. Now!” I say. If no one is home when they arrive, they will burn the field down, looking for us. I turn to look at the road. That’s when I see the tips of the torches, carried by the men coming my way.

I turn quickly to look back at Ammi. Carrying Abru is slowing her down. She will need a few extra minutes to find a good hiding place deep in the grass. Help me save our daughter, Abdul, I pray. Then, I bend down and pick up as many stones as I can hold in my hand.

I straighten up. My fear is gone. Even as the torches move closer, one thought keeps hammering in my head: I must keep my daughter alive.

Stones in hand, I greet the men who have come to kill me.





Chapter Thirty-Five





Try as she might, Smita couldn’t keep down the queasy feeling. She debated whether to ask Mohan to slow down as he took the curves in the road, but they were already late heading into Birwad. She had fallen asleep after filing her story and woken up two hours later with her heart thudding, certain that Meena was in trouble. Mohan had not been able to convince her that she was wrong.

“Smita. Calm down, yaar,” Mohan said, even though she had not said a word. “You’re worrying for no reason.”

“I’d promised Meena we’d be there by six. And I just have this awful feeling.”

“Listen, if you’re this concerned for her welfare, we can try convincing Ammi and Meena to leave their village. I’ll do my best to help situate them in Surat.”

She shifted in her seat. “I hope to God Anjali made plans to ensure Meena’s safety.”

“Exactly,” Mohan said. “See? Don’t you think Anjali knows the situation better than you? Do you think she would’ve put Meena in harm’s way? After she saved her life?”

Smita nodded, wanting to believe him. But there was that fluttering feeling in her stomach. The headlights of the car lit the road ahead of them, dark fields on either side.

They entered Birwad fifteen minutes later. The first thing they noticed was the eerie silence and lack of activity. It was as if the whole village had decided to go to bed by seven o’clock. The only sound was the distant howling of a few dogs. Smita could feel her hair stand on end. “Something is wrong,” she said, rolling down the window. “This place is dead.”

As soon as she said the word dead, she knew. And at that exact moment, she heard the sound from down the road, coming toward them like rolling thunder. “Mohan!” she cried. “It’s coming from the direction of Meena’s house. Something is going on there.”