“I do my best to pay well,” Mohan said. “I have had the same people work for me for years. They seem happy.”
Mohan fell silent and Smita glanced at him, afraid that she had hurt his feelings. We all have our cultural blind spots, she reminded herself. “I guess independence is in the eye of the beholder, right?” she said. “For instance, the freedom I feel in America as a woman? You can’t even imagine . . .”
“Agreed,” Mohan said at once. “We Indians are in the Dark Ages when it comes to the treatment of women.”
“Look at this poor woman we’re going to go see. What they did to her, it’s barbaric.” Smita shuddered.
“Yes. And I hope they give those bastards the death penalty.”
“You believe in the death penalty?”
“Of course. What else can you do with such animals?”
“Well. You can lock them up, for one thing. Although . . .”
“And that’s better, this locking them up?” Mohan asked.
“Well, you’re not taking a human life,” Smita said.
“But you’re taking away human freedom.”
“Obviously. But what do you propose . . . ?”
“Have you ever been locked up, Smita?”
“No,” she said carefully.
“I didn’t think so.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning . . .” He slowed down as a woman crossed the street in front of them, dragging her three children behind her. “Meaning, when I was seven, I was very sick. For the longest time, the doctor couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. But every evening I would get extremely high fevers. I was confined to the house for four months. No school, no playing cricket, no going to movies, nothing. In those days, our family doctor used to make house calls, so I didn’t even have to leave the house to go to his clinic.” His voice was low, faraway. “I have a small experience of what it’s like to be locked up.”
“Are you really comparing being sick for a few months to being locked up in prison for life?”
Mohan sighed. “I guess not. Not really. There’s a big difference, of course.”
They were quiet for a few moments. “Honestly, I can’t even remember how we came to this topic,” Smita said at last.
“I was saying I hope those brothers are given the death penalty. And you were defending them.”
“I did no such thing,” Smita protested. “I just don’t believe in the death penalty.”
“But that’s what these chutiyas gave to Meena’s husband, right? The death penalty?” He said it softly, but she heard the anger in his voice.
Smita was too weary to respond. The debates surrounding abortion, the death penalty, gun control—she knew from her years in Ohio how tightly people clung to their opinions. This is what she liked about journalism—she didn’t have to choose sides. All she had to do was present each side of the argument as clearly and fairly as she could. She assumed that she and Mohan were more or less the same age and came from similar class backgrounds. But that’s where the similarities ended—he held beliefs that would shock her liberal friends back home. But what did it matter? In about a week or so, with any luck, she’d be flying back home—this trip, this driver, this conversation forgotten.
The modest motel was so off the beaten path that they had to stop twice and ask for directions. As they entered the building, Smita speculated that there were probably no more than nine rooms. Instead of entering through a reception area, they walked up to a small desk. They rang the old-fashioned bell, and after a moment, a middle-aged man appeared from the back room.
“Yes?” he said. “May I help?”
“We’d like to rent two rooms, please?” Smita said.
The man looked from one to the other. “Two rooms?” he repeated. “How many in your party?”
“Just the both of us,” Smita replied.
“Then why you are needing two? I can offer one maybe. Someone called earlier today and said a big wedding party may be coming tomorrow.”
“Well,” Smita said, “we’re here today. And we need two rooms.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You are man and wife, correct?” he asked.
Smita felt her cheeks flush with anger. “I don’t see how that . . .”
“Because this is a respectable family establishment,” the man continued. “We don’t need any problems here. If you are married, you can have one room. If you’re not, we cannot rent to you. Full stop.”