Meena hesitated, turning instinctively to look at Mohan for permission. He glanced at Smita. “Think you can manage?” he said, and when she nodded, he smiled at Meena. “Go outdoors, sister,” he said. “Ammi and I will chat.”
The bright clarity of the day belied the dark misery of the straw hut. Meena, carrying her daughter, led Smita to a rope cot. She stood as Smita sat down, then squatted on the ground before her.
“What are you doing?” Smita said. She patted the cot. “Come sit next to me.”
“In my old village, we always sat below our superiors, memsahib,” Meena said. “It is the custom.”
“But you are not in your village, Meena. Muslims don’t have these caste divisions, correct?” Smita patted the cot again. “So, come on.” She waited as Meena lifted her daughter, looked around furtively, and sat Abru next to Smita before she, too, sat down. The child sucked her thumb, oblivious to her mother’s unease.
“How old is your daughter?” Smita asked.
“Fifteen months.”
“She’s beautiful,” Smita said, stroking the child’s hair.
Meena beamed. “Ai. She is khubsurat like her father. Every time I see her face, I remember my Abdul.”
“It is not good, what happened to you,” Smita murmured, wincing inwardly at the obviousness of her statement but wanting to ease into the interview.
Meena didn’t seem to notice. “I told Abdul to forget about me, memsahib. I told him my brothers would never allow our love match. But Abdul believed the world was as pure as his heart. He swore that he would drink poison and kill himself if I didn’t marry him.” She laughed bleakly. “In the end, I killed him after all.”
“You didn’t kill him. You were a victim, just like him.”
Meena nodded. “That is what Anjali said, exact words. The first time she came to see me in the hospital. I was in such pain—it was like I had no body. Like I was fire itself. I couldn’t even remember my own name because of the pain. When they changed my dressing, my skin used to come off with the gauze. And when I would shut my eyes, I kept seeing Abdul’s body. It looked like a flowering tree except it was blooming fire.”
“So you met Anjali that early on?”
“Yes. Anjali is like my God. She was the one who got me transferred to the big hospital. She raised the money that paid for my operations. And most important, she is the reason the doctors didn’t remove my little Abru from my body. I was only a few months with child, memsahib. The doctors decided they must get rid of her, to save my life. Anjali was the only one who asked me what I wanted. And even though I couldn’t speak, I said no. That was the greatest gift she gave me. Without my Abru, my Abdul would have left me forever.”
Maybe it was from sitting directly under the sun, but Smita felt woozy. She closed her eyes for a moment and Meena noticed immediately. “You will take a glass of water, madam?” She half rose from the cot before Smita could answer, then sat back down. “Or are you not allowed to drink from our cups?”
It took Smita a minute to realize what Meena was asking—whether Smita as a Hindu could, would, drink or eat at a Muslim home. Meena had probably guessed at her caste and religion from her name. Good God. It was as if nothing had changed in the years since Smita had left India. What a fossilized country this was, with its caste and class and religious bigotries. Smita took in Meena’s disfigured face and knew that her distaste for these customs was itself a sign of privilege. Did she really think India had changed so much just because she herself had managed to escape it?
“I have no problem with it, Meena,” she said. “But I’m okay now. Let’s not have you go back inside and disturb your mother-in-law.”
A look of understanding flashed between the two women.
After a few minutes, Meena asked, “Will you be making the write-up for your paper like Shannon did?”
“Yes. Shannon and I write for the same newspaper.”
Meena frowned. “But Shannon’s paper is in America?”
“It is. I live there, also. I just came to India because . . .”
“They allow Hindustani people to give the write-up in the paper in America?” Meena asked.
“Yes, of course. All kinds of people work there.”
“And your village elders never stop you from going to your job?” Meena said.
“Where I live, it’s a big city. Like Mumbai. There are no village elders there,” Smita said, realizing how little of the world Meena understood.