Smita knew the answer immediately—it was going with Papa to one of his lectures at Bombay University. Mummy had to take Rohit to the doctor that day, so Papa had taken her to work with him. She had sat quietly in the front row of his classroom, and when they left his college that day, he had bought her a Cadbury fruit-and-nut chocolate bar for being so good.
But she didn’t want to get sidetracked. “I’m not sure,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“It is not a firm memory as such,” Meena replied. “It’s more a feeling. What I remember most from my childhood is the feeling of loneliness. Even after my sister, Radha, was born, I still felt alone, even though she was my best friend. Evening time, when it was time for Dada to come home from the fields, I would wait outside our hut to greet him. While waiting, I’d look up at the evening sky. I could hear the birds cawing as they made their way home. And it seemed to me that everything—every stalk of wheat, every stone on the ground, every bird in the sky—had its place in this world. Except me. That my true home was inside this loneliness. You understand me?”
“I do.”
Meena smiled. “I know you do, Didi,” she said. “From the minute you walked into our home, I saw it in your eyes—you have known this curse of loneliness, also.”
Smita reddened and looked away.
“I’m telling you this because you asked about my Abdul,” Meena continued, her voice a low, steady drone. “He was like a magician. From the time I met him, my lonely disappeared.”
“Would he . . . would he have supported you in filing this lawsuit?” Smita asked.
Meena’s face crumpled. “He would be so ashamed of me, Didi,” she said. “He so badly wanted peace between our two families. After we found out about our baby, he insisted we go to my brothers’ house with a big box of mithai. He believed they would come around once they understood that he was a good husband.” Suddenly, Meena slapped her forehead. “But I should’ve known better.”
“Because?”
“Because my older brother, Govind, would not even let us enter his home. He said I already cut his nose by running away to marry a Muslim. But to carry the Muslim child meant that the stain of dishonor would spread through the generations. He took the box of sweets and threw it on the ground outside his house. He said he would forbid even the stray dogs from eating it.”
“Is this why—？”
“It is. That box of mithai carried Abdul’s death warrant, Didi. We just did not know it then. Who can imagine such darkness? All my life, I gave my heart and soul to my brothers. No matter how sick I was, I used to get up and cook for them. This is how I saw my own mother serve my father, until the day she died. You could say that it was my duty. But I tell you the truth—I didn’t do it as obligation. I did it with love. Every extra grain of rice or sugar, every extra piece of meat, went to them. I even took food from my beloved sister and gave it to Arvind and Govind. When Radha complained, I explained to her that they were men and needed their strength. So tell me, how I could guess their hatred for me?”
“Maybe that’s why they didn’t want you to marry Abdul. They didn’t want to lose their servant.”
Meena lowered her voice and looked furtively toward Ammi’s house. “It wasn’t just that. You see, in our village they hate the Muslims. They consider them to be the lowest of the low. Because they are beef-eaters, Didi.”
“I understand,” Smita said, red-hot anger running through her.
Meena looked startled. “Do you hate the Muslims, also?” she said.
“Me? No. Not at all. Some of my best friends are Muslims.” Smita smiled mirthlessly, knowing Meena would not get the joke. “I can’t remember. Did you actually convert to Islam after your marriage?”
“I wanted to, out of respect for my husband. Ammi wanted me to, also. But Abdul didn’t let me. He said he wanted our family to look like Hindustan itself. Hindu and Muslim living side by side.”
Smita stared at the ground. Meena’s words had sketched the contours of her desolation and loss, and Smita could at last fully understand the damage Abdul’s death had wrought. A young man, most likely illiterate, most certainly poor, had considered his interfaith marriage to be not a source of shame but of pride. He had seen himself and his wife as representatives of a new India, had thought of their unborn child as an ambassador of this new nation. The reason for Abdul’s death was simple, really: It was a failure of imagination. Bearing no malice or prejudice himself, he couldn’t imagine the contempt and hatred that his brothers-in-law felt for his kind, couldn’t have foreseen how they seethed under the scandal and dishonor that Meena had wrought.