She could’ve told them, Smita thought. She could’ve warned them. In the end, the old India—severed not only by the political and geographical upheaval of Partition but also by the timeless rivers of hatred that divided its citizens—would triumph. It always did. “Do you think you will win the court case?” she asked, needing to be reassured that she was being unduly cynical. After all, she had lived away for so long. Perhaps, if nothing else, the judiciary had evolved?
Meena looked at her, the good eye unblinking. “I hope so, Didi,” she said. “But in the end, it is God’s will. What matters to me is that as my little one grows up, she will know that her mother fought for her father’s honor. Bas, this is all I am living for now—for her. For this reason, I put up with my mother-in-law’s taunts, the insults of my new neighbors. I tell you true, Didi. Other than my little Abru, I am having no one in this world. When Abdul was alive, Ammi’s house was like a festival. His friends, her neighbors, all used to stop by. Now, no one comes. They fear that our bad luck will haunt their own homes. Even Anjali, even she will soon be gone, after this court case is finished.”
Smita’s mouth went dry, as if she could taste Meena’s despair. “What do you do all day?” she asked. “Where do you go?”
Meena pointed to the charred remains of the hut. “I go there to sleep at night. To be near my Abdul. Crossing from here to my old home—that is the distance I travel.”
“You’re not afraid to revisit that place?”
“Why I should be afraid? My Abdul is still with me, na?” For the first time since she’d met her, Smita sensed Meena’s steely defiance.
Smita remembered how she had spent weeks cowering in her Mumbai apartment, refusing to even go to school until Papa had forced her. Remembering, she was ashamed. Ashamed of the sludge-like fear that had settled in her veins; ashamed of having had the privilege of escape. Most of all, she was embarrassed that she had ever considered her early days of adjustment in America to be anything other than what they were—incredibly good fortune. Their wealth and her father’s academic credentials had rescued them from India and deposited them into a good life in America. While Meena had been battling for her life and, later, fighting against crippling social ostracizing, Smita had been sitting in cafés in Brooklyn with her friends, sipping her cappuccinos, all of them feeling aggrieved as they talked about acts of microaggression and instances of cultural appropriation, about being ghosted by a boyfriend or being overlooked for a promotion. How trivial those concerns now seemed. How foolish she had been to join that chorus of perceived slights and insults. How American she had become to not see America for what it had been for her family—a harbor, a shelter, a refuge.
“Kya hai, Didi?” Meena was looking at her, concerned. “Did I say something wrong?”
Smita snapped out of her reverie, focusing again on the charred hut and, behind it, the overgrown field. She rose to her feet, mopping her brow with her shirt sleeve. “Nahi,” she said. “I . . . I just need to go indoors for a minute.” She saw the aversion on Meena’s face at the thought of facing her mother-in-law and added, “But I’ll be right back.”
Meena smiled, and Smita marveled anew at the transformation.
“Hah,” Meena said. “You must go check on your husband.”
Smita opened her mouth to correct her, then thought better of it. “I’ll be right back,” she repeated. “I just need to get out of the sun.”
What the hell is wrong with you? Smita chastised herself as she walked toward the hovel. She had interviewed refugees, displaced people, and war victims over the years, and despite the grievous injuries and trauma she had witnessed, had always managed to keep her composure. But it was impossible to keep the same emotional distance here. There was a reason she didn’t cover stories in India, a reason why she’d asked her editors for that exemption. Her feelings were too biased, too complicated, for her to maintain objectivity. And yet, despite her earlier reservations, she was glad to be here in Birwad and to have met Meena. Already, she was composing the lede to her story in her head. Shannon’s stories about Meena had been well written. Her reporting was impersonal and factual, and she had expertly situated Meena’s story within the larger story of the treatment of women in India. In fact, Shannon’s reporting was like Shannon herself—dispassionate, tough, no-nonsense. But she had not quite brought Meena to life, had not conveyed that combination of vulnerability and courage. Smita knew she could, would, be able to do fuller justice to Meena. She understood Meena’s plight in her bones, felt that sense of kinship like connective tissue. Her fingers itched at the thought of going back to the motel and getting to work on her laptop.