Smita nodded, even as she wished for a good pediatrician in Mumbai to check out this little girl. “What are your plans for after the verdict comes?” she asked, to change the subject.
“What use making plans? This is my life now. Abdul and I had planned to shift to Mumbai after Abru was born. He used to say that Mumbai was built for people like us, who are unafraid of hard work. We were both angutha chhap, Didi. But we dreamed of our Abru becoming a doctor or a lawyer. Abdul said that there was so much money to be made in Mumbai that we could build a brick home for Ammi and Kabir here, and still send Abru to a good school there. But the fire destroyed those dreams.”
Smita looked up from her notebook, her eyes moist with understanding. “I’m sorry,” she said. She looked away. “What’s ‘angutha chhap’ mean?”
“Oh. That is what they call people like us, who don’t know how to read or write. When we opened our bank account, we must make an ink thumb impression because we cannot sign our names. That is what the words mean—‘thumb impression.’ ”
“You have a bank account?” Smita asked.
Something flashed in Meena’s eyes. “Had. Ammi made me empty it after I came home from the hospital. Otherwise, she said, she would sell Abru to the Christian nuns after she was born. She said rich women in foreign places pay lots of money for Hindustani babies.”
“She said . . . what?” Smita fought the urge to spit out her tea.
Meena nodded grimly. Then, her face softened. “What to do, Didi? That poor woman suffered a miserable loss, no? Imagine losing both her sons. All because of me. And in any case, she is the only grandma Abru has. So I let bygones be bygones.”
“Does she still threaten to—？”
“No. Not since I gave the money to her. Besides, my Abru takes after her father. Sometimes, when I catch Ammi’s eyes resting on my daughter’s face, I know she is missing her son. Every day, she is going half mad, trying to decide whether she loves or hates Abru for looking so much like Abdul.”
Could an Upper West Side therapist have shown greater psychological insight than Meena had? Could any priest, rabbi, or imam have shown a greater generosity of spirit than she had demonstrated? Smita wanted to set down her pen to take Meena’s hands in hers. Instead, she asked, “What exactly happened to Abdul’s younger brother? Ammi said . . . ?”
Meena’s eye turned cloudy. “He ran away, after he saved my life by taking me to the hospital. Kabir is the reason I am still living.” She paused for a long time, then said quietly, “I am tired, Didi. What to do, I am unused to exercising my tongue so much, these days. Also, I must go in and start cooking. I will tell you the rest of my story next time?”
“Of course,” Smita said, shutting her notebook.
But the truth was, she was disappointed by this abrupt end to the interview. She had earned the younger woman’s trust, but she wanted to know so much more. Would it be better to file a preliminary story immediately and do a follow-up after the actual verdict, as Shannon had suggested? Or should she file a single long narrative piece after the verdict?
Meena rose from the cot, jutting out her hip and resting Abru on it.
“One more thing,” Smita said. “You understand that I will also be contacting your brothers, right?”
The younger woman blanched and looked visibly shaken. Smita frowned. Shannon had quoted the brothers in her stories. Then, she remembered. Of course. Meena was illiterate. She had never read any of Shannon’s articles about herself.
As if she had sensed the tension in her mother, Abru turned her head to gaze at her. Meena kissed the top of her daughter’s head absently. “You do as you wish,” she said stiffly. “That is not my concern.”
Smita rose from the cot, also.
Meena began to walk toward Ammi’s hut, then looked back. “You ask them why they did such evil. Why they stole the only sun in my sky. My brother Govind and I were close as children. He used to call me his tara, his little star.”
“So this enmity is recent? He turned on you because of your marriage?”
“Even before that. He said Radha and I cut his nose when we took the factory job. All the other men in the village mocked him because we earned more than he did. He kept our full wages, but this made him hate us even more.”
“I don’t understand—” Smita began, but Meena shook her head and went inside the hut with Abru, leaving Smita to trail in behind them.
Mohan and Ammi were laughing together, their heads almost touching. For some reason, the sight irritated Smita. “Ready?” she said, and from Mohan’s expression, she could tell he was startled by the sharpness of her tone.