“Nicely played.” Mohan smiled. “What about you? Where did you do your schooling?”
Smita stiffened, uneasy about sharing any details. But the last thing she wanted to do was offend Mohan again. “I went to Cathedral,” she said.
“Ah. Great school. I should’ve known.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning many of the posh Mumbaikars I work with went to Cathedral.”
“We weren’t posh.”
“No?”
“No,” she said. “I told you—my father is a professor.” The truth was they could have never afforded their flat in Colaba or any of the other luxuries they enjoyed if it weren’t for Papa’s inheritance. As much as Papa valued education, he couldn’t have sent her and Rohit to Cathedral on his salary.
“What did your parents do?” she asked.
“Well, my mother is a housewife.”
“And your dad?”
“My papa?” Mohan cleared his throat. For the first time since Smita had met him, he seemed evasive. “Well, my papa was a diamond merchant. You know, Surat is famous for—”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Your dad is a diamond merchant?”
“Ae, Smita. Relax, yaar. He was just a small-time guy.”
“I see,” Smita said. “You know what they call a small-time diamond merchant, right?” She waited for him to ask and, when he didn’t, she said, “A diamond merchant.”
“Very funny.”
“You know what’s really funny?”
“What?”
“That you’ve asked me so many questions about my life and you failed to mention that your father is a diamond merchant.”
“Yah, okay, you’re right. I should’ve told you what my father did right at the airport the night I picked you up. Before you mistook me for Shannon’s driver.”
“Touché,” she said with a laugh. But then something went wrong because she kept laughing, unable to stop. She was aware that she was being ridiculous, that Mohan was throwing her a worried look. But something was fueling this hysteria—a combination of fatigue and sadness and anger and . . . the blank looks on the faces of those elderly Muslim men a few moments before. Ammi’s harsh voice as she had berated Meena. The image of Meena stroking her daughter with her melted hand. The land outside this car bore so much suffering. This land is your land . . . The words of the Woody Guthrie song she’d always loved came into her head, but somehow the lyrics seemed ironic, malicious even. Like it or not, this, too, was her land and she felt implicated and ensnared in its twisted morality and contradictions.
She pursed her lips, wanting to apologize for her hysterical laughter. But before she could explain, her phone rang. “Excuse me,” she murmured, searching her purse, hoping it wasn’t Papa calling. “It’s the lawyer,” she whispered to Mohan.
“Hello? Smita? Anjali here.” The voice was as brisk as ever.
“Hi. Have they announced the date?”
“The verdict should come day after tomorrow,” Anjali said. “That’s what the clerk told my office today. And they will give us enough notice to get to the courthouse. Are you checked in at the motel?”
“Yes. Since yesterday. But—”
“Good. That’s perfect. It’s a little over an hour from there to the courthouse. We will call you as soon as we know what time you should be there.” Anjali cleared her throat. “Have you met Meena yet?”
“We just left her place a short time ago.”
“Sad case, eh?”
“Yes. Very.” Smita made a quick calculation. “Since we have a day in between, I’ll probably go meet with the brothers tomorrow. And then . . .”
“Excellent idea. Okay, well, see you the day after.”
“Wait—”
But Anjali had already hung up.
Smita shook her head as she put the phone away. “What’s this woman’s problem?” she muttered.
“You can’t imagine how busy she must be, yaar,” Mohan said.
“Do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Leap to every stranger’s defense?”
He shrugged.
“So, we’re going to meet the brothers tomorrow?” Mohan asked after a moment.
“Yes. And the village chief. Anjali thinks he’s the one who instigated the brothers.” The heaviness was back; she felt its weight. “Mohan,” she said, “you have a sister. Is there anything she could do, do you suppose, that would make you disown her? Much less, injure her?”