As they got closer to Vithalgaon, Mohan, too, fell silent. Smita looked out of the window at a grove of trees as Mohan slowed down to let a youth on a wobbly bicycle cross the road. She watched a farmer walking behind two skeletal oxen pulling a primitive-looking plough across a field and felt as if she were watching a scene from two hundred years ago. She noticed the garland of yellow marigolds coiled around the beasts’ horns, and for some reason, the tenderness of the gesture broke her heart. This, too, was her country, this inheritance, her birthright. Except that it wasn’t. She had been deprived of it, much as Meena had been. Of course there was no comparison between what she had suffered and what was done to Meena—Smita’s hand flew involuntarily to her unblemished face. But despite her privilege, her heart ached, and she felt a different kind of homesickness than what she’d felt for New York—the loss of something that had never fully belonged to her.
And yet, none of this—this bifurcated sense of self, this rending—was extraordinary. If her years as a reporter had taught her anything, it was these two things: One, the world was filled with people who were adrift, rudderless, and untethered. And two, the innocent always paid for the sins of the guilty.
A memory floated into her head, distant but breathtakingly sharp. Smita—at age eight or nine?—being pulled into Pushpa Auntie’s lap, snuggling into the warmth of the older woman’s flabby body, Pushpa’s upper arms flapping as she hugged Smita. “See?” Pushpa was saying to her son. “See how she sits in my lap? All cuddly-cuddly. Not like you. Mr. Stuck-up.”
“She’s a girl,” Chiku said contemptuously. “And she’s a year younger than me.”
What was she remembering? And why was Chiku scowling and rubbing the back of his head?
After lunch at Chiku’s flat, the three of them—Rohit, Chiku, and herself—lounged on the sectional. Smita and her brother each read an Enid Blyton novel from their father’s prized first-edition collection while Chiku flipped through the pages of Filmfare. From where they sat, they could hear Pushpa Auntie yelling at the servant in the kitchen. During one particularly fervent string of insults flung by Pushpa Auntie, Rohit looked up from his book and winked at his sister. Smita winked back. They both loved Pushpa Auntie and knew that the woman’s bark was worse than her bite.
“God,” Chiku spat out suddenly, “I hate her.”
“Who?” they asked in unison.
“Who? My mother, who else? She drives me mad.”
Rohit and Smita exchanged a shocked look. They couldn’t imagine talking about their mummy in such a manner. As if he’d read their mind, Chiku said, “I wish your parents would adopt me.”
“But your mummy’s nice,” Smita said.
Chiku shook his head. “I can’t stand her.”
Pushpa came into the living room, her cheeks flushed. Smita felt a pang of sympathy. She had always thought of Pushpa Auntie as being as robust and resilient as a battleship. But seeing her through Chiku’s hostile eyes, she felt a strange sympathy for her mother’s best friend. She wondered if Chiku’s mother knew how he felt about her, and her heart ached at the thought. She shut her novel as she got to her feet. “Shall I get you a glass of water, Auntie?” she said. “It’s a hot day.”
Pushpa Auntie smiled as she settled into a nearby chair. “Thank you, my child,” she said as Smita exited the room. Suddenly, she leaned forward and smacked Chiku on the back of his head. “See? See how your friends treat their elders? Unlike you, you worthless junglee. When have you ever fetched your poor mother a glass of water? Look at them, reading real books while you read your stupid film magazines.”
Chiku rubbed his head as he glared at his mother. He was still glaring at her when Smita returned to the living room, and Pushpa held out her arms and pulled her into her lap.
Even after all these years, Smita could feel Pushpa Auntie’s damp skin against her own and smell the woman’s signature perfume. How could she reconcile this memory with the cold reception that she had recently received? How could that loving woman, in whose lap she’d felt so warm and safe, betray them the way she had? The two families had been so close, all of them flitting in and out of the two apartments throughout Smita’s childhood. Smita tried to imagine her own parents not protecting Chiku if the roles had been reversed, but her imagination failed her. It wasn’t as if Papa and Mummy were perfect—they weren’t. But that was rule number three she’d learned from her years as a foreign correspondent: In every country, in every crisis, there are a handful of people who will stand against the tide. Her parents belonged to that small minority. Smita’s heart tore open with gratitude at this thought, but in the next moment, she remembered that one of those good people was dead. She bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying.