My brother had become a stranger. I remembered how he used to carry me on his shoulders when I was a child and tell me that I was taller than he was. How he used to buy me ice candy when he took me to the festival each year. Every Diwali, even as he dressed in tatters, Govind would buy Radha and me a new sari each. But our working at the factory had turned his love into rage, and brought this hard, contemptuous look to his eyes.
Remembering how Govind had looked at me made me shake Arvind harder. “Ai, ai, ai,” he complained. “What is it?”
“Get up,” I hissed. “Come see your friend Rupal’s handiwork, you lazy drunk.”
Arvind looked at me. “Have you gone mad, sister?” he said.
“Mad? You care about nothing but the bottle, and you call me ‘mad’？ Now, hurry up. Some of us are having to work to support this family.”
He followed me outside. When he saw the dead goat, he looked like he was going to cry. He has always been a little soft, Arvind. But on that morning, I didn’t care. “This is the evil that Rupal did,” I said. “Now, you go clean up this mess.”
“What? Me? This is not my work. This is . . .”
“We are going to our job, Arvind. The boss yells at us if we are even one minute late. As it is, we are going to have to run the whole way. This poor animal better be gone before we come home. And wash the front of the house with hot water. If I find one drop of blood . . .”
“This is women’s work!” Arvind yelled. He spat on the ground. “This is why women are forbidden from having jobs outside the home. Rupal is right. You are acting like a man. I now see the truth of his words.”
Radha stood in front of him. She was still shaking, but her face was hot with fury. “Chup re, stupid. Don’t show off your ignorance to the whole world. As is it, people make fun of you. Now, do what Meena Didi asked. Otherwise, not one more paisa for your daru. You hear me?”
The look on Arvind’s face made the breath catch in my throat. It was pure hatred.
As children, we were taught to be afraid of tigers and lions. Nobody taught us what I know today—the most dangerous animal in this world is a man with wounded pride.
Chapter Sixteen
As Smita knocked on the door of the house, she could hear the radio playing within. She waited for a moment, then knocked again, a little louder. She looked over her shoulder as Mohan got out of the car and came around to where she stood. “No answer?” he asked, and she shook her head.
A goat bleated from under the banyan tree to which it was tied. The sun glittered like a medallion in the blue of the sky. Smita wiped the sweat off her brow onto her sleeve. Meena had mentioned that her younger brother was almost always home, her revulsion at his sloth evident on her face. Well, if the fellow was hungover, that would explain why he hadn’t come to the door.
She went to knock again, but Mohan gestured for her to step aside. He made a fist and pounded on the sturdy door as Smita gazed up at the house, taking in the brick exterior and tiled roof. So this was the house that Meena had built them out of her earnings. Even though the workmanship was crude and some of the bricks were coming loose, it was a palace compared with Meena’s current dwelling.
“Saala, kon hai?” They heard the voice from inside, loud and belligerent, before they heard the footsteps. There was the sound of something being knocked over; they heard a man grunting and then swearing under his breath. A minute later, the door flung open. “What?” the man yelled, glaring at Mohan. He was rail thin, with a mop of thick, disheveled hair.
Mohan took a step back. Then, in a haughty, aggressive tone that startled Smita, he said, “How long did we have to knock? And which one of the two are you?”
The belligerence drained out of the other man’s face and was replaced by sullenness. “My name is Arvind, ji,” he muttered. “Are you the police inspector?”
Smita knew in a flash what she had witnessed—the assertion of power by an educated, affluent man against someone of lower status; Mohan telegraphing his dominance simply by striking the right tone and posture. It disheartened her, but she couldn’t think about that. Instead, she took a step toward the man. “Hello. My name is Smita. I’m from a newspaper in America,” she said, wishing her Hindi was not so stilted. “You’ve talked to my friend Shannon before. I just wanted to chat a little bit about your sister, Meena, and you know, the court case.”
Arvind spat at the mention of his sister. “I know no Meena,” he said. “My sister Meena is dead.”