Govind smiled apologetically. “Since both our women are gone, my brother and I have to do all the cooking-cleaning these days.”
“That’s okay,” Mohan said. “I do everything for myself, also.”
“You are big-city folks, sir,” Govind said. “Life is different for us. Here it is a matter of dishonor for us to do women’s work.”
Mohan looked like he was about to argue, so Smita stepped in to preempt him. “What news do you hear about Radha?” she asked as she discreetly pulled out her notebook.
Govind shrugged. “What is there to say? Radha is lucky I was able to find her a husband after the scandal.”
“You mean from Meena’s marriage?”
His lips curled at the mention of Meena’s name. “Yes, of course. But even before that.” He chewed on the wad of tobacco in his mouth. “No woman in our village had ever left home to go work for strangers. It is the strictest taboo. It is my misfortune that both my sisters defied not only my authority but also the authority of our village elders.”
“Why is it so wrong for women to work?” Smita asked.
Govind looked at her incredulously. “Because it is the law, passed down from our forefathers. God made it so, this division of labor. It is the destiny of women to birth and raise children and keep the house. Men are the breadwinners. Everyone knows this”—Govind threw Smita a contemptuous look—“at least in Vithalgaon.”
“I heard you tried to stop them from working at the factory?”
“Memsahib, I did everything in my power. I begged them, pleaded with them, asked them to consider the honor of our forefathers. Our village chief forbade anyone from even speaking to them. We tried everything. But some demon had entered into them. Some people in the village swore they saw a black halo around them when they went to work each morning.”
Smita fought to hide her astonishment at Govind’s performance. Talk about playing the victim, she thought. She considered her next question, but just then Arvind came to the doorway of the house. “What do you wish me to do?” he called. “Bring the tea out?”
Govind hesitated, and Smita saw her chance. “Please, may we enter your home? The sun is really strong today.”
“Memsahib, this evil sun is always strong. Working in the fields every day—that is why my skin is tough as leather.”
Smita felt suitably chastised. “Indeed,” she said.
There was a brief pause, and then Govind appeared to have come to a decision. “Please, memsahib,” he said. “Welcome to our home.”
They walked into a long, rectangular room with three wooden folding chairs and a small television set. There was no other furniture. Smita caught a glimpse of a mattress on the floor of the next room before Govind directed her attention to one of the wooden chairs. “Please to sit,” he said, to Mohan and Smita. And after they did, he sat on his haunches in front of them.
Mohan half rose. “Won’t you . . . ?” he said, pointing to the third chair.
Govind smiled bashfully. “It is our custom, seth. You are our superior.”
Mohan laughed. “Arre, bhai. What’s all this talk of superior-inferior?”
But Govind remained on the floor. After a moment, he yelled to his brother. “Ae, where’s the chai, you good-for-nothing?” Arvind appeared with two glasses of tea, handed them silently to the two visitors, and took his place on the floor next to his brother.
Smita took a sip. “It’s good tea,” she said politely, but Arvind looked back at her blankly. She noticed that he had wetted and slicked back his hair while in the kitchen. She took another sip, set the glass on the floor, and picked up her notebook as matter-of-factly as she could, aware that the brothers were watching her every move. “So,” she said, “do you think the judge will rule in your favor?”
Arvind stole a glance at his older brother, waiting for him to speak. The minutes ticked by. In the silence, Smita heard the distant bleating of the goat. “He will definitely vote in our favor,” Govind said suddenly. “God is just, and He is on our side. That whore can go to any court in the country, but the truth will prevail.”
Beside her, Smita heard Mohan’s sharp intake of breath. “The truth?” she asked. “Did you—did you not,” she hesitated, wanting to phrase the question as delicately as she could, “did you not try to kill, that is, set Meena’s hut on fire?”
Govind’s eyes searched the room before resting on Smita’s face. “Someone did,” he muttered. “Who, we cannot say.”