Was the man really lying to her face? But then, why was she surprised? “Meena says it was the two of you. That she saw you with her own eyes.”
Govind spat on the floor. “Of course she is saying this. That Muslim beef-eater told her what to say.”
“Her husband? How could he? He’s dead.”
The man’s face grew defiant. “Maybe the kutta didn’t die straight away. How do we know what he said or did?”
Smita felt as if Govind was a large silverfish she was trying to reel in. One false move on her part, and he would slip away. “You’re saying you don’t know who killed Abdul?” she said at last.
“Memsahib, you are asking the incorrect question.” Govind shook his head impatiently. “Who cares who burned that dog alive? Why did they do it? That is question no one is asking. They did it to protect the honor of all Hindus. To teach those Muslim dogs their proper station in life.”
Smita opened her mouth to speak, but Govind raised his hand to cut her off. “It’s like this. My brother and I are sitting on the floor before you because this is our rightful place. You understand? We are all having our stations in life. God has made it so. We have allowed these Muslim dogs to live in our Hindustan as our guests. But a dog must know who is its master, correct? Muslims must keep to their own villages and, above all, they must stay away from our women. That is a fact.” He lowered his voice. “This is their jihad. You understand? They force our women to bear their children so they can multiply and take over Hindustan.”
“But Meena says nobody forced her,” Smita said. “She says she loved her husband.”
Govind stared at the floor. When he looked up, Smita saw that a muscle in his jaw was convulsing. “How this can be, memsahib?” he said. “What you suggest is against the natural order of things. Can a fish fall in love with a cow? Can a crow fall in love with a tiger?”
Smita gave Mohan a quick glance, but she was unable to read his expression. “So, you have no regrets for what you’ve—what has happened to Meena?” she asked, hearing the hollowness in her own voice.
Govind smiled faintly. “I have regrets, for sure,” he said softly. “I regret that my sister survived. And most of all, I regret that the bastard child she was carrying is still alive. She even brought the infant to court when she appeared before the judge-sahib. Can you imagine? It was as if she wanted to defile the whole court with her excrement.”
The blood rushed to Smita’s face as she remembered Abru’s sweet face. She wanted to stand up and yell obscenities at this vile man, to rain blows on his head. Instead, she looked at a spot on the wall beyond him until she could trust herself to speak. “The child is innocent,” she said.
“I made my peace with Meena leaving our home to go live in sin with that man,” Govind said. “She humiliated me three times, memsahib. Once when she defied me and took the factory job. The second time when she ran away to Birwad to live with those Muslim chamars. The whole village spat at me then, but still I did nothing to avenge the insult. My mistake. But the third disrespect was intolerable. They came to my door with a box of sweets, holding hands, pointing to the evil she was carrying in her belly. The shameless whore and her Muslim pimp came and defiled my doorstep. Holding her head high. As if it wasn’t a crime against God, that thing growing in her belly.” Govind choked back angry tears. “What was I supposed to do? Tolerate their evil? Allow him to call me his brother-in-law, as if we were equals in the eyes of God?”
“Couldn’t you have just asked them to leave?”
“That I did. They ran home with their tails between their legs, like the mongrels they were. But memsahib, when the crops in my field go bad and don’t give the good-proper yield, you know what we have to do? We must burn the fields to the ground. Then, the next year, the crops grow back stronger. That is what had to be done—the land had to be cleansed. I just regret that two of the crops are still growing.”
There was a sudden, charged silence in the room, as if they all realized that Govind had almost confessed to Abdul’s murder. After long minutes, Mohan spoke into the silence. “You say you’ve seen her in court. So you are aware of the damage the fire has done? Her one eye is melted shut. Half of her face is gone. But it is not enough for you?”
Govind opened his mouth to answer, but Mohan was staring directly at him, holding his gaze, and after a moment, Govind looked away and stared at the floor. “Your ways of life are different than ours, sir,” he said at last.