And that was how our love story began.
Years ago, a Christian priest visited our village, telling us tall stories about a man and a woman and an apple and a snake. Radha and I went to the meeting because they were giving free ice cream, but we left early after we realized that the priest was talking rubbish. Why should the woman be punished for eating an apple? Or for taking it back to her husband? This is what women are supposed to do—share their food. “Didi, instead of blaming her, the husband should have been happy that his wife shared the fruit with him, na?” Radha said.
I agreed with her.
But after Abdul died for my sins, I understood what the priest was trying to say.
I should never have taken a bite of that mango.
Chapter Eighteen
Rupal Bhosle lived in a two-story house at one end of the village. If the house didn’t give away his status as the richest man in Vithalgaon, the deference shown to him by his many employees did. A servant had run into the big house to inform Rupal of Smita and Mohan’s arrival, and he had come out to meet them in his compound. As they stood chatting, Rupal gave a sudden kick to the young boy who was washing one of his two cars. “Saala, chutiya, keep your eyes on your work,” Rupal said. The boy bobbed his head and beamed, as if Rupal had paid him a compliment. “Yes, boss. Sorry, boss,” he said.
Rupal led them to the back veranda. A large swing hung from the rafters, but he motioned them toward some rattan chairs. The house was surrounded by sugarcane fields, and Smita could see bare-chested men working in the distance. In the fierce heat of the day, their blackened skin made them look like silhouettes against the blue of the sky. Rupal lowered his lanky frame into a chair across from Smita and blocked her view.
He was a tall man with a lush mustache and a long, dolorous face. His light-brown eyes were framed by thick, dark eyelashes. Smita thought that he would have been handsome except for the twist of his lips that gave him an expression of cruelty. Every few seconds, he glanced at Mohan, who had chosen to wander away and was standing a few feet away.
“Will you take something?” Rupal asked expansively. “Chai, coffee, Coca-Cola?”
“No thanks,” Smita said. “We just had tea at Govind’s place.”
“Ah, Govind. He’s a good boy. Good boy.” He yawned a prodigious yawn. “So, you say that girl, Shannon, has her wicket down? For how long?”
“Excuse me?”
“Arre, baba. For how long will she be out of commission?”
“Oh. I’m not sure.” Smita cleared her throat. “In any case . . . As I explained, I’m hoping to write a story about when the verdict comes in. And I thought I should interview you. Because Meena said you . . .”
“Ah, Meena. I tried warning that foolish girl to not step into that den of temptation. But did she listen? No. And so, everything happened just as I had predicted.”
“You predicted that she would be burned alive?” Smita tried, but failed, to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
Rupal looked deeply into her eyes. “I can see backwards and forwards in time, miss,” he said. “From the beginning of the world until the end of time. I am having that power.”
“And when was that?” said Mohan, walking back toward them. “The beginning of the world?”
Not again, Smita thought, feeling her stomach muscles tense. Don’t fuck this up for me, Mohan.
But Rupal seemed oblivious to the challenge in Mohan’s query. “Easy question, sir,” he said. “The universe was created about two hundred years ago. Around the time the demon Ravana and the god-prince Rama were living on Earth.”
Mohan’s lips twitched. “Accha? And you can see all the way back two hundred years? Wow.”
“Hah.” Rupal nodded, puffing out his chest. “But to predict what end this girl Meena would meet, I didn’t even need to go back so far. I just told her brothers the truth—stitching those Western clothes, working beside people from unknown castes and creeds, would corrupt her morals. That is exact-to-exact what happened.” Rupal gave a triumphant smile. “And that’s why I told them how to end their problem.”
“End their problem?”
“Yes. With her falling under the spell of that worshipper of Muhammad.” Rupal turned his gaze toward Smita. “What to do, miss? In the old days, we could count on the police to help. A few slaps at the police station, and bas, the fellow would have come to his senses. But these days.” He sighed dramatically. “These days, even the police and the politicians are too afraid of these terrorists who create trouble wherever they go. They do the same mischief in your country, also, isn’t it? With that 9/11 tamasha? So it falls upon honest citizens to take matters into their own hands.”