His voice was not angry. Rather, it was sad, like the music from a flute playing alone at night. But in that one minute, my whole life changed. His words cut open a belief I had held my whole life, but when I looked inside, there was nothing there. “This is not what I think,” I said. “It is what my brothers believe.”
A man and a little boy came toward us from the opposite direction, and we stopped talking again. “Salaam, how are you?” Abdul said to them as they passed, and the father nodded. I knew we were getting nearer to the side road that led to his village, and I slowed down. When the man and child were a good distance away, Abdul said, “Look to your right. There is a little road there and it leads to the river. If you wish, we can go there for a few minutes and talk in peace. No one will see us there.”
My heart was tight with fear. What had I done, to let this man think that I was the kind of woman who would go to the river with a stranger? I prayed for the earth to swallow me whole then and there.
“Meena ji,” Abdul said, “please don’t take offense. I know your good character. I am only asking this because I wish to share what is in my heart.”
I walked faster, wanting to get away.
“Please. Even if you refuse my request, please don’t be angry at me. I mean no disrespect. I would sooner disrespect my ammi than to disrespect you. Please believe me.”
I held my silence and kept walking. I walked past the little road where he had asked me to turn right. Soon, I thought, he would give up and I would make my way home alone.
Home. I saw the four of us at dinner later that night: Radha, angry because she had been stuck at home all day. Arvind, drunk as always. Govind, complaining nonstop about this and that. I saw us in that sad house, eating food that Radha and I provided, having to endure Govind’s insults and abuse. Govind, who would never forgive Radha and me for defying his orders. I felt the full weight of his darkness.
I stopped. I turned around and walked back until I reached the small side road that led to the river. Abdul made a small, joyful noise, but I ignored him.
And then, without looking at him, I turned onto that dusty road and walked into my rise and fall.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mohan had suggested that they drive to the seaside. Walking barefoot in the sand, the wind steady in her face, Smita felt free, as though she had more in common with the birds on this beach than with the woman who had sobbed in her bathroom a couple of hours earlier. “Thank you for this,” she said.
“Of course,” Mohan said.
“How come it’s so quiet here?” Smita asked, looking around the beach. “I thought it would be teeming with people, like every other place in India.”
“Oh, they will come when it gets dark,” Mohan said. “All the couples wanting to do hanky-panky.”
She laughed, watching Mohan’s face, translucent in the orange light. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his feet were as brown as the sand. “Can we sit for a moment?” she said.
“Sure.” They climbed up away from the water and sat on their haunches, staring at the sun setting into the sea, listening to the mesmerizing sound of the waves washing away the memories of the day.
Smita gave a start of surprise as pellets hit her back. She spun around. Three young urchins were perched behind a boulder, giggling and snickering as they threw small stones at her. “Kissy-kissy,” one said, contorting his face, wiggling his hips and pursing his lips. He lifted his arms in an exaggerated pantomime of an embrace. His performance was so hyperbolic that despite her annoyance, Smita laughed. But this only emboldened the youngest child, who stooped to pick up another stone. Mohan rose to his feet and raised his hand in a mock threat. “Saala idiot!” he roared. “You want me to call the police?”
The boys scattered almost immediately, but their laughter signaled how lightly they took Mohan’s threat. When they were a safe distance away, they looked back and made a kissing sound. But when Mohan took a step toward them, they fled.
He turned to her. “Sorry,” he said. “They meant no harm.”
“Mohan,” Smita said, “you don’t have to apologize for everything that happens in India, you know?”
He stood uncertainly for a moment, then sat back down. They continued looking at the slow descent of the sun into the water, turning the waves orange and gold. There were more people at the beach, couples and children appearing, the women in their saris squealing as the water tickled their bare feet.
“It never gets old,” Smita said. “No matter how many times one sees a sunset, it’s always as beautiful as the first time. Why do you suppose that is?”