“Insulted you? If loving you is an insult, then I insult my ammi. Then I insult my God.”
“Ae, Bhagwan. What blasphemy is this?”
“Meena,” he said, “don’t you understand? I love you as much as I love my ammi. The way I love Allah.”
“Then you must find a woman who, like you, also worships Allah.”
He gave me such a long, sad look, it ruined my heart. “I wish. I wish I could find her. But it is too late. Because from the first minute I saw you, my heart was in your hands.”
“How can it be so?” My voice was thin, angry. “How can a Muslim love a Hindu?”
He covered his face in his hands, as if he could not bear to look at me. They were the same color as Govind’s. I thought: Are Abdul’s hands Muslim? Are his fingernails Muslim? Is his skin? What made him a Muslim? What made me a Hindu? Just the family I was born into?
I wanted to share my thoughts with Abdul, but I could not find the words. I cursed my lack of schooling. I could not make the pretty words the way he could.
Abdul looked up and stared at the river. “I am a Hindustani first,” he said quietly. “First, I worship my desh. Next, I worship my religion. I am not looking for a Hindu or Muslim or Christian girl. I just want a fellow Hindustani.”
“You don’t even know me,” I said. “Bas, a few minutes of watching me work each day, and you think you understand me.”
“I know your heart, Meena.” His eyes shone like the pebbles in the river. “I know your good heart. My intentions are honorable. I want to bring the marriage proposal for you to your brothers.”
In our caste, it is common for the bride and groom to meet for the first time on their wedding day. A matchmaker or a relative brings the match. Horoscopes are drawn. Inquiries about the family are made. The dowry amount is settled. Most importantly, the groom and bride are from the same caste. Only then are the wedding plans drawn. Abdul was talking as if he didn’t know about any of these timeless traditions. Maybe in his religion the rules were different?
“My older brother would never allow such a match,” I said. “Not only are you not from our caste, you are a Muslim. You don’t know Govind. He will be insulted. When he gets angry, he acts like a wild water buffalo.”
Then, Abdul said something that showed me that he was either a saint or a mad man. “What business is it of his, who you marry? I’m wanting to marry you, not him. So it’s up to you to reject or accept me.”
“You are pagal!” I yelled, jumping off the tree branch. “A total loss. I am a girl from a decent family. My brother is like my father to me. How can I marry without his permission?”
Abdul looked at me with his sad, hurt eyes. His sadness cut me so deeply, I wanted to cut him back. “Everyone knows you Muslims are not children of God. But my religion teaches me to respect our elders,” I said, walking away.
He slid off the branch and began to follow me, but I yelled, “Don’t take another step toward me! Do you understand what will happen to you if I tell anyone how you insulted me?”
He stopped. “I meant no harm. Please hear me out.”
But I didn’t. I ran down the road and back to the main path. I ran almost the whole way until I reached our house.
It was only when I went to sleep that I allowed myself to remember Abdul’s hands. And once again, I tried to solve the puzzle—what exactly made him a Muslim? I imagined myself examining a long row of hands. How would I know which ones were Muslim?
And even if I did, would I pick the Hindu hands?
Chapter Twenty-Three
In the morning, Smita got to the dining room first. She waited, rebuffing the waiter’s repeated attempts to get her to place her order. She was debating whether she should call Mohan when she saw him hurrying in. He was carrying his car keys. “What’s up?” she said. “You went out this morning?”
“Yah.” Mohan’s face was sweaty. “I went to the market to pick up a few things.”
After breakfast, Smita fetched her suitcase and met Mohan in the parking lot.
Mohan popped open the car trunk. There were three large cloth sacks, containing sugar, dal, and rice. “Are we taking food to Surat?” she asked. “So much for just a few days?”
“No,” he said. “These are for Meena and Ammi.”
“Mohan,” she began, “you know I can’t do this. I looked away the other day when you gave Ammi cash. But as a journalist, I can’t pay for stories. As sorry as I feel for them, it’s unethical for me to take them gifts.”