“So, don’t do it, yaar,” he said softly. “You’re not the one doing anything, right? But I’m not a journalist. I’m just a . . . concerned citizen.”
They continued staring at each other, and then Smita looked away. “Okay,” she said. She walked toward the door on the passenger side.
“Really?” Mohan said. “You’re giving in that easily?”
“Yup,” she said as she slid into the car. “I know when I’ve lost an argument.”
“Help me carry the sacks in?” Mohan asked when they got to Meena’s house.
“I can’t. It’s unprofessional. I can’t have them think that these are gifts from me.”
Mohan took a swig from his now-warm can of Coke. “Do you know how insulted they will be if they feel your displeasure?”
“You see how complicated this is getting? This is why I didn’t think buying them food was a good idea.”
As Mohan carried the groceries into Ammi’s house, Smita walked toward the clearing between the two huts, her eyes drawn to the burnt hovel. It looked blighted, a black heap that stood like an insult against an innocent blue sky. Given the ferocity of the fire, it was surprising that there was anything left of the structure.
Meena emerged from the hovel. She stood at the entrance, her left hand on her hip, her right hand shading her eyes from the sun as she peered at Smita. Behind the hut, the tall wild grasses moved lightly in the breeze, a contrast to Meena’s stillness. The next minute, Meena’s face flooded with recognition, and she broke out in a startled smile. Even from this distance, Smita could see the awful, irregular geometry of Meena’s face as past and present, normalcy and deformity, beauty and monstrosity, collided.
“Hello,” Smita said. “I hope we are not intruding.”
Meena took Smita’s hand in both of hers and held it. “Didi,” she said. “I’m so happy to see you. What brings you back so soon?”
Meena’s scarred hands felt rough against her own. “I wanted to talk to you a little bit more,” Smita said. “And Mohan wanted to drop off a few things for Ammi. For you and Abru, too.” She looked around. “Where is your little one?”
Meena pointed toward the other hut. “With her grandmother.”
“I see,” Smita said, unsure of whether to enter Ammi’s hut or wait for Mohan to emerge. As she hesitated, Abru came out. She was holding Mohan’s index finger with her right hand and sucking her left thumb as she tottered beside him. Mohan took short steps as he tried to match his strides to the little girl’s.
Meena inhaled sharply. “Ae, Bhagwan,” she murmured. “She thinks he is her father. He is the first man who has entered our home since she was born.”
Mohan got down on his haunches to talk to Abru. He whispered something to her, and Abru stared back with her big dark eyes. After a moment, Mohan rose, as if to walk away, but Abru reached out for him with her hand and gave a wordless cry.
“Look at her,” Meena said, her tone incredulous. “Just like—” She fell silent. Mohan had picked up Abru and was approaching them. He was making funny snorting noises as he rubbed his nose against her belly. The girl giggled helplessly.
A lump formed in Smita’s throat. Abru looked like a child transformed, with no indication of the sad, forlorn girl who had clung to her mother a few days before. Smita had been so busy with her interview that she had paid the most cursory attention to Abru. How little attention the child had required to come to life. Smita filled with regret at having protested Mohan’s generosity. What harm would it do for her to look the other way while Mohan dropped off a few groceries? The professional codes of American journalism had no bearing on the lives of people like Meena. Why had it not occurred to her to alleviate Meena’s suffering in the most basic of ways—with food that would outlast their visit; or by playing with a child who was so clearly starved for attention? She admired Mohan for how quickly and correctly he had read the situation.
Mohan stood before her, still holding Abru. “You want to hold her?”
Smita had no choice but to take the little girl in her arms. How light the child felt, her bones as hollow as a bird’s. She imagined Abru was light even by Indian standards. Could this be the reason why the girl wasn’t speaking yet, due to malnourishment? Smita remembered how her mother used to send milk and eggs home each day with the sweeper who cleaned their Mumbai apartment, so that the woman could feed her children a protein-rich diet. How Papa used to buy ice cream for the street urchins whenever they went to Chowpatty Beach, instead of giving them money. “How much does she weigh?” she asked and then regretted the question as she watched shame infuse the younger woman’s face.