“I’m not sure,” Meena murmured. “Anjali took Abru to the doctor a few months ago. She gave us a list of powders to help her gain weight. But . . .” Her voice trailed off, but Smita found it easy to fill in the blanks. No money for the supplements and no ability to earn any.
Smita cleared her throat. “Will you return to the factory someday?” she asked as gently as she could. “After, you know, Abru is a little older?”
“There is no factory. The owners closed it after the union strike.” Meena’s voice was bitter. “They say that the building is just sitting empty. We heard that they moved the whole business to another desh, where they pay people less money than us.”
Smita nodded. It was an old story—capital chasing labor to an even poorer country. Most likely, they had left India to move to Cambodia or Vietnam. Or maybe they had relocated to a more impoverished part of India. “Do you remember who gave you this news?” she said. “Was it Anjali?”
For the first time since she’d met Meena, the woman looked cagey. “It was a message. From my sister. She got away from her husband’s house to use a telephone after she heard about my lawsuit. She found the number for Anjali’s office and left a long message for me.”
“You’ve been in touch with her?” Smita asked sharply.
“No, no, no, Didi. How could I? Radha didn’t leave a number. Bas, there was just that one phone call.”
Smita nodded, then ducked to prevent Abru from tugging at her hair. The child lurched silently toward Mohan. “I think she wants you,” Smita called, and Mohan hurried back to them, taking Abru from her arms. The girl grabbed Mohan’s sunglasses and twirled them in her hand.
Smita turned laughingly toward Meena but was horrified to see that the younger woman was crying. “Forgive me, Didi.” Meena brushed away her tears. “What to do? These tears are traitors. They fall in times of sorrow and of happiness. Today, they come from happiness. Your husband has drawn laughter from my daughter’s lips. May God bless both of you with many children of your own.”
“What else did your sister say?” Smita asked.
“Mostly she was calling to let me know she was sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“For dragging me to the factory job against my wishes. Because I only went to protect her.”
“Because that’s where you met Abdul?”
“Yes. At first, we managed to hide it from Radha. But once she found out, she begged me to stop my romance.” Meena looked into the distance. “Then, it was my turn to be defiant.”
“Did she . . . was she the one who told your brothers?”
Meena shook her head. “She would never betray me. My Radha.” Suddenly, she slapped herself on the cheek. “No, I was stupid enough to tell my brothers myself. Because once love blossomed between Abdul and me, we did not want to hide it, Didi. We were so proud of our love. That is how unworldly we were. Abdul begged me to inform them myself, before the news reached them.”
“Do you mind if we sit?” Smita gestured toward the rope cot outside Ammi’s hut. “And I will take some notes?” Mohan, she saw, had gone back inside Ammi’s hovel.
The two women sat side by side. “So many times I wonder, did I make a mistake telling Govind about Abdul?” Meena said.
“Why did you? Since he hated Muslims so much?”
Meena’s eye was cloudy as she stared ahead. “Because love had softened my heart, Didi. Abdul’s kind nature made me kind. I was happy, so I wanted to share my happy with others. At night, I would look at Govind’s tired face, and my heart would ache at how miserable he looked. I would remember how much he had loved me when we were young. It was as if my love for Abdul made me see other people’s pain. But it also made me blind to the evil in the world. Do you understand my meaning?”
“I’m not sure,” Smita said.
“Radha begged me not to tell. But I said, ‘Little sister, Abdul and I wish to marry. How long can I keep this secret? Better he hears it from my lips than from someone else.’ ”
“So what happened?”
“Govind went to Rupal for advice. And Rupal called a village council meeting.” Meena spoke in a monotone, her face immobile. “He had already punished Radha and me by forbidding all our neighbors from talking to us. Think of that, Didi. Friends we had grown up with, grandmothers who had known us from the moment of our birth, people we had celebrated and mourned with—none of them speaking to us. With a snap of his fingers, Rupal had turned us into ghosts.”