“Everybody listened to the council?” Smita asked. “No one defied it?”
Meena looked shocked. “How can they do this? Anyone breaking his order would be punished themselves. Even if we went to the market, the shopkeepers wouldn’t talk to us. Bas, we had to put the money down on the counter. They took whatever amount they wished. No bargaining, nothing. Oh, and we could not touch the fruits or vegetables. We must take whatever they gave us.”
A long-forgotten memory sliced through Smita, its edges sharp. Her thirteenth birthday. Mummy and she coming home carrying a cake from the Taj and noticing Pushpa Patel coming from the opposite direction. Pushpa crossed the street to avoid talking to them. She forced herself to focus on Meena instead. “What did the council decide? About you and Abdul, I mean.”
Meena stared at the ground for a long time. “They decided to test me,” she said at last. “To examine if . . . if Abdul had defiled me.” She swallowed. “Rupal wanted to do . . . a private test. An inspection. To. . . find out.”
“Meena, if this is too hard . . .”
“No. It’s okay, Didi. You put this in your newspaper. So that the world will know what is this Hindustan.” She made an effort to look Smita in the eye. “I refused. I told Govind that if he allowed such shamelessness in his own home, I would walk into the river and drown myself.”
“Did Rupal let up after that?”
“They had to come up with another test to check my purity. They ordered me to walk over hot coals. If my feet got burned, it meant I was not . . . a virgin.”
Smita’s mouth went dry. She longed for the water bottle she had left in Mohan’s car. But there was no way to interrupt this interview to walk back to the vehicle. And unless she wanted to be laid up with dysentery for days, it was unthinkable to ask Meena for a drink of the dirty, unfiltered water in her home. She wished Mohan were around, but he was inside Ammi’s house. She could hear the older woman’s soft laughter in response something he was saying. “That’s absurd,” Smita said. “I mean, how could you possibly?”
“Rupal is a magic man, Didi. He had done this many times, no problem. But me?”
“So you refused?”
Meena began to cry. “They tied me. Tied me with a rope, like these Muslims tie a goat before they butcher it for Eid. They dragged me all the way to the village square, down the same road you just drove on. My own blood did this, Didi. And they forced me to walk on those white-hot coals. I took four steps only, and my feet smoked and crackled, just like those coals.”
Smita felt sick to her stomach.
“I fainted, and they pulled me out of the pit,” Meena said, in a low monotone. “Rupal had made his point. He made them believe that I was a soiled woman.”
“And, and, your feet?”
In reply, Meena lifted one leg and crossed her ankle over her knee. She pulled back her foot so that Smita could see. Even though Meena’s foot was dusty, Smita could see the raised burn marks. “Meena,” she said. “I just can’t . . . Oh God. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s nothing,” Meena said. “These scars are nothing. It is these scars that gave me the four months of happiness with my Abdul.”
“What do you mean?”
“They are what gave me the courage to run away.”
Before Smita could respond, Mohan and Ammi came out of the house. Abru was holding Mohan’s hand. “What’s up?” Smita said, annoyed at the intrusion.
“Maybe it’s time for us to take our leave,” Mohan said in a tone that signaled to Smita that the interruption was not his idea. “We still have a long drive.”
Smita gave Meena an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Yes, yes, you two go, beta,” Ammi said, addressing Mohan. “This one here has nothing better to do than lie around in leisure, unlike us working folks. Ya Allah, if someone had told me that I have to work at my age, while this lazy cow lounges around at home, I would’ve asked Him to strike me down and bury my bones. What has the world come to?”
Smita caught Mohan’s eye, imploring him to intervene. But he simply gazed back at her and she turned toward the old woman. “I’m sure it’s difficult for Meena to work given her . . .”—she struggled to find the Hindi word for disability—“condition. But, Ammi, taking care of a child is also full-time work, no?”
She saw Mohan shake his head in warning.
The old woman’s voice grew high-pitched and aggrieved. “Out of respect for you, I will keep my mouth shut, madam,” she said. “Because we are beholden to you, I will not tell you what a snake I have let into my household.” Ammi slammed her open palm against her forehead. “I must have some awful debts to repay. That’s why I am the only unfortunate in this whole community to be saddled with a Hindu daughter-in-law. Whose lowlife brothers are the reason my son is dead. How much I begged my Abdul to not allow this travesty into our peaceful home. But no . . .”