But today, talking to Smita has made a restless wind inside of me. Today, I want it to carry me away like a seed and plant me in new soil. What had Smita said? That after the judgment, I could make a fresh start. But even if I were the kind of woman who could abandon Ammi, where would I go? Is there a place where my face will not cause babies to burst into tears? What foolish employer would hire a woman such as me? No, there is nowhere for me to live other than in the place where my life ended.
“So much food,” Ammi says. “God bless that boy. Maybe I will invite Fouzia for dinner tonight.”
My heart twists at those words. Fouzia is Ammi’s childhood friend. During the first four months of my marriage, before the calamity came, when our house shook with laughter and Ammi’s eyes landed like butterflies on her sons’ faces, Fouzia used to come over each afternoon to take tea with Ammi. Fouzia was like a second mother to Abdul and Kabir, but her real son has prohibited her from visiting us, afraid that our bad luck will spread to his home. Mohan babu’s gift has made Ammi briefly forget how all of Birwad has shunned us. Fouzia will not step into our misfortune.
Then, her face gets dark with anger as she remembers how alone she is, stuck with a daughter-in-law she hates and a granddaughter whose resemblance to her son is a thorn in her eyes. But she recovers. “More food for us,” she says. “That Fouzia eats like an elephant. Always did.” She begins to plan dinner, rubs her belly as if the meal is already in her. Abru looks at her carefully, ready to run away from her if scolded, ready to run into her arms if called. Now, Ammi is promising Abru some kheer, and from this I know that Mohan babu must have also given her some money. How else would she be able to afford the milk for such a treat?
Perhaps Ammi will take Abru with her to the marketplace, and I will have the peace to do the only thing that brings me peace—dream of my Abdul. It is only in my dreams that I can still see his face properly. He is beginning to fade from me, like the moon rising higher in the sky. I am ashamed of myself for such faithlessness. What kind of wife forgets her husband?
I had wanted to tell Smita about how my burnt feet led me to Abdul.
If Rupal had not forced me to walk on those hot coals, if my own blood had not roped and dragged me into the village square, maybe I would have listened to Govind’s warnings about marrying outside our faith. Maybe my fear of God would have overshadowed my love for Abdul. Because a woman can live in one of two houses—fear or love. It is impossible to live in both at the same time.
But even as my brothers tied and dragged me like a dumb beast, I knew I was not an animal. As the smoke rose from my hissing feet and just before I fainted, I said to myself: I am a woman who has walked on fiery coals and lived.
For the next two weeks, I remained at home with Radha and Arvind. Govind left strict instructions with Arvind to make sure I didn’t leave the house. Every day Radha put ointment and cool rags on my feet. My whole body burned with fever. Rupal came one afternoon to check on me, but Radha chased him out of the house with a broom. I smiled when she told me. Little Typhoon, I used to call her when she was little.
Radha helped me run away.
When the fever finally left my body and I began to speak again, I told her the truth: If Govind forced me to marry some someone else, I would take rat poison and kill myself. Radha cried the first time I spoke of this. “Why, Didi?” she yelled. “Why do you want to marry that Muslim fellow? He will take four wives and have twelve children. Why do you choose such a life?”
“Abdul? Take four wives?” I laughed. “He’s not like that, Radha. He wants us to be a modern couple. Like, like . . . Shah Rukh Khan and Gauri.”
Radha blinked. Shah Rukh Khan was Radha’s favorite actor. She was mad about him. “But, Didi,” she said at last, “that’s different. They are living in Mumbai. We are stuck here in this tiny village. Govind dada will never allow this marriage.”
Love against fear.
In the end, Radha’s love for me proved stronger than her fear. She did what I asked: We took some of the money Govind gave us for household expenses and bought Arvind a bottle of daru. For his birthday, Radha said. “Save this for dinnertime,” she told him. Of course he drank the full bottle before it was noon. When he was passed out, lying with his mouth open, she helped fit me into the slippers she had made, with layers of leaves and cotton wool at the bottom. The cotton stuck to the ointment on my cracked feet, but I did not complain. Like thieves, we crept out. I took one last look at the house I had helped build with my sweat. But there was no time to linger.