Sushil had given them a new identity. Asif had been forced to shed the name bestowed upon him by his father and instead take a name chosen for him by an illiterate street thug. Everything about them was new. What was that term Christians in America used? Born again. They had been born again.
They would start afresh in a new country, among new people. He would move heaven and earth to get an appointment at a university in America.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
They sat in silence in Mohan’s living room, Smita sobbing quietly, Mohan riveted in place. Finally, after the longest time, Smita spoke. “I’m sorry. You see, I couldn’t . . .”
“Don’t,” Mohan said, his voice hoarse. He crossed the room, sat next to her, and took her hand in his. Everything that the gesture telegraphed—sympathy, solidarity, caring—made Smita come undone, and she began to cry harder.
“One impulsive phone call,” Smita said. “With one phone call to Chiku, I upended all our lives. It was my fault, you see? Everything that followed was my fault.”
“Smita, no, no, no,” Mohan said. “How can you believe this? You were a child.”
Smita barely heard him. “We had never thought of ourselves as anything but Indian,” she said. “We were not a religious family, and Mumbai was the only home we knew . . .”
“Yes, of course.”
“But, Mohan. This incident changed more than just our lives. It changed how we saw ourselves. We were suddenly made to feel like strangers in the only home we’d ever known. In some ways, we felt more welcomed in Ohio than we did in my old neighborhood, after Sushil entered our lives.”
Mohan put his arm around Smita’s shoulders in a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Smita opened her mouth to say more when her phone rang. It was Anjali calling. On a Sunday morning.
Reluctantly, she pulled away from Mohan and reached for her phone. She took a moment to compose herself before she answered, aware that Mohan was watching her.
“Hi, Anjali,” Smita said, brushing the tears from her eyes. “How are you?”
“Fine. I have news. We have a firm date. It’s on Wednesday. Okay?”
A few days before, Smita would have been dismayed by the delay. Now, she didn’t mind so much.
“Of course we won’t know the exact time until that morning,” Anjali said. “It’s at least a five-hour drive from Mumbai. So maybe you should stay at the motel the night before.”
“Actually, I’m in Surat. So it won’t take as long—”
“Surat? What’s in Surat?”
“I—I’m just visiting a friend.”
“Oh, I see. Well, it will be a shorter drive. I don’t know how many hours of notice we’ll get.”
“That’s what I was worried about.”
“Okay. Good. Give my salaams to Shannon when you talk with her.”
“I will.” Smita hesitated. “Anjali?”
“Yes?”
“What—what happens after the verdict?”
“What do you mean? Hopefully, they’ll be locked up for years.”
“Yes, I know. But I mean, what happens to Meena?”
There was a lengthy silence, and Smita’s heart sank. “I don’t know,” Anjali said at last. “I guess she’ll continue living with her mother-in-law.”
Smita was silent.
Anjali sighed. “Look, I know you want a different answer. But I’m a straight shooter. Okay? This isn’t America, unfortunately. This is India.”
“But you will . . . Will you stay in touch with her?”
There was another strained silence. When Anjali spoke, she sounded distracted. “Can we talk in person on Wednesday? I have so much paperwork to do today.”
Smita felt immediately chastised. “Yeah, of course.”
“Sorry, not to be rude, but . . .”
“No. I understand. I do.”
Smita hung up and looked down at her chewed-up fingernails. When the hell had she started chewing her nails? India was a fucking wrecking ball, affecting her nervous system, her psyche.
“I could hear what she was saying,” Mohan said. “She sounds like a cold fish.”
She smiled at his attempt at sympathy. “I don’t think she is. Can you imagine how hard it must be, doing the kind of work she does day in and day out?”
“I can’t. But honestly, I also cannot imagine doing the work you do.”
“I love my job,” she said. “It’s a privilege, telling people’s stories.”