“Hai Allah, hai Allah,” Ammi says, finally understanding what’s going on. I turn to her. “Ammi!” I yell. “You go with Abru. Hide in the field with her, I beg you.”
Ammi picks up Abru and runs. Halfway to the field, she turns around. “You come, too.”
I shake my head. “Go. Now!” I say. If no one is home when they arrive, they will burn the field down, looking for us. I turn to look at the road. That’s when I see the tips of the torches, carried by the men coming my way.
I turn quickly to look back at Ammi. Carrying Abru is slowing her down. She will need a few extra minutes to find a good hiding place deep in the grass. Help me save our daughter, Abdul, I pray. Then, I bend down and pick up as many stones as I can hold in my hand.
I straighten up. My fear is gone. Even as the torches move closer, one thought keeps hammering in my head: I must keep my daughter alive.
Stones in hand, I greet the men who have come to kill me.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Try as she might, Smita couldn’t keep down the queasy feeling. She debated whether to ask Mohan to slow down as he took the curves in the road, but they were already late heading into Birwad. She had fallen asleep after filing her story and woken up two hours later with her heart thudding, certain that Meena was in trouble. Mohan had not been able to convince her that she was wrong.
“Smita. Calm down, yaar,” Mohan said, even though she had not said a word. “You’re worrying for no reason.”
“I’d promised Meena we’d be there by six. And I just have this awful feeling.”
“Listen, if you’re this concerned for her welfare, we can try convincing Ammi and Meena to leave their village. I’ll do my best to help situate them in Surat.”
She shifted in her seat. “I hope to God Anjali made plans to ensure Meena’s safety.”
“Exactly,” Mohan said. “See? Don’t you think Anjali knows the situation better than you? Do you think she would’ve put Meena in harm’s way? After she saved her life?”
Smita nodded, wanting to believe him. But there was that fluttering feeling in her stomach. The headlights of the car lit the road ahead of them, dark fields on either side.
They entered Birwad fifteen minutes later. The first thing they noticed was the eerie silence and lack of activity. It was as if the whole village had decided to go to bed by seven o’clock. The only sound was the distant howling of a few dogs. Smita could feel her hair stand on end. “Something is wrong,” she said, rolling down the window. “This place is dead.”
As soon as she said the word dead, she knew. And at that exact moment, she heard the sound from down the road, coming toward them like rolling thunder. “Mohan!” she cried. “It’s coming from the direction of Meena’s house. Something is going on there.”
The car screeched to a halt. “We need to call the police,” Mohan said. “There’s no way we can go in there if you’re right.”
He reached for his phone, but Smita yelled, “Are you kidding me? I need to get to her. Drive, Mohan. Drive.”
“You’re not thinking straight. If it’s a mob, what can . . .”
“Mohan, for fuck’s sake. They will not dare harm us. They know I’m an American. Drive.”
He swore under his breath but gunned the car through the village and toward Meena’s home. As they got closer, the roar grew louder, as if they were driving into a storm. Then, they saw the source of the sound—a mob of angry, raging men, the fire from their torches lighting up the night. They had formed a circle in the clearing between the two hovels. As Smita looked on in horror, she could see that many of the men were pelting stones at the center of the circle. Mohan came to an abrupt halt at the perimeter of the crowd. Smita leapt out of the car and plowed her way through, feeling the heat from the torches as she made her way to its dark, throbbing heart. Mohan followed behind her. She smelled the distinct scent of masculine sweat, the scent of danger, but she felt reckless, unafraid for her own safety.
She came to the opening and halted. For a moment, in the flickering light of the torches the men carried, she thought she saw a large, bloodied creature they had killed for sport. And yet, she knew at once that it was Meena. Meena. Images flashed before Smita’s eyes—Govind sauntering up to them just before the verdict and insulting his sister; the aggressive, celebratory drumming outside the courthouse, each beat a threat; Meena asking her to accompany her to her house immediately rather than waiting until the evening. Surely, the girl had had some kind of premonition. And Smita had refused, why? Because she had wanted to file her story? Her fucking story?