Beside her, Mohan made a guttural sound. Smita ignored him. She walked out of the hut to where a cluster of men stood, Govind at her side.
“Arre, listen, all!” Govind called. “Memsahib, who has come all the way from Am’rica, has something to say to us.”
The men walked closer to where Smita stood, looking at her curiously. She could feel the heat from Mohan’s body behind her. She closed her eyes for an instant, thinking of what Papa must have faced when he’d agreed to convert, his responsibility to his family blinding him to all else. This is what it meant to care so much about another human being that you were willing to sacrifice everything, even pride and self-respect. Let Govind and his ilk cling to their misguided notions of honor. She was her father’s daughter. He had taught her well.
“I’m sorry,” she said loudly enough for all of them to hear. “I apologize for attacking you. I was wrong. I ask for your forgiveness.”
She had a feeling that Govind was not fooled by her performance. But it didn’t matter. She had allowed him to save face. He smiled magnanimously. “You are forgiven,” he said.
The mob began to hoot and holler, mocking her words. But Govind shushed them. “Chalo, hurry. Police will be here soon. Gather your things and let’s go.”
Smita could sense Mohan’s anger as the two of them stood watching the men destroy the last bits of evidence. “Forgive me,” she whispered to him. “I had no choice.”
Mohan didn’t reply, and she knew he was not appeased. She understood. But unlike him, she knew about limited choices.
The minutes ticked by. Several of the men began to extinguish their torches.
Rupal sauntered up to them. “Get out of here, motherfucker,” Mohan said. “Otherwise, you will be the first to hang when the police arrive.”
“I was only coming to say . . .”
“Chup. Not a word from you. And listen.” Mohan took a deep breath. “My men will be keeping an eye on you. You harass one more woman in your village, you make one more woman walk on coals or pull any of your stunts, and every government official in the state will be after your hide. You understand me?”
Rupal looked at him sullenly. “You misunderstand . . .”
“I told you. One more word, and I’ll make sure you hang.” Smita could see the sweat on Mohan’s face. “Now, go. All of you!”
The men extinguished the last of their torches and took a different road back to Vithalgaon to avoid marching through Birwad. After they were gone, a sudden silence descended on Ammi’s hovel. Mohan retrieved the lantern, and they walked to Meena’s hovel and stood, watching it burn.
“She asked me to come back here with her,” Smita said. “But I was too stupid to agree. As long as I live, I’ll never forgive myself. I could’ve saved her.”
“That’s doubtful.” Mohan’s voice was hollow. “Or say that you’d saved her today. But what about tomorrow? A week from now? No, not even God could’ve saved that poor girl.”
“She’s in there. My God, Meena is in there. I can’t believe they killed her.”
“Smita. I have no idea how long this ruse is going to work. Those men may come back. I don’t even know how we are going to find that child in the dark. Let’s move.”
“Meena said they were hiding in the field behind her hut.”
“Are you sure that she recognized you, much less spoke to you? I mean, she was . . .”
“She did.”
They got in the car and turned it around so that the headlights shone onto the dark, overgrown field. They exited the vehicle and stood gingerly at the edge of the tall grasses. Smita glanced at Mohan, reluctant to confess to her fear of rodents and snakes. Screwing up her nerve, she took one step forward, as if dipping her toes into chilly waters.
“Ammi,” she whispered. “Abru. Are you here?”
There was no response.
“Ammi!” she called, a little louder. “It’s Smita. From the newspaper. Are you safe?”
Mohan plunged into the grass. “Abru!” he called, his voice urgent.
Smita felt a sob growing in her throat. Where was the child? Was it possible that she had misheard Meena’s garbled speech? She turned around to say something to Mohan and froze. He was singing. Singing.
“Ae dil hai mushakil jeena yahan Zara hat ke, zara bach ke Ye hai Bombay meri jaan,” Mohan sang in a low voice.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Shhh. I sang this song to Abru the other day. She loved it. This way, she’ll know it’s me.” He began again.