Ammi was saying something about Abru, and Smita forced herself to listen. It was clear that the old woman had no interest in keeping the child. Smita was relieved. If they could settle Ammi somewhere, she might be able to keep her promise to Meena. Meena. Smita saw again the young woman’s writhing, tortured body. Would she ever be able to forget that image? She shook her head, trying to concentrate on the child in her arms, pulling her in even closer. There was no possibility of taking Abru with her to America, as Meena had asked. But once they got back to Mumbai, she would do her best to place Abru in a home. Mohan would help. Surely, Anjali would help, also. Maybe Shannon would have some contacts. Between all of them, they would work something out.
Abru had fallen asleep. She smelled of grass and the earth, a rich, loamy smell.
But the small gesture of pulling the child closer had awakened the girl, and she looked deeply into Smita’s face. Her eyes grew wide with confusion. For a few seconds, they stared at each other solemnly.
And then the child who never said a word—who, according to her mother, even cried silently—was suddenly wailing at the top of her lungs and spoke.
After a moment or two, Smita could distinguish the repeated word: Mamaaaaaaamamaaaaaaaamamaaaaaammamamamamamamamama.
Abru was crying for her mother. But she was staring into Smita’s face.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Even though it was late when they reached Mohan’s home in Surat, Smita phoned Anjali as soon as they got there to share the news of Meena’s murder. Anjali was distraught, inconsolable, her usual cool cracking like a thin sheet of ice. “Why didn’t I anticipate this?” she said. “Why didn’t I?” she kept repeating. “I should have arranged protection for her. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I can’t believe this. How did I let this happen?”
There is enough guilt to go around, Smita thought when she finally hung up.
She next called Cliff in New York. “She’s dead?” Cliff said. “And you witnessed it? Oh my God. This is one helluva story, Smita.”
There was a time when she would have shared Cliff’s enthusiasm. Now, his reaction felt voyeuristic, macabre. A woman was dead. A child was orphaned.
“How quickly can you file?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Not tonight. This isn’t a breaking news story. Let’s not treat it as one.”
“It’s not?” Cliff sounded shocked. “Smita? Are you kidding me?”
Smita gritted her teeth in frustration. “I would like to hold the story until we figure out what we’re doing with the child,” she said.
“Hold it? Hell no. I want to run it as soon as you can file it.”
“What if the brothers find out that she’s with us? What if they claim family rights?”
“How are they going to do that?” She could hear the bafflement in Cliff’s voice. “Didn’t you say they’re almost illiterate? They probably don’t even know where America is on the map. And who the hell is going to give them custody?”
Smita fell quiet, wondering if the horror of what she had witnessed was clouding her professional judgment. Cliff sounded so damn sure. “I envision this as a long narrative piece,” she finally said. “I need a few days to work on it, to get quotes from people on the record. I mean, Meena is not famous. Her death is not breaking news. No one else is covering this story. I’d prefer to situate her story within a larger context.”
She pictured Cliff chewing on his pen as he considered the shape of the piece. “You gonna write it as a first-person account?” he asked.
“Cliff. It’s been a very long day. I—there’s a lot going on here. I won’t know until I start writing it. You’re going to have to trust my judgment on this.”
Cliff exhaled. “All right, kiddo. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”
Smita grimaced. Kiddo? Cliff was just two years older than she was.
“And hey, Smita? Good work.”
Yeah, Smita thought, as she hung up. Good work that your source is dead. It makes for a better story. She shook her head, knowing she was being unfair to Cliff and that she was being cynical about a profession she loved. Meena was dead. Nothing could change that fact. Smita’s failure to reach Meena in time would haunt her the rest of her life.
She went out into the living room, walking quietly so as to not disturb Ammi and Abru, who slept together on a pallet on the kitchen floor. （Smita had looked askance when Mohan had suggested this arrangement during the ride home, until he had reminded her that Ammi—who had slept on a mud floor her entire life—would find the softness of a bed intolerable.） The house was dark and quiet, and Smita felt ghostlike as she went looking for Mohan. She had not changed out of her clothes since arriving, and they smelled of smoke and gasoline. She shivered at the thought of Meena’s incendiary death. Still, she didn’t want to go back into her room to change. The numb, hollow spot in her chest felt as if it was growing.