When Rupal’s messenger told me this, I knew exactly what I must do: Listen to Anjali’s advice. Because had I not been stepped upon by men all my life? Had I not already been treated like a worm? Even if God Himself put His foot on my head, how could He crush me lower than I already was?
Also, there was the little seed growing in my belly. What would I say to my child when she asked me what I had done to honor her father and avenge his death? It was for the sake of my little Abru that I kept going with Anjali to the police chowki and asking that they name my brothers as the killers. And Anjali was very shrewd. She took my story to Shannon, the woman with the red hair, who looked like fire. When the police heard that a foreign white woman was asking questions about their bogus investigations, bas, they began to get nervous.
My brothers took my marriage and reduced it to kindling. Rupal tried to scare me by turning me into a worm. Perhaps it was always so: Thousands of years ago, even our Lord Rama tested his beloved wife Sita’s virtue with agni pariksha, forcing her to enter a burning pyre. Unlike me, Sita came out of the fire unharmed. But then, I was not the wife of a God, just the wife of a good man.
When I mentioned this to Anjali, she told me to forget these ancient stories. “Listen to me, Meena,” she said. “When you look at yourself, what do you see?”
I started to weep. “I see a face that makes babies cry,” I said. “I see the hands of a cripple.”
“Exactly,” Anjali said. “Which is why you have to learn to look inside yourself. It’s a new way of looking, to see the true you. The fire took away a lot, but it also left a lot behind. Do you understand?”
I didn’t.
So Anjali told me something I didn’t know before. She explained to me how steel is made.
Steel, she said, is forged from fire.
Chapter Ten
Meena’s good eye was doe-like and vulnerable, and it took everything in Smita’s power to keep her own eyes trained on Meena’s disfigured face and not look away. It was as if lava had flowed down the left side of her visage, destroying everything in its path. The lava ran from the middle of Meena’s forehead, shutting closed her left eye, and then melting away most of her cheek before stopping just below her lower lip. The surgeons had obviously done the best they could with what remained, but their handiwork was clumsy, as if they had simply given up. As she sat in Meena’s humble shack, Smita could sense Meena’s mother-in-law’s displeasure at having Mohan and her show up without advance notice. The only bright spot in the cramped, dark hut was Meena’s daughter, Abru, who sat quietly in the corner of the room and occasionally tottered over to her mother and climbed into her lap. Smita could see Meena’s good eye softening each time Abru grabbed a handful of her mother’s hair and put it into her mouth.
“How is Shannon?” Meena asked. Her voice was soft, low, and slightly difficult to understand.
“She is okay. She’s in less pain now. She sends you her regards.”
“I will pray for her.” Meena bit her lower lip. “She promised me she would be here,” she mumbled. “When the judge gives the ruling.”
“I’m sorry.” Smita discreetly pulled out her notebook. “So how do you feel?” she asked. “About the verdict?”
The mother-in-law spoke before Meena could. “Hah. That foreign reporter promised us five thousand rupees. For telling our story. Now, where’s the money?”
Smita kept her focus on Meena, who met her eyes and gave a quick, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Smita turned to face the mother-in-law. “We don’t pay for stories, ji,” she said, thankful that her Hindi was serviceable enough. “You must have misunderstood what my colleague said.”
“Arre, wah,” the older woman said belligerently. “You sit in my house and call me a liar?”
“Ammi,” Meena raised her voice a notch. “Stop this talk of money, na. It does not suit us.”
Smita couldn’t entirely understand the string of curses that the older woman let loose, but Ammi’s tone made her hair stand on end. “Besharam, shameless whore,” Ammi said. “First, she murders my poor son and now she disrespects me? Sits like a fat maharani all day long, feasting on my bones and then has the gall to talk back? I should’ve let you die in that hospital instead of fighting to save your life.”
The right side of Meena’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “You didn’t even come see me in the hospital, Ammi. Why are you telling these lies?”
The older woman picked up the broom from the corner of the room and struck Meena with it. “Hey!” Smita yelled, jumping to her feet.
“Bai,” Mohan said. “What are you doing? Stop this at once.”
The woman turned to Mohan. Her voice took on a sniveling quality. “What to do, seth?” she said. “With my own eyes I watched my son burn to death. Every day I ask God why He didn’t pluck my eyes out first before letting me witness such a heartbreaking sight. Then, my younger son fled the village after saving this ungrateful wretch’s life. So that income is also gone. We are poor people, seth. I swear on my dead husband’s grave, I had a financial arrangement with that American woman . . .”
Smita made a quick calculation. She wanted to talk to Meena outside, away from her mother-in-law. So far, her Hindi was up to the task. If Meena said something she didn’t understand, she could always write it down phonetically and check with Mohan later. Better to leave him inside the hut to fend off Ammi. She got to her feet. “Let’s get some air,” she said to Meena. “Shall we talk outside?”
Meena hesitated, turning instinctively to look at Mohan for permission. He glanced at Smita. “Think you can manage?” he said, and when she nodded, he smiled at Meena. “Go outdoors, sister,” he said. “Ammi and I will chat.”
The bright clarity of the day belied the dark misery of the straw hut. Meena, carrying her daughter, led Smita to a rope cot. She stood as Smita sat down, then squatted on the ground before her.
“What are you doing?” Smita said. She patted the cot. “Come sit next to me.”
“In my old village, we always sat below our superiors, memsahib,” Meena said. “It is the custom.”
“But you are not in your village, Meena. Muslims don’t have these caste divisions, correct?” Smita patted the cot again. “So, come on.” She waited as Meena lifted her daughter, looked around furtively, and sat Abru next to Smita before she, too, sat down. The child sucked her thumb, oblivious to her mother’s unease.
“How old is your daughter?” Smita asked.
“Fifteen months.”
“She’s beautiful,” Smita said, stroking the child’s hair.
Meena beamed. “Ai. She is khubsurat like her father. Every time I see her face, I remember my Abdul.”
“It is not good, what happened to you,” Smita murmured, wincing inwardly at the obviousness of her statement but wanting to ease into the interview.
Meena didn’t seem to notice. “I told Abdul to forget about me, memsahib. I told him my brothers would never allow our love match. But Abdul believed the world was as pure as his heart. He swore that he would drink poison and kill himself if I didn’t marry him.” She laughed bleakly. “In the end, I killed him after all.”
“You didn’t kill him. You were a victim, just like him.”
Meena nodded. “That is what Anjali said, exact words. The first time she came to see me in the hospital. I was in such pain—it was like I had no body. Like I was fire itself. I couldn’t even remember my own name because of the pain. When they changed my dressing, my skin used to come off with the gauze. And when I would shut my eyes, I kept seeing Abdul’s body. It looked like a flowering tree except it was blooming fire.”
“So you met Anjali that early on?”