“Would he . . . would he have supported you in filing this lawsuit?” Smita asked.
Meena’s face crumpled. “He would be so ashamed of me, Didi,” she said. “He so badly wanted peace between our two families. After we found out about our baby, he insisted we go to my brothers’ house with a big box of mithai. He believed they would come around once they understood that he was a good husband.” Suddenly, Meena slapped her forehead. “But I should’ve known better.”
“Because?”
“Because my older brother, Govind, would not even let us enter his home. He said I already cut his nose by running away to marry a Muslim. But to carry the Muslim child meant that the stain of dishonor would spread through the generations. He took the box of sweets and threw it on the ground outside his house. He said he would forbid even the stray dogs from eating it.”
“Is this why—?”
“It is. That box of mithai carried Abdul’s death warrant, Didi. We just did not know it then. Who can imagine such darkness? All my life, I gave my heart and soul to my brothers. No matter how sick I was, I used to get up and cook for them. This is how I saw my own mother serve my father, until the day she died. You could say that it was my duty. But I tell you the truth—I didn’t do it as obligation. I did it with love. Every extra grain of rice or sugar, every extra piece of meat, went to them. I even took food from my beloved sister and gave it to Arvind and Govind. When Radha complained, I explained to her that they were men and needed their strength. So tell me, how I could guess their hatred for me?”
“Maybe that’s why they didn’t want you to marry Abdul. They didn’t want to lose their servant.”
Meena lowered her voice and looked furtively toward Ammi’s house. “It wasn’t just that. You see, in our village they hate the Muslims. They consider them to be the lowest of the low. Because they are beef-eaters, Didi.”
“I understand,” Smita said, red-hot anger running through her.
Meena looked startled. “Do you hate the Muslims, also?” she said.
“Me? No. Not at all. Some of my best friends are Muslims.” Smita smiled mirthlessly, knowing Meena would not get the joke. “I can’t remember. Did you actually convert to Islam after your marriage?”
“I wanted to, out of respect for my husband. Ammi wanted me to, also. But Abdul didn’t let me. He said he wanted our family to look like Hindustan itself. Hindu and Muslim living side by side.”
Smita stared at the ground. Meena’s words had sketched the contours of her desolation and loss, and Smita could at last fully understand the damage Abdul’s death had wrought. A young man, most likely illiterate, most certainly poor, had considered his interfaith marriage to be not a source of shame but of pride. He had seen himself and his wife as representatives of a new India, had thought of their unborn child as an ambassador of this new nation. The reason for Abdul’s death was simple, really: It was a failure of imagination. Bearing no malice or prejudice himself, he couldn’t imagine the contempt and hatred that his brothers-in-law felt for his kind, couldn’t have foreseen how they seethed under the scandal and dishonor that Meena had wrought.
She could’ve told them, Smita thought. She could’ve warned them. In the end, the old India—severed not only by the political and geographical upheaval of Partition but also by the timeless rivers of hatred that divided its citizens—would triumph. It always did. “Do you think you will win the court case?” she asked, needing to be reassured that she was being unduly cynical. After all, she had lived away for so long. Perhaps, if nothing else, the judiciary had evolved?
Meena looked at her, the good eye unblinking. “I hope so, Didi,” she said. “But in the end, it is God’s will. What matters to me is that as my little one grows up, she will know that her mother fought for her father’s honor. Bas, this is all I am living for now—for her. For this reason, I put up with my mother-in-law’s taunts, the insults of my new neighbors. I tell you true, Didi. Other than my little Abru, I am having no one in this world. When Abdul was alive, Ammi’s house was like a festival. His friends, her neighbors, all used to stop by. Now, no one comes. They fear that our bad luck will haunt their own homes. Even Anjali, even she will soon be gone, after this court case is finished.”
Smita’s mouth went dry, as if she could taste Meena’s despair. “What do you do all day?” she asked. “Where do you go?”
Meena pointed to the charred remains of the hut. “I go there to sleep at night. To be near my Abdul. Crossing from here to my old home—that is the distance I travel.”
“You’re not afraid to revisit that place?”
“Why I should be afraid? My Abdul is still with me, na?” For the first time since she’d met her, Smita sensed Meena’s steely defiance.
Smita remembered how she had spent weeks cowering in her Mumbai apartment, refusing to even go to school until Papa had forced her. Remembering, she was ashamed. Ashamed of the sludge-like fear that had settled in her veins; ashamed of having had the privilege of escape. Most of all, she was embarrassed that she had ever considered her early days of adjustment in America to be anything other than what they were—incredibly good fortune. Their wealth and her father’s academic credentials had rescued them from India and deposited them into a good life in America. While Meena had been battling for her life and, later, fighting against crippling social ostracizing, Smita had been sitting in cafés in Brooklyn with her friends, sipping her cappuccinos, all of them feeling aggrieved as they talked about acts of microaggression and instances of cultural appropriation, about being ghosted by a boyfriend or being overlooked for a promotion. How trivial those concerns now seemed. How foolish she had been to join that chorus of perceived slights and insults. How American she had become to not see America for what it had been for her family—a harbor, a shelter, a refuge.
“Kya hai, Didi?” Meena was looking at her, concerned. “Did I say something wrong?”
Smita snapped out of her reverie, focusing again on the charred hut and, behind it, the overgrown field. She rose to her feet, mopping her brow with her shirt sleeve. “Nahi,” she said. “I . . . I just need to go indoors for a minute.” She saw the aversion on Meena’s face at the thought of facing her mother-in-law and added, “But I’ll be right back.”
Meena smiled, and Smita marveled anew at the transformation.
“Hah,” Meena said. “You must go check on your husband.”
Smita opened her mouth to correct her, then thought better of it. “I’ll be right back,” she repeated. “I just need to get out of the sun.”