Pushpa Auntie smiled as she settled into a nearby chair. “Thank you, my child,” she said as Smita exited the room. Suddenly, she leaned forward and smacked Chiku on the back of his head. “See? See how your friends treat their elders? Unlike you, you worthless junglee. When have you ever fetched your poor mother a glass of water? Look at them, reading real books while you read your stupid film magazines.”
Chiku rubbed his head as he glared at his mother. He was still glaring at her when Smita returned to the living room, and Pushpa held out her arms and pulled her into her lap.
Even after all these years, Smita could feel Pushpa Auntie’s damp skin against her own and smell the woman’s signature perfume. How could she reconcile this memory with the cold reception that she had recently received? How could that loving woman, in whose lap she’d felt so warm and safe, betray them the way she had? The two families had been so close, all of them flitting in and out of the two apartments throughout Smita’s childhood. Smita tried to imagine her own parents not protecting Chiku if the roles had been reversed, but her imagination failed her. It wasn’t as if Papa and Mummy were perfect—they weren’t. But that was rule number three she’d learned from her years as a foreign correspondent: In every country, in every crisis, there are a handful of people who will stand against the tide. Her parents belonged to that small minority. Smita’s heart tore open with gratitude at this thought, but in the next moment, she remembered that one of those good people was dead. She bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying.
“We’re almost there,” Mohan said, and Smita nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak just yet, waiting for the hollow feeling to dissipate before she faced Abdul’s killers. Struggling to be “present in the moment,” as her yoga teacher in Brooklyn would say.
They followed a dirt road to where a small constellation of hovels stood in a loose, scattershot configuration. Still, it was immediately obvious that Vithalgaon was not as impoverished as Birwad. Chickens, stray dogs, and small children clustered in front of the huts, the dogs howling as they ran up to the car. Two men in lungis ambled up to them, staring at Smita. Mohan rolled down his window. “We’re looking for the brothers Arvind and Govind!” he called. “Where can we find them?”
One of the men grinned knowingly. “The judge-sahib has ruled?” he asked.
Smita spoke before Mohan could reply. “Can you please direct us to their house?” she asked, her tone icy.
The man leered at her, then walked around the car to her side. “Those two don’t live among us little people any longer.” He pointed toward the main road. “Go back there and at the first crossing, make a left turn. You will see a small brick house. That’s where they live. Thanks to the earnings of their sister. Yes, the same sister that they burned when the money stopped.”
“Did you tell this to the police?” Smita said.
The man shook his head. “Arre, madam, forget this nonsense about police-folice. Govind is from our caste, no? Why we would get him in trouble with the police?” He scowled. “Even though I don’t approve of what he did to that poor girl. Killing that Muslim dog? Fine. But they should not have touched that girl. No, he should have just dragged her back home and kept her locked up to do the cooking-cleaning.”
Mohan shot Smita a look and spoke before she could. “Okay, bhai, thanks for your help,” he said.
“No mention!” the man called. “All this drama will soon blow over. You’ll see.”
Chapter Fifteen
The men in my village were angry when Radha and I kept working at the factory.
Rupal’s voice was the loudest. He warned us, and when we didn’t listen, he threatened us. He said he would perform a magic ceremony and make a sea of serpents in front of our home, to prevent us from leaving. Radha laughed and told him she was not afraid. We kept to our routine—leaving the house at dawn and walking the four kilometers each way, six days a week. After we had been working for about three months, we went to leave one morning and almost stepped on the dead goat outside our door. Rupal had skinned the animal and dropped it there for us to see. Radha screamed. For the first time, her courage was shaken. When she finally stopped screaming, she looked at me. “Let’s stay home, Didi,” she said. “These men will never give up until they destroy us. Their traditions mean more to them than their humanity.”
Why didn’t I agree with her that day? I had only joined the factory so that Radha would not walk home alone or be harassed by strange men at her job. But that morning, I felt the iron come into my eyes when I saw that innocent animal lying in the dust, its tongue hanging out, flies already attacking its body. “Wait here,” I said to Radha. “We will go to work today for sure. But first, I must take care of something.”
I went into the house and found Arvind on his bed, sleeping off his drunkenness from the night before. Govind had already left for the farm. “Ae,” I said, shaking him. “Get up, you good-for-nothing.” Never before had I spoken to my brother in this manner. But that poor animal who had sacrificed his life for the fake honor of these men put the harshness in my voice. And this also was true: Even as they were telling the world they were against our working, both our brothers were enjoying the fruits of our labor. Every few days, Arvind asked me for money to buy liquor. And just the previous night, Govind had talked to me about getting the government loan to build a house a short distance from the main village. With our salaries, we could repay the loan in a few years, he said.
I had looked at him with surprise. “You tell everyone that your sisters have darkened your face by working outside the home,” I said. “The other day when Rupal was visiting, you called me a whore. But you will build a house from our ill-gotten money?”
I saw shame stain his face. “If the soil of this bastard farm yielded more, I wouldn’t touch your dirty money,” he muttered. “But as it is, I am having little choice.” His eyes flashed with anger. “You corrupted our little Radha with your greed. You are a woman who has forgotten her station in life. But since you are defying my authority, I will decide how to spend your money.”
My brother had become a stranger. I remembered how he used to carry me on his shoulders when I was a child and tell me that I was taller than he was. How he used to buy me ice candy when he took me to the festival each year. Every Diwali, even as he dressed in tatters, Govind would buy Radha and me a new sari each. But our working at the factory had turned his love into rage, and brought this hard, contemptuous look to his eyes.
Remembering how Govind had looked at me made me shake Arvind harder. “Ai, ai, ai,” he complained. “What is it?”
“Get up,” I hissed. “Come see your friend Rupal’s handiwork, you lazy drunk.”
Arvind looked at me. “Have you gone mad, sister?” he said.
“Mad? You care about nothing but the bottle, and you call me ‘mad’? Now, hurry up. Some of us are having to work to support this family.”
He followed me outside. When he saw the dead goat, he looked like he was going to cry. He has always been a little soft, Arvind. But on that morning, I didn’t care. “This is the evil that Rupal did,” I said. “Now, you go clean up this mess.”
“What? Me? This is not my work. This is . . .”
“We are going to our job, Arvind. The boss yells at us if we are even one minute late. As it is, we are going to have to run the whole way. This poor animal better be gone before we come home. And wash the front of the house with hot water. If I find one drop of blood . . .”
“This is women’s work!” Arvind yelled. He spat on the ground. “This is why women are forbidden from having jobs outside the home. Rupal is right. You are acting like a man. I now see the truth of his words.”
Radha stood in front of him. She was still shaking, but her face was hot with fury. “Chup re, stupid. Don’t show off your ignorance to the whole world. As is it, people make fun of you. Now, do what Meena Didi asked. Otherwise, not one more paisa for your daru. You hear me?”