The look on Arvind’s face made the breath catch in my throat. It was pure hatred.
As children, we were taught to be afraid of tigers and lions. Nobody taught us what I know today—the most dangerous animal in this world is a man with wounded pride.
Chapter Sixteen
As Smita knocked on the door of the house, she could hear the radio playing within. She waited for a moment, then knocked again, a little louder. She looked over her shoulder as Mohan got out of the car and came around to where she stood. “No answer?” he asked, and she shook her head.
A goat bleated from under the banyan tree to which it was tied. The sun glittered like a medallion in the blue of the sky. Smita wiped the sweat off her brow onto her sleeve. Meena had mentioned that her younger brother was almost always home, her revulsion at his sloth evident on her face. Well, if the fellow was hungover, that would explain why he hadn’t come to the door.
She went to knock again, but Mohan gestured for her to step aside. He made a fist and pounded on the sturdy door as Smita gazed up at the house, taking in the brick exterior and tiled roof. So this was the house that Meena had built them out of her earnings. Even though the workmanship was crude and some of the bricks were coming loose, it was a palace compared with Meena’s current dwelling.
“Saala, kon hai?” They heard the voice from inside, loud and belligerent, before they heard the footsteps. There was the sound of something being knocked over; they heard a man grunting and then swearing under his breath. A minute later, the door flung open. “What?” the man yelled, glaring at Mohan. He was rail thin, with a mop of thick, disheveled hair.
Mohan took a step back. Then, in a haughty, aggressive tone that startled Smita, he said, “How long did we have to knock? And which one of the two are you?”
The belligerence drained out of the other man’s face and was replaced by sullenness. “My name is Arvind, ji,” he muttered. “Are you the police inspector?”
Smita knew in a flash what she had witnessed—the assertion of power by an educated, affluent man against someone of lower status; Mohan telegraphing his dominance simply by striking the right tone and posture. It disheartened her, but she couldn’t think about that. Instead, she took a step toward the man. “Hello. My name is Smita. I’m from a newspaper in America,” she said, wishing her Hindi was not so stilted. “You’ve talked to my friend Shannon before. I just wanted to chat a little bit about your sister, Meena, and you know, the court case.”
Arvind spat at the mention of his sister. “I know no Meena,” he said. “My sister Meena is dead.”
Mohan spoke before Smita could. “But she didn’t die in the fire,” he said softly, his voice coiled with anger. “You know that.”
“Not in the fire,” Arvind said. He licked his lips nervously but stood his ground. “Before that. When she married that Muslim bastard. The fire was just a warning to the rest of them. In case any of their men were thinking of coming and corrupting our girls.”
“Nobody was . . .”
“Mohan,” Smita said, gently restraining him with her hand on his arm. She turned to the other man. “May we come in, ji? I just have a few questions.”
Arvind’s face was impassive as he looked at her. “We have already spoken to that foreign lady,” he said at last. “What is her name? Sharon something? The one who dresses like a man.”
“Ah, yes. Shannon. But she has gotten sick, you see. So she asked me to help her out. She sends her salaams, by the way,” she added. “Now, may we enter?”
Arvind’s eyes darted about as he considered her request. He craned his neck and looked over her shoulder. “Wait here,” he said at last. “I will return in a few minutes.” And before they could protest, he was past them, crossing the compound and then running into the fields beyond.
“You think he just took off?” Smita said in disbelief.
“I’m not sure,” Mohan said. “But let’s wait in the car, okay? It’s even hotter here than in Mumbai.”
They got back in the car, and he turned on the air-conditioning. “How long do you think we should wait?”
“We have no choice,” Smita said miserably. “I can’t really write my story without trying to get their comments.” She frowned. “It’s so weird. In the stories that Shannon did? It’s like they brag about what they did in one sentence and then claim they had nothing to do with the murder in the next. And yet, here they are, out on bail. How can that be?”
Mohan shrugged. “India,” he said and Smita heard the resignation in his voice.
They waited for about ten minutes, with Smita growing increasingly angry at herself for having let Arvind take off. But what could she have done? Blocked him as he sprinted away? She turned to Mohan to ask him if he was okay with waiting a little longer, when he sat up and pointed toward the field and at the two figures who were hurrying back toward the house. “Is that him?” Mohan asked. “Maybe he went to get his older brother?”
Govind was a bulkier version of Arvind. “Kya hai?” he asked. “We have already said all that we are going to.”
Smita shot Mohan a silencing look before getting out of the car. “Good afternoon,” she said, ignoring Govind’s obvious hostility. “I’m so happy your brother fetched you. We just have a few questions and then we’ll be gone.” Seeing that he was about to refuse, she added, “We want to be fair. Give you a chance to explain things from your point of view.”
Govind’s eyes narrowed as he took in the incongruity of Smita’s affected Hindi and her Indian outfit. He lowered his head to peer at Mohan, who had followed Smita’s unspoken request to remain in the car. “You are Hindu?” he asked.
“What?” Smita said, startled. “I mean, yes. But what . . .”
“Good,” he nodded once, as if she’d passed some test. “So, you understand our culture. Because that other lady, that foreigner, she didn’t understand us. Our values.”
Smita quelled the nausea that she felt. “I see,” she murmured.
“You are also from the foreign place,” Govind continued. “But your modest dress is telling me you are a woman of good morals. That other woman, Shannon. She wore pants. Like a man.” He gestured toward the car. “You please ask your husband to join us.”
“He’s not . . .” Smita thought better of correcting him. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll ask him.” She walked up to Mohan and murmured, “He thinks we’re married.”
Mohan gave her a quick nod. He got out of the car and strode toward Govind, his hand outstretched, his manner friendly. “Kaise ho?” he said. “Sorry for interrupting your day like this.”
Despite the friendliness of Mohan’s tone, Smita knew that Govind was aware of the class difference between them. Instead of shaking Mohan’s proffered hand, he folded his own in greeting. Then, he turned to Arvind and smacked him on his head. “Go make our guests some tea. Go.” Arvind went into the house, rubbing his head and muttering under his breath.
Govind smiled apologetically. “Since both our women are gone, my brother and I have to do all the cooking-cleaning these days.”
“That’s okay,” Mohan said. “I do everything for myself, also.”
“You are big-city folks, sir,” Govind said. “Life is different for us. Here it is a matter of dishonor for us to do women’s work.”
Mohan looked like he was about to argue, so Smita stepped in to preempt him. “What news do you hear about Radha?” she asked as she discreetly pulled out her notebook.
Govind shrugged. “What is there to say? Radha is lucky I was able to find her a husband after the scandal.”
“You mean from Meena’s marriage?”
His lips curled at the mention of Meena’s name. “Yes, of course. But even before that.” He chewed on the wad of tobacco in his mouth. “No woman in our village had ever left home to go work for strangers. It is the strictest taboo. It is my misfortune that both my sisters defied not only my authority but also the authority of our village elders.”