“Why is it so wrong for women to work?” Smita asked.
Govind looked at her incredulously. “Because it is the law, passed down from our forefathers. God made it so, this division of labor. It is the destiny of women to birth and raise children and keep the house. Men are the breadwinners. Everyone knows this”—Govind threw Smita a contemptuous look—“at least in Vithalgaon.”
“I heard you tried to stop them from working at the factory?”
“Memsahib, I did everything in my power. I begged them, pleaded with them, asked them to consider the honor of our forefathers. Our village chief forbade anyone from even speaking to them. We tried everything. But some demon had entered into them. Some people in the village swore they saw a black halo around them when they went to work each morning.”
Smita fought to hide her astonishment at Govind’s performance. Talk about playing the victim, she thought. She considered her next question, but just then Arvind came to the doorway of the house. “What do you wish me to do?” he called. “Bring the tea out?”
Govind hesitated, and Smita saw her chance. “Please, may we enter your home? The sun is really strong today.”
“Memsahib, this evil sun is always strong. Working in the fields every day—that is why my skin is tough as leather.”
Smita felt suitably chastised. “Indeed,” she said.
There was a brief pause, and then Govind appeared to have come to a decision. “Please, memsahib,” he said. “Welcome to our home.”
They walked into a long, rectangular room with three wooden folding chairs and a small television set. There was no other furniture. Smita caught a glimpse of a mattress on the floor of the next room before Govind directed her attention to one of the wooden chairs. “Please to sit,” he said, to Mohan and Smita. And after they did, he sat on his haunches in front of them.
Mohan half rose. “Won’t you . . . ?” he said, pointing to the third chair.
Govind smiled bashfully. “It is our custom, seth. You are our superior.”
Mohan laughed. “Arre, bhai. What’s all this talk of superior-inferior?”
But Govind remained on the floor. After a moment, he yelled to his brother. “Ae, where’s the chai, you good-for-nothing?” Arvind appeared with two glasses of tea, handed them silently to the two visitors, and took his place on the floor next to his brother.
Smita took a sip. “It’s good tea,” she said politely, but Arvind looked back at her blankly. She noticed that he had wetted and slicked back his hair while in the kitchen. She took another sip, set the glass on the floor, and picked up her notebook as matter-of-factly as she could, aware that the brothers were watching her every move. “So,” she said, “do you think the judge will rule in your favor?”
Arvind stole a glance at his older brother, waiting for him to speak. The minutes ticked by. In the silence, Smita heard the distant bleating of the goat. “He will definitely vote in our favor,” Govind said suddenly. “God is just, and He is on our side. That whore can go to any court in the country, but the truth will prevail.”
Beside her, Smita heard Mohan’s sharp intake of breath. “The truth?” she asked. “Did you—did you not,” she hesitated, wanting to phrase the question as delicately as she could, “did you not try to kill, that is, set Meena’s hut on fire?”
Govind’s eyes searched the room before resting on Smita’s face. “Someone did,” he muttered. “Who, we cannot say.”
Was the man really lying to her face? But then, why was she surprised? “Meena says it was the two of you. That she saw you with her own eyes.”
Govind spat on the floor. “Of course she is saying this. That Muslim beef-eater told her what to say.”
“Her husband? How could he? He’s dead.”
The man’s face grew defiant. “Maybe the kutta didn’t die straight away. How do we know what he said or did?”
Smita felt as if Govind was a large silverfish she was trying to reel in. One false move on her part, and he would slip away. “You’re saying you don’t know who killed Abdul?” she said at last.
“Memsahib, you are asking the incorrect question.” Govind shook his head impatiently. “Who cares who burned that dog alive? Why did they do it? That is question no one is asking. They did it to protect the honor of all Hindus. To teach those Muslim dogs their proper station in life.”
Smita opened her mouth to speak, but Govind raised his hand to cut her off. “It’s like this. My brother and I are sitting on the floor before you because this is our rightful place. You understand? We are all having our stations in life. God has made it so. We have allowed these Muslim dogs to live in our Hindustan as our guests. But a dog must know who is its master, correct? Muslims must keep to their own villages and, above all, they must stay away from our women. That is a fact.” He lowered his voice. “This is their jihad. You understand? They force our women to bear their children so they can multiply and take over Hindustan.”
“But Meena says nobody forced her,” Smita said. “She says she loved her husband.”
Govind stared at the floor. When he looked up, Smita saw that a muscle in his jaw was convulsing. “How this can be, memsahib?” he said. “What you suggest is against the natural order of things. Can a fish fall in love with a cow? Can a crow fall in love with a tiger?”
Smita gave Mohan a quick glance, but she was unable to read his expression. “So, you have no regrets for what you’ve—what has happened to Meena?” she asked, hearing the hollowness in her own voice.
Govind smiled faintly. “I have regrets, for sure,” he said softly. “I regret that my sister survived. And most of all, I regret that the bastard child she was carrying is still alive. She even brought the infant to court when she appeared before the judge-sahib. Can you imagine? It was as if she wanted to defile the whole court with her excrement.”
The blood rushed to Smita’s face as she remembered Abru’s sweet face. She wanted to stand up and yell obscenities at this vile man, to rain blows on his head. Instead, she looked at a spot on the wall beyond him until she could trust herself to speak. “The child is innocent,” she said.
“I made my peace with Meena leaving our home to go live in sin with that man,” Govind said. “She humiliated me three times, memsahib. Once when she defied me and took the factory job. The second time when she ran away to Birwad to live with those Muslim chamars. The whole village spat at me then, but still I did nothing to avenge the insult. My mistake. But the third disrespect was intolerable. They came to my door with a box of sweets, holding hands, pointing to the evil she was carrying in her belly. The shameless whore and her Muslim pimp came and defiled my doorstep. Holding her head high. As if it wasn’t a crime against God, that thing growing in her belly.” Govind choked back angry tears. “What was I supposed to do? Tolerate their evil? Allow him to call me his brother-in-law, as if we were equals in the eyes of God?”
“Couldn’t you have just asked them to leave?”
“That I did. They ran home with their tails between their legs, like the mongrels they were. But memsahib, when the crops in my field go bad and don’t give the good-proper yield, you know what we have to do? We must burn the fields to the ground. Then, the next year, the crops grow back stronger. That is what had to be done—the land had to be cleansed. I just regret that two of the crops are still growing.”
There was a sudden, charged silence in the room, as if they all realized that Govind had almost confessed to Abdul’s murder. After long minutes, Mohan spoke into the silence. “You say you’ve seen her in court. So you are aware of the damage the fire has done? Her one eye is melted shut. Half of her face is gone. But it is not enough for you?”