She scowled and he noticed. “What is it?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to tell him, but what could she say? Mohan had given up his vacation to accompany her to this godforsaken place. He had been generous and kind to her all week. He had every right in the world to want to go check on his family home without her being upset at him. “Nothing,” she said. She bit inside of her cheek as she thought. The prospect of sinking into her soft, luxurious bed at the Taj after a nice hot shower seemed dimmer with each passing moment. But Mohan was right. Driving back from Mumbai in time for the verdict was much too dicey.
“So how would this work? You’ll go to Surat while I’m here?” Stuck here without a car, she thought miserably.
“No, don’t be silly, yaar,” Mohan said. “You’re more than welcome to go with me.”
“No thank you,” she said.
Mohan rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Smita. You know I’m not going to leave you here alone for three days. Okay, forget it. I don’t have to go to Surat. Just let me know what you want to do.”
“I don’t want you to change your plans because of me.”
“Smita—honestly, it doesn’t matter.” He got up, ignoring her look of surprise. “I’m going to the loo. Can you do two things while I’m gone?”
“What?”
“Order me a chocolate ice cream when the waiter comes. And two, make up your bloody mind about what we are doing.”
When he returned, she said, “How far from Surat to the courthouse?”
“Maybe an hour or an hour and a half, tops. Depends on traffic.”
“Well, that decides it. We’ll go to Surat. I’ll go with you. It’s the only sensible thing to do.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
There was a big tree near the river where Abdul told me to go. Two large branches extended over the water, and Abdul sat on one branch while I sat on the other. Nobody else was around. At first, I kept looking over my shoulder, afraid of someone approaching, but Abdul’s manner was so respectful, I began to relax. He asked me question upon question: Who all lived in our house? What did Arvind and Govind do? How old was Radha? What did I like to do for fun? Then, he told me about himself: How his father died in a truck accident when he was five. How he learned to do the tailoring work to support his ammi and younger brother. The way he talked about them, the softness that came into his eyes, told me that he was a man of good character.
After a few minutes, he slapped his forehead and said, “In all this excitement, I nearly forgot.” He jumped off the tree branch and removed a small Cadbury chocolate bar from his pocket. “This is for you,” he said. “Sorry, it is all melting.” He sat back down on the branch after handing it to me.
I felt shy again when I took the chocolate from him. I thought maybe I should take it home for my Radha, but he looked so eager for me to eat it that I opened the silver wrapper. “Will you take some?” I said, offering it to him.
“Ladies first,” he said. “I will take a piece only after you eat.”
No man in my life had ever asked me to eat first. My mother served my father before any of us. We always served our brothers first. Maybe in these Muslim families, they did things upside-down? I took a bite of the chocolate. “Now you?” I said, and he smiled and asked me to break off a small piece for him. I was grateful for this courtesy. Abdul was a good man, but I was not ready to risk the wrath of God by having a Muslim take a bite of my chocolate.
We sat on the low branches, swinging our legs as if we were children again. I thought that perhaps I had never felt so happy in my life. Abdul was telling me about his younger brother when I heard myself say, “Why did you ask me to come here?”
“Because I am thirsty to talk to you. All day at work, I watch you, and I see how you take over the job of the old lady sitting next to you when she falls behind on her quota. I see how you give extra food to your sister. I know your good heart.”
My face burned with shame at the thought of him having watched me so closely. Suddenly, I was afraid. I must leave at once, I thought. Before someone comes and catches us. Before he makes another indecent remark.
“Meena,” Abdul said, “I have no bad intentions toward you. Please do not misunderstand me.”
“You just insulted me by speaking so familiarly, but . . .”
“Insulted you? If loving you is an insult, then I insult my ammi. Then I insult my God.”
“Ae, Bhagwan. What blasphemy is this?”
“Meena,” he said, “don’t you understand? I love you as much as I love my ammi. The way I love Allah.”
“Then you must find a woman who, like you, also worships Allah.”
He gave me such a long, sad look, it ruined my heart. “I wish. I wish I could find her. But it is too late. Because from the first minute I saw you, my heart was in your hands.”
“How can it be so?” My voice was thin, angry. “How can a Muslim love a Hindu?”
He covered his face in his hands, as if he could not bear to look at me. They were the same color as Govind’s. I thought: Are Abdul’s hands Muslim? Are his fingernails Muslim? Is his skin? What made him a Muslim? What made me a Hindu? Just the family I was born into?
I wanted to share my thoughts with Abdul, but I could not find the words. I cursed my lack of schooling. I could not make the pretty words the way he could.
Abdul looked up and stared at the river. “I am a Hindustani first,” he said quietly. “First, I worship my desh. Next, I worship my religion. I am not looking for a Hindu or Muslim or Christian girl. I just want a fellow Hindustani.”
“You don’t even know me,” I said. “Bas, a few minutes of watching me work each day, and you think you understand me.”
“I know your heart, Meena.” His eyes shone like the pebbles in the river. “I know your good heart. My intentions are honorable. I want to bring the marriage proposal for you to your brothers.”
In our caste, it is common for the bride and groom to meet for the first time on their wedding day. A matchmaker or a relative brings the match. Horoscopes are drawn. Inquiries about the family are made. The dowry amount is settled. Most importantly, the groom and bride are from the same caste. Only then are the wedding plans drawn. Abdul was talking as if he didn’t know about any of these timeless traditions. Maybe in his religion the rules were different?
“My older brother would never allow such a match,” I said. “Not only are you not from our caste, you are a Muslim. You don’t know Govind. He will be insulted. When he gets angry, he acts like a wild water buffalo.”
Then, Abdul said something that showed me that he was either a saint or a mad man. “What business is it of his, who you marry? I’m wanting to marry you, not him. So it’s up to you to reject or accept me.”
“You are pagal!” I yelled, jumping off the tree branch. “A total loss. I am a girl from a decent family. My brother is like my father to me. How can I marry without his permission?”
Abdul looked at me with his sad, hurt eyes. His sadness cut me so deeply, I wanted to cut him back. “Everyone knows you Muslims are not children of God. But my religion teaches me to respect our elders,” I said, walking away.
He slid off the branch and began to follow me, but I yelled, “Don’t take another step toward me! Do you understand what will happen to you if I tell anyone how you insulted me?”
He stopped. “I meant no harm. Please hear me out.”
But I didn’t. I ran down the road and back to the main path. I ran almost the whole way until I reached our house.
It was only when I went to sleep that I allowed myself to remember Abdul’s hands. And once again, I tried to solve the puzzle—what exactly made him a Muslim? I imagined myself examining a long row of hands. How would I know which ones were Muslim?
And even if I did, would I pick the Hindu hands?
Chapter Twenty-Three