Love against fear.
In the end, Radha’s love for me proved stronger than her fear. She did what I asked: We took some of the money Govind gave us for household expenses and bought Arvind a bottle of daru. For his birthday, Radha said. “Save this for dinnertime,” she told him. Of course he drank the full bottle before it was noon. When he was passed out, lying with his mouth open, she helped fit me into the slippers she had made, with layers of leaves and cotton wool at the bottom. The cotton stuck to the ointment on my cracked feet, but I did not complain. Like thieves, we crept out. I took one last look at the house I had helped build with my sweat. But there was no time to linger.
Even in the special slippers, walking on the ground was like walking on the coals. I was sweating so badly as we walked that I was sure the fever was coming back. Instead of the shortcut through the village, we took the main road. Some people we passed stopped and stared; others spat on the ground and turned their backs to us. But because of Rupal’s command, nobody talked to us or asked where we were going. Maybe they were hoping we were leaving the village forever.
A truck slowed down, and a strange man asked if we wanted a lift, but we looked straight ahead and kept walking, too scared to reply. Walking. Walking. I felt every step I took, cried out with every stone my foot touched. I felt the fire of the earth under my feet. I didn’t care. Soon, I could not feel anything but my heart. It banged thum-thum-thum like a tabla; and after a while, it was the only thing I heard. The birds in the trees fell silent. The cars going by disappeared. Even Radha’s voice drifted away. All I was hearing was my heart song. It was singing Abdul’s name. It was reminding me that with every step I took, I was closer to turning my heart over to his care.
I walked for a long time on feet that were burnt black. Just when they were so numb that I wondered if I should crawl on my knees, we reached Birwad.
When we got there, Radha refused to enter. “This is where we part, Didi,” she said through her tears.
Even for me, Radha would not enter a Muslim village. That was when my heart stopped singing. What had I imagined? That after marriage, Radha would visit me and my husband. That Abdul and I would return to seek Govind’s forgiveness and that slowly, Govind would come to see Abdul’s honorable character and give us his blessings. I saw us all sitting together, my old family and my new, in the home that I had built. I imagined Abdul teasing and joking with my sister who was now his sister. Not this. Never this. Not that my Radha, my sister who I had raised like my child, would already be turning into stone, a polite stranger. Love and fear. At this moment, they were holding hands and becoming one.
“Sister,” I said, “you will not come in with me?”
She shook her head. “No, Didi.” Her eyes shone with tears. “It is hard enough living in our village,” she said. “But if they find out I entered this place.” She shuddered. “Govind will cut my throat.”
Now, only now, did I understand what she had risked. What danger I had put her in. I stared at her in silence. Then, I folded my hands as if I was in the temple and she was a deity. “In a million lifetimes,” I said, “I cannot repay my debt.”
She pulled down my folded hands and fell into my arms. “Didi,” she sobbed. “Didi, you take care of yourself. God be with you.” And then, just when I was thinking this was good, we could stay like this this forever, she pulled out of my arms and ran down the road from which we had come.
I watched her for as long as I could. “Radha!” I called, wanting to see her delicate face one more time, but she did not turn around. I watched until she became a dot, smaller than the stones at my feet. I watched until she disappeared into my past and became a sacred memory.
I turned around to face whatever awaited me, even while thinking that I had made a terrible mistake, that if my feet were not so damaged, maybe I could walk back to my village.
There was a commotion in the distance. I looked up to see Abdul running toward me, calling my name, running zigzag, his arms opened wide, like the protective wings of a giant bird. A big smile on his face that called me home.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Smita stared at the tall iron gates of Mohan’s family home. She had not expected the house behind the gates to be this stunning, couldn’t have imagined the lovely stucco walls, the red tiled roof, or the lush front yard with the flowering bushes. This looked like a house in Beverly Hills, rather than in small-town India.
“Namaste, seth,” the old watchman said as he hurried toward the car. “To what do we owe this honor?” He peered in, his gray eyes appraising Smita.
“Ho, Ramdas,” Mohan said. “What news? How have you been?”
The old man grinned as he straightened. “Theek hu, seth,” he said. “Thanks to God.”
Mohan nodded. “And the wife and children?”
“Everybody is well, by the grace of God.” Ramdas bent and looked into the car again. “And who is this young memsahib?”
“Ah, this . . .” Even without looking at him, Smita knew Mohan was flushing. “This is my friend. Smita is her name. She has some work nearby. And so I offered her our home. Just for a few days. Until Monday or so.”
Ramdas folded his hands. “Namaste, memsahib,” he said with supreme dignity. “Welcome.”
In the enormous living room, Smita took in the beautiful Indian artwork on the walls, the expensive furniture, the marble floor. So this was what a diamond merchant’s home looked like. As she stood examining one of the paintings, she could hear Ramdas and Mohan chatting in the kitchen. The chowkidar appeared before her. “You’ll take something, memsahib? Coca-Cola? Tea? Lime water?”
Smita didn’t want to offend him by asking whether they boiled their drinking water. As if he’d read her mind, Ramdas smiled. “Or pani? Filtered water, we are having,” he said.
She nodded. “Thank you. But I can help myself.”
“You take rest, memsahib. I will bring.” Ramdas looked around. “Has young sahib shown you the guest bedroom?”
“Not yet.”
Ramdas picked up her suitcase. “I will show,” he said in a proprietary tone that told Smita he had worked for Mohan’s family for a long time. “This way.”
Her room opened up to a small garden. A single handloom print hung on the wall behind the bed.
Ramdas pulled out a small stool and stood on it to turn on the air conditioner. “Room is a little hot,” he said. “When they are away, I keep everything shut off. No point in wasting money.”
“You stay here by yourself? When they are gone?”
“Yes, memsahib. The cook travels with them. But I stay here to watch the house. Too many ruffians around these days. Not good to leave a house unoccupied for too long.”
She heard the protectiveness in his voice. “And your own family?” she asked. “Do they—”
“They are back in the village. Wife and two children. Big seth built a house for them many years ago. They are comfortable there.”
“How often do you get to see them?”
“When big seth and his wife are away, I come and go as I like.” Ramdas suddenly looked sheepish. “I was telling Mohan seth, just now only—I was planning on leaving for my home village today or tomorrow. My younger brother’s boy is getting married. Naturally, as the elder, my presence is required. But if you wish for me to remain to serve you, I will cancel.”
It took her a minute to realize that Ramdas was asking for her permission. “Oh,” she said, “that’s between you and Mohan. But we will manage fine, I’m sure.”
Ramdas appeared relieved. But the next moment, his face fell. “But what about your meals?” he said, as if a new obstacle had presented itself.
“I’m sure we’ll be okay. Mohan must know of some nearby restaurants.”