“How do you know?” Mohan demanded. “How do you know that asking her to leave Birwad is the right thing to do?”
“How can you ask that?” Smita didn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice. “I mean, after everything I shared with you about my own family’s experience?”
“How do you know there will be the same happy ending for her?” Mohan said. “And even in your case, Smita, how do you know that you wouldn’t have been happy here? Eventually? Listen. I’m not trying to insult you or your family. I’m just saying, I’ve seen the expression on your face when you look around the countryside when I’m driving.”
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Hungry. As if something that was yours was stolen from you. And that you wish to get it back.”
“Oh, come off it, Mohan,” she said. “I think that’s wishful thinking on your part.”
He frowned. “How is it wishful thinking?”
She couldn’t say what she believed—that despite everything, Mohan wanted her to love India as he did. Still, he wasn’t wrong. She was bristling precisely because his observations cut too close to the bone. Her feelings about India had certainly gotten more complicated, and somehow Mohan had gotten entangled in that internal debate. His blunt assessment made her feel vulnerable, his words stripping away the armor she needed to get through the rest of her time in India.
And then she thought, Why do I need an armor? What exactly am I holding on to? For years she’d clung to a dream, imagined a tableau of recriminations and remorse from her former neighbors: Pushpa Auntie realizing the error of her ways; Dilip’s widow confessing that her husband had always regretted his treatment of Papa; Chiku telling her how ashamed he was of his mother’s perfidy. But in a flash of insight, Smita saw that these images were cartoons, the revenge fantasies of a twelve-year-old girl that were frozen in time. No wonder reality had not obliged and played along.
Smita glanced at Mohan, took in the tightness around his mouth. The last thing she wanted to do, on this devastating day, was get into a meaningless argument with him. “You may well be right,” she said. “I feel like I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Me neither.”
They both exhaled, the tension in the car abating.
Book Four
Chapter Thirty-Four
The cold that entered my body after the judge-sahib gave his ruling is still present. Ammi’s ugly words, hot with contempt, didn’t chase it away. Abru’s warm hands, slipped into mine as soon as I got home, did not melt it away. I’m lying with my daughter in our hut, waiting for Abdul, but he is a no-show tonight. I wonder if, like Ammi, he is angry with me. The thought cuts my heart. Does Abdul believe I let him down in court many months ago when I told the judge my story?
The last time she interviewed me, Smita asked what future I saw for myself after my brothers went to jail. At that time, all I could see was a long, empty road ahead. I pictured myself doing the same thing day after day—cooking, cleaning, worrying about when my Abru would begin to talk and how I would pay for her schooling. I saw myself take one sodden breath after another, for my daughter’s sake.
But now I know that the jackals who killed Abdul can come again at any time. With no fear of the court, they could come for me, for Ammi, and even for my little one. And I would be unable to do the only job I was put on Earth to do—protect my child.
When I left Anjali’s office today, I took her hand in mine and thanked her for everything she had done. Her nose turned red when I said this. “Kiss Abru for me,” she said.
“You come and kiss her yourself.”
“I will. Next time I’m in the area, I’ll stop by.”
The way she said it, her eyes not meeting mine, I knew I would never see her again. “You have been a farishta in my life,” I said. “I will never forget you.”
Anjali began to cry. “I just wish we had won. I did my best. But I failed you, Meena. I’m so sorry.”
Ammi is calling me. I know she wants me to start dinner, as if today is an ordinary day, instead of the day when the last bird of hope died. I know that no matter how tasty the food is, she will complain tonight—too much salt or too little; rice too soft or too hard. It will be her way to punish me for losing in court. Because even though Ammi refused to talk to the police, she wanted us to win. To avenge her son’s useless death.
I pick up my daughter and walk to my mother-in-law’s house.
Abru hears it first, looking up from her plate. I see her curious face and then I hear it, too. It sounds like thunder, coming from far away. As we listen the sound rolls nearer, and now I know what it is—it is the beating of drums. “Kya hai?” Ammi says, cupping her hand behind her ear. “Someone’s wedding procession so late in the evening?”
But I know what it is.
This is no wedding celebration.
This is a funeral procession.
I grab Abru’s dirty hand. “Get up,” I say, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, get up.” I listen again. The drumming is closer. They are marching through the village. I turn Abru’s head toward me. “Listen,” I say. “The bogeyman is coming. Run into the field behind our house and hide in the grass. Don’t come out until Ammi or I call for you.” She looks back at me, dumb as a cow, sucking her thumb, and I smack her hand. “Go. Run!”
“Hai Allah, hai Allah,” Ammi says, finally understanding what’s going on. I turn to her. “Ammi!” I yell. “You go with Abru. Hide in the field with her, I beg you.”
Ammi picks up Abru and runs. Halfway to the field, she turns around. “You come, too.”
I shake my head. “Go. Now!” I say. If no one is home when they arrive, they will burn the field down, looking for us. I turn to look at the road. That’s when I see the tips of the torches, carried by the men coming my way.
I turn quickly to look back at Ammi. Carrying Abru is slowing her down. She will need a few extra minutes to find a good hiding place deep in the grass. Help me save our daughter, Abdul, I pray. Then, I bend down and pick up as many stones as I can hold in my hand.
I straighten up. My fear is gone. Even as the torches move closer, one thought keeps hammering in my head: I must keep my daughter alive.
Stones in hand, I greet the men who have come to kill me.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Try as she might, Smita couldn’t keep down the queasy feeling. She debated whether to ask Mohan to slow down as he took the curves in the road, but they were already late heading into Birwad. She had fallen asleep after filing her story and woken up two hours later with her heart thudding, certain that Meena was in trouble. Mohan had not been able to convince her that she was wrong.
“Smita. Calm down, yaar,” Mohan said, even though she had not said a word. “You’re worrying for no reason.”
“I’d promised Meena we’d be there by six. And I just have this awful feeling.”
“Listen, if you’re this concerned for her welfare, we can try convincing Ammi and Meena to leave their village. I’ll do my best to help situate them in Surat.”
She shifted in her seat. “I hope to God Anjali made plans to ensure Meena’s safety.”
“Exactly,” Mohan said. “See? Don’t you think Anjali knows the situation better than you? Do you think she would’ve put Meena in harm’s way? After she saved her life?”
Smita nodded, wanting to believe him. But there was that fluttering feeling in her stomach. The headlights of the car lit the road ahead of them, dark fields on either side.
They entered Birwad fifteen minutes later. The first thing they noticed was the eerie silence and lack of activity. It was as if the whole village had decided to go to bed by seven o’clock. The only sound was the distant howling of a few dogs. Smita could feel her hair stand on end. “Something is wrong,” she said, rolling down the window. “This place is dead.”