As soon as she said the word dead, she knew. And at that exact moment, she heard the sound from down the road, coming toward them like rolling thunder. “Mohan!” she cried. “It’s coming from the direction of Meena’s house. Something is going on there.”
The car screeched to a halt. “We need to call the police,” Mohan said. “There’s no way we can go in there if you’re right.”
He reached for his phone, but Smita yelled, “Are you kidding me? I need to get to her. Drive, Mohan. Drive.”
“You’re not thinking straight. If it’s a mob, what can . . .”
“Mohan, for fuck’s sake. They will not dare harm us. They know I’m an American. Drive.”
He swore under his breath but gunned the car through the village and toward Meena’s home. As they got closer, the roar grew louder, as if they were driving into a storm. Then, they saw the source of the sound—a mob of angry, raging men, the fire from their torches lighting up the night. They had formed a circle in the clearing between the two hovels. As Smita looked on in horror, she could see that many of the men were pelting stones at the center of the circle. Mohan came to an abrupt halt at the perimeter of the crowd. Smita leapt out of the car and plowed her way through, feeling the heat from the torches as she made her way to its dark, throbbing heart. Mohan followed behind her. She smelled the distinct scent of masculine sweat, the scent of danger, but she felt reckless, unafraid for her own safety.
She came to the opening and halted. For a moment, in the flickering light of the torches the men carried, she thought she saw a large, bloodied creature they had killed for sport. And yet, she knew at once that it was Meena. Meena. Images flashed before Smita’s eyes—Govind sauntering up to them just before the verdict and insulting his sister; the aggressive, celebratory drumming outside the courthouse, each beat a threat; Meena asking her to accompany her to her house immediately rather than waiting until the evening. Surely, the girl had had some kind of premonition. And Smita had refused, why? Because she had wanted to file her story? Her fucking story?
Smita lifted her head to the dark sky and screamed, a long, endless scream that unfurled like a black scarf. Dimly, she saw a man stop midkick and recognized Govind, who was staring at her in incomprehension. In the poor light of the evening, Govind looked monstrous, but instead of making her fearful, the image enraged Smita. She hurled herself at him, beating him wildly with both hands, striking his face and chest. Smita felt something rough under her fingernails and realized that she was clawing at his face. And Govind, who had been stunned into immobility by her sudden assault, finally grabbed her wrist and twisted it away from his face. Just then there was a shout, and Mohan threw himself between them. “Khabardaar,” he warned. “You lay a hand on her and I swear, I will bring the wrath of God down on you, you motherfucker.”
Behind them, the mob stirred; a few men inched forward. Smita drew closer to Mohan. “Remember one thing, chutiyas!” Mohan shouted, spinning around so that they could all hear him. “This woman? She’s an American. You hurt one hair on her head, and even your corrupt police and courts won’t be able to protect you. I tell you, they will send in the American army to hunt down each one of you.”
“We are having no quarrel with her, seth!” someone yelled. “We are only here to take care of the whore.” He pointed toward the ground where Meena lay.
“Get away from her. You’ve killed her. Now, leave her corpse alone!” Smita screamed. And when she saw that they weren’t about to give an inch, she moved toward Meena’s mangled body and dropped to the ground. She crouched, one arm over Meena’s lifeless body, to protect it from being further assailed by their kicks and beatings. The nauseating smell of fresh blood and ripped flesh filled her nostrils.
“Didi.” The voice was so faint, Smita didn’t know if she was imagining it. But then she heard Meena’s raspy breathing. “You’re alive,” Smita whispered, aware that Govind and Mohan faced off less than three feet away.
Meena’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Smita leaned in. “Abru,” Meena gasped. “With Ammi. Hiding.”
“You please leave, sahib!” Govind yelled. “We are not wanting trouble with you. But please do not interfere in our domestic affairs.”
Smita was aware of the terrible risk Mohan was taking. The only thing protecting him was his status as a wealthy outsider. But that protection would not last much longer; the mob had had a taste of blood, and it would turn on her and Mohan next. And yet, she couldn’t think about that.
Smita bent closer to Meena. Her good eye closed, then opened again, but there was little life in it. “Didi,” she whispered. Smita put her ear against the girl’s mouth to hear as best as she could over the yells of the crowd. Meena’s tongue was lolling in her mouth as she spoke, making it harder to follow her words. “In the field . . . Hiding.” Her right hand fluttered in the dust, and Smita realized she wanted her to hold it. She held it. “You take. To Am’rica. Promise. My Abru.”
“I promise,” Smita whispered, just as a pair of hands grabbed her from her armpits and yanked her away. In that moment, a foot struck Meena in the jaw. Smita saw the girl’s head jerk so hard that a spray of blood flew out of her nostrils. She screamed and tried to get out of the man’s grip as she was being dragged away, but Meena’s lifeless face, her eye rolled back in her head, signaled to Smita that the kick was the fatal blow. They had killed her. They had killed her.
“You fucking bastards!” Mohan yelled, and she saw that they had gripped him, and at long last—when there was nothing she could do to protect Meena—she was afraid. “Mohan!” she screamed, and he turned his head to look at her, the expression on his face inscrutable.
She began to struggle harder as she realized she was being pulled toward Ammi’s hut. Surely, they would set it on fire with her and Mohan inside. But a man emerged from the hut and said, “Miss, it is better for you if you don’t fight. We wish you no harm.” She recognized the voice. It was Rupal’s.
The hands gripping her slackened, and Smita pulled away to face Rupal. “You call yourself a man of God?” she shouted. “You allowed an innocent woman to be murdered? In cold blood?”
Rupal put his finger to his lips, signaling her to be quiet. He gestured to Smita’s captor to lead her into the hut. A single lantern lit the room. As Smita looked around, she gasped. Either Ammi had put up a mighty struggle, or they had ransacked the hovel. Then, she saw that the provisions Mohan had purchased for Ammi were gone, and she knew that the men had taken away everything of value.
Rupal followed her with his eyes. “We helped ourselves to a few items,” he said pleasantly. “Seeing that the old lady has absconded with her bastard grandchild.”
Smita flinched at the insult. “The child is innocent,” she said. “Of course, so was her mother.”
Rupal’s eyes were hard. They flickered slightly as Mohan was pushed inside as well. “That child is living proof of our disgrace, miss,” Rupal said. “To be honest, it’s more important for us to find her than it was to kill the whore. And we will. After all, how far can an old grandmother and a young child go?”
Smita’s heart flooded with fear. They would hurt Abru, the silent, wounded toddler with the sweet face and birdlike manner. These monsters would hurt a child. Meena’s final words came to her. Abru was hiding somewhere, not too far from the hut. How long before these bastards hunted her down?
She forced herself to laugh, hoping that Rupal wouldn’t hear her insincerity. “Good luck finding them,” she said, keeping her eyes on Rupal but speaking loudly enough for Mohan to hear. “Anjali knew you goons would be up to no good. She insisted that Ammi and the child stay in town with her. You will never see them again.”
She heard Rupal’s sharp intake of breath, saw the disappointment on his face. But the man was nothing if not cunning. “Then why did the whore return?” he said.