“There’s no need to come that early. You are going to have a long day of travel tomorrow if you leave after the surgery.” He smiled. “Nandini has made it clear that she will not leave until she is sure Shannon is going to be okay.”
Smita went back into the room. Shannon was sleeping soundly. Smita gave her a light kiss on the forehead, then stood watching her. Pain had carved new lines into Shannon’s face. As she watched, Shannon moaned softly. Smita felt a rush of sympathy. Shannon was usually so gregarious and outgoing that it was easy to forget that she had no family. Once, only once, when they were both drunk after a work party, had Shannon spoken about the childhood spent in foster homes. Smita admired Shannon—here she was, in a country not her own, being looked after by a translator who clearly adored her and a male friend who was ensuring that she was receiving the best of care.
And then there’s me, Smita thought. I dropped everything to rush to her side. Why? For Shannon’s sake, for sure, but also to prove that I know how to be a real friend. Well, the joke’s on me. Because Shannon doesn’t need my friendship or company—she just needs my professional commitment.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Smita whispered to Nandini, and before the woman could respond, she slipped out of the room.
Smita called Anjali’s number as soon as the cab had pulled out of the hospital. It rang a few times before a voice said, “Tell me.”
“Oh hi,” Smita said, taken aback by the abrupt greeting. “Is this Anjali?”
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
Even though Smita knew it would get stiflingly hot in the cab, she motioned to the driver to roll up his window. “My name is Smita. I’m Shannon’s colleague. And I’m taking over the Meena Mustafa story for Shannon?”
“Oh yes.” Anjali had the clipped accent of upper-class Indians that Smita remembered from her girlhood. “Her assistant said you were flying in from the States.”
Smita didn’t bother to correct her. “Yeah, I just got in late last night.”
“How is Shannon? Did she have her surgery?”
“It’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
“Good, good.” There was a hint of impatience in Anjali’s voice, the sound of an overworked woman who was routinely pulled in a hundred different directions. Smita knew that tone only too well.
“I was calling about the verdict. Shannon feels that I should leave tomorrow—”
“Don’t bother,” Anjali said, interrupting her. “We just got word a few minutes ago that there’s been a delay. There won’t be a ruling tomorrow.”
“Oh. Why not?”
Anjali gave a bitter laugh. “Why not? Because this is India. Apparently, the judge hasn’t finished writing his judgment.”
“I see.”
“So, will you still be able to come later?” Anjali asked. “Or will the paper not do a follow-up?”
Maybe they’ll run a wire story? Smita thought. “Is the Indian media covering the story?” Smita asked. “Maybe we can just—”
“Please.” Anjali’s tone was dismissive. “Do you think they can be bothered with such a story? After all, these were Hindus killing a Muslim. So who cares, right? It is, how do you say it—dog bites man? No, they’re too busy covering movie stars and—cricket.”
Smita smiled at the contempt with which Anjali said the last word. “Listen, where are your offices located?” she asked. “I’d love to talk some more with you about why you took this case, and other issues.”
“Why? Because no other lawyer would’ve bothered with it. And we need more women like Meena to speak up for their rights. That’s the only way things will change in this godforsaken country.”
“Yes, of course. And you are close to Birwad?”
“Not really. Our offices are about an hour’s drive from Meena’s village and a little more than that from Vithalgaon, where her brothers live. From Mumbai, you will need to drive. You will have a driver, right?”
“Yes.”
“Great,” Anjali said absently. “Well, do you want me to get in touch with you when we know the date of the verdict?”
A motorcyclist pulled so close to Smita’s cab before swerving at the last instant that she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. The man shook his fist at her driver before shooting ahead.
“Hello?” Anjali said.
“Oh, sorry,” Smita replied. “How much in advance will you know?”
Anjali clucked, then added, “Hard to say. At least the day before, hopefully.” She paused. “So? Are you hanging around in Mumbai?”
Smita thought for a moment, then came to a decision. “I think we’ll take a start the day after tomorrow,” she said. “That way, I can stay at the hospital all day tomorrow if I have to.”
“But the verdict may not come until the day after . . .”
“That’s okay. I’ll go meet with Meena. And I’ll interview the brothers, too.”
“Good idea. But be careful. The older brother especially can be very belligerent. You should see how he behaves in court. But the worst of the lot is Rupal Bhosle. He’s the head of their village council. The brothers worship him like he’s some kind of god. Too bad I couldn’t sue him.”
“It’s hard to believe that someone could sanction such barbaric . . .”
“Male entitlement, my dear. Bullshit notions of family honor.”
Smita heard the anger in Anjali’s voice.
The cab driver pressed on his horn, blasting in Smita’s ear. She looked around, bewildered. They were sitting in a massive traffic jam. “God,” Anjali said. “What’s going on?”
Smita leaned forward and tapped the driver on his shoulder. “Oi, bhai,” she said in her stilted Hindi. “What use blowing the horn? Nobody is moving, na?”
The man looked over his shoulder and grinned sheepishly. “Right you are, miss,” he said. “What to do? Just a bad habit.”
She smiled, disarmed by his sheepishness. “Sorry,” she said to Anjali. “We’re stuck in traffic.”
“Okay, tell you what,” Anjali said briskly. “Let’s stay in touch the next few days. I’m assuming you’re going to stay at the same motel where Shannon stays when she goes to Birwad?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“And you’re traveling with her assistant? What’s her name? Nandita?”
“Nandini.”
“Ah yes, Nandini. She’s good. You’re in good hands with her.”
Smita looked glumly out of the cab window after they’d hung up. She took in the stalks of the ugly new skyscrapers that had sprouted all over the city. She saw the older buildings, all of which needed a fresh coat of paint. And everywhere, there was the bewildering crush of humanity—people pouring onto the roads from the crowded sidewalks, darting into traffic, squeezing past the cars and buses and trucks. Unable to bear the heat in the closed vehicle, she rolled down her window and was immediately assailed by the deafening beeps of the vehicles around her. It was like listening to a demented, cacophonous orchestra; she had the strange sensation that the cars were communicating to one another, like in some science-fictional, postapocalyptic movie. She fought the urge to plug her fingers into her ears. It was not as if she was a stranger to the third world. But India wasn’t a country so much as an unstoppable force of nature. Everything about it bewildered her—the paan-stained walls in a renowned hospital, the insane traffic, the masses of people everywhere, Mohan’s idiotic insistence that she claim India as her homeland. At this moment, India felt inexpressibly large—as well as small and provincial enough to choke her. Well, she’d just have to grit it out. You didn’t cover the kind of stories and go to the remote parts of the world that she did because you sought comfort. What had Papa said to her during those early, hard months in Ohio? “Being uncomfortable is good, beta. It’s in discomfort that growth happens.”