Standing on the veranda steps, she puzzled some more over her husband’s absence. The fog made it difficult to see much, but a faint sliver of light was visible underneath the door of the woodshed. She visualized images of Suresh lying in a pool of blood, his skinny body motionless. As far as she had determined, Suresh was incapable of defending himself against even the weakest of attacks. Suresh needed her. But what should she do?
Well, defend him, of course! Steely determination goaded her into action. Being the youngest of three girls, she had learned to wrestle with her older sisters for everything including space in their small, cramped house, their parents’ attention, clothes and toys. So now she’d put those acquired defensive moves to good use.
Megha wasn’t about to let some petty thugs make her a widow at twenty-one. She’d fight them with everything she had—if necessary, even give her own life to save her husband’s. It was her duty as an ideal wife. But she had to come up with a strategy. Barging into the shed like a crazed woman wouldn’t do her any good, nor Suresh for that matter. First she had to determine the gravity of the situation.
She was afraid of the dark, always had been, but something in the shed seemed to beckon her with a force that both frightened and excited her. She stepped down from the veranda.
Nearing the shed, Megha heard hushed voices, barely audible. Talking burglars? Or was it Suresh, her naïve, impractical husband, actually trying to strike a compromise with the thieves? There was only one way to find out. Despite the misgivings nipping at her brain, she tiptoed barefoot across the dirt-covered yard toward the shed.
She’d been so preoccupied she nearly walked right into the big tulsi pot. Somehow she managed to break her fall by grabbing it with both hands. But she grazed her knees and nearly banged her head on its edge in the process.
The holy tulsi plant was a tropical variety of basil, held sacred by Hindus. In most conservative households it was planted in a clay pot or urn anchored to the ground in the center of the courtyard—an honored place. The urn was usually painted in bright colors and the plant well-tended. It was customary for women to pray daily to the tulsi for blessings.
Despite the clammy heat of the night, Megha felt goose bumps pop up along her arms, her stomach instinctively tighten. For a fleeting second she was tempted to run back to bed, pull the covers over her head and let this weird, eerie night go on without her. She wanted to be a little girl again; she didn’t want to know about dark nights and the fearsome things that stalked them.
But she was not a little girl anymore; she was a grown woman with responsibilities, and she couldn’t afford to shirk them. Besides, the mysterious force in the shed seemed to draw her closer. Was Suresh still alive?
Taking care to avoid the narrow band of light under the door, she edged along the side wall as noiselessly as possible and positioned herself to peer through the open window. Puzzled lines formed on her brow. There was no sign of strangers and certainly no burglars. Only Amma and Suresh were inside the shed.
A stench suddenly assailed her nostrils. Kerosene! That potent, unexpected odor made her stomach revolt.
What in heaven’s name were her husband and mother-in-law doing in there at this hour? Why did the place reek of kerosene? Bewildered, Megha continued to observe them in silence. This was entirely out of character. The obese and sluggish Amma should have been deep in sleep and so should Suresh. They were both heavy sleepers. And yet, here they were, in the dead of night, murmuring to each other in the dusty, rat-infested woodshed of all places.
Amma wore a deep purple sari and stood with her tree-stump legs apart, in her usual militant posture, fat hands planted on her hips. Even in the pale light cast by the lantern her face was plainly visible. Perspiration glistened on her dark-coffee skin as she stared at a crude bed fashioned out of crisscrossed logs of firewood lying on the floor. “Suresh, make sure the kerosene is soaked into the wood, boy. It has to catch fire quickly and burn for a long time,” she instructed.
Burn valuable wood in the middle of the night? For what purpose?
Tiny beads of sweat showed on Suresh’s wide forehead as he crouched on the floor beside the logs, still wearing the sky-blue pajamas he’d worn to bed. He appeared shaky, anxious, as he looked up at his mother. But then, he was always like that around his mother. “Amma, are you sure about this? What if the neighbors suspect something?”
“Don’t be silly,” snorted Amma. “They’re all fast asleep.”
“What if they inform the police?”
“Stop worrying over nothing, boy.”
“We’ll all end up in jail, Amma.” His voice sounded feeble and pleading.
Jail? Megha’s heart missed a solid beat. What kind of illegal business was her husband getting himself into? And his own mother was leading him into it? How come Suresh had said nothing to Megha, his wife? She would have talked him out of it in a minute. But then, he was always Amma’s little boy, hanging on her every word—too stupid to think for himself.
Amma slapped Suresh’s shoulder, making him lurch forward and nearly fall on his face. “Don’t be an idiot, Suresh. Do you see a single light on in any of the neighbors’ homes?”
“That does not mean someone is not awake, Amma,” he argued weakly.
“Nonsense! Besides, we don’t socialize with any of those low-caste people. They don’t even know us.”
“But, Amma, this is still illegal. You understand that?”
“There is nothing illegal about what is right, Suresh.”
Suresh merely stared at his mother, too much of a coward to stand up to her.
“Don’t you understand that she is worthless?” Amma rolled her eyes, seemingly frustrated with her son’s lack of intelligence. “Her father is never going to come up with the dowry. His actions are what I call illegal.”
“But nothing was in writing…” Suresh’s voice trailed off.
“Humph,” Amma fumed, “a spoken agreement is still a contract. When he doesn’t pay up, he is breaking that contract, no? It has been almost one year and she is not even pregnant yet. She must be barren also. We can easily get double or triple the dowry from some other girl’s father. Do you want to give that up?”
Dowry? Barren? As the truth began to sink in, Megha’s stomach plunged. They were talking about her! What she’d stumbled upon wasn’t some mildly dishonest mother-son project. They were plotting against her. The ominous words coming out of Amma’s mouth meant only one thing: Death!
Suresh shook his head and poured more kerosene on the wood as his mother demanded, spreading more noxious fumes into the surrounding air. His lips quivered. “But Amma, can’t…can’t we just send her back to her father’s house? Divorce is legal now, you see.”
“No! In our family there is no dye-vorrce,” Amma hissed. “Do you know how long it takes? Two years? Three? Besides, divorced men are treated like donkey dung, but a widowed man is looked at with sympathy, especially one whose wife dies a tragic death. Divorce brings dishonor upon the family, Suresh. This is a much better way; nobody will know. They will think it was an accident.”
“How t-to explain…” Suresh stuttered, the perspiration on his forehead beginning to run.
“How? She was here to pick up firewood with a lantern in hand; she knocked down the kerosene tin and the lantern set her sari on fire.”
“But, Amma—”
“Just do as I say and leave the rest to me, Suresh. I know all about these things. Two months from now, girls will be lining up to marry you. You are our only son and an officer in a big bank. You will be in much demand, no?”
Megha