Honor

by Thrity Umrigar

“Being uncomfortable is good, beta. It’s in discomfort that growth happens.”

“But you don’t love something because you’re blind to its faults, right? You love it despite its flaws.”

Human beings could apparently be turned into killers as effortlessly as turning a key. All one had to do was use a few buzzwords: God. Country, Religion. Honor. No, men like Rupal were not the problem. The problem lay with the culture

“You think anyone else is going to marry this poor woman? You think her neighbors will ever speak to her again? You think she will ever be anything more than what she is—a social pariah?”

“To set a precedent. To issue a warning to the next bastard thinking of burning alive a woman. And hopefully, to lock these monsters up forever. That’s all. Not to improve Meena’s life. She knew this when she agreed. And that is why she’s the bravest woman I know. You understand?”

how could I win against my brothers when nature had made it so that no woman can prevail against the might of a man?

So Anjali told me something I didn’t know before. She explained to me how steel is made. Steel, she said, is forged from fire.

Meena had probably guessed at her caste and religion from her name. Good God. It was as if nothing had changed in the years since Smita had left India. What a fossilized country this was, with its caste and class and religious bigotries.

Even if the police had shown up, they would have stood joking and laughing while my family screamed for help. Or maybe they would have burned the other Muslim homes in the main village. Why? Because most of the police are Hindus. Why? Because they are the police and who will stop them?

They will never charge two Hindu men for the killing of a Muslim boy, she said. But she was wrong. Shannon put her story in the paper, and a few days later, both my brothers were arrested.

How can murderers walk free while a man lies buried in the ground, and a woman is so defaced that babies cry when they see her unfortunate face? But the judge allowed my brothers to post bail. This is our Hindustan, where killers walk free and their victims are prisoners in their home.

married her off soon after I left home. No man her own age would marry her because of the shame I had brought upon the family. Only a cripple from a distant village, who needed a wife to wait on him like a servant, would agree to such a match. My crime; Radha’s punishment.

Because traditions are like eggs—once you break one, it is impossible to put it back inside its shell.

If her years as a reporter had taught her anything, it was these two things: One, the world was filled with people who were adrift, rudderless, and untethered. And two, the innocent always paid for the sins of the guilty.

In every country, in every crisis, there are a handful of people who will stand against the tide.

You are a woman who has forgotten her station in life. But since you are defying my authority, I will decide how to spend your money.”

As children, we were taught to be afraid of tigers and lions. Nobody taught us what I know today—the most dangerous animal in this world is a man with wounded pride.

“No female has any right to her savings. All their money belonged to me as the head of the household. This is our custom.”

“Not one of them said they’d come to our aid, Zenobia. Not one.” “Asif, they all have their families to think of. These are hard times.” His anger had finally found its target. “Don’t. Don’t take their side. These people, these bloody people. How many times have they come to our parties? They have eaten our food, drunk my liquor. And this is who they are? In our time of need?” They

It took Smita a few years to figure out that Mummy wasn’t really critiquing her taste in decorating. She was concerned about her daughter’s solitary, nomadic existence. The minimalist apartment was simply a metaphor for a minimalist life, one shorn of any long-term obligations or relationships.

It’s always like this. The innocent ones feel guilt. Whereas the true bastards, like these two brothers we’re about to see, walk around like they own the world.”

Forced out of one religion and into another, to whom would they turn? Who were their people? For the first time in his life, Asif Rizvi, aka Rakesh Agarwal, secular humanist, faced an identity crisis.