The Bandit Queens (10)

“I’m not scared of her.”

“Well, you’ve got a bigger bully to deal with.”

“Oh, you’re not so bad once you—”

“Not me,” Geeta snapped. “Your husband.”

“Oh. Right, right.” Farah cleared her throat. “But what I meant was, like, there’s regular hate, right? Which is really just dislike. Kinda like how you don’t like…well, anyone. But that dislike disappears when you’re not looking at them, ’cause you got other things going on. But you and Saloni hate-hate each other.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, in my experience, that kind of hate comes with a good story.”

“And?”

“And…I like good stories?”

“I’m not here to entertain you, Farah. We’re here for one reason only.”

Farah sighed. “I’m not your enemy, Geetaben, you don’t have to treat me like one. You’re doing me a huge favor—the biggest—and I’m just trying to make it easier. Friendship can make things easier, you know.”

“Saloni and I were friends,” Geeta admitted. “A long time back.”

Farah’s face turned supportive, encouraging Geeta to delve. “What happened? Was it a boy? It’s usually a boy.”

“I didn’t tell you so we could gossip, Farah. I told you to correct you: friendship doesn’t necessarily make anything easier.”

“I said it can. It didn’t work out with Saloni, I get it. But what—you’re just never going to have another friend again? That’s bogus.”

“Oh, fuck off, yeah? When were you ever interested in friendship before you needed me?”

“I—”

“After Ramesh, you lot couldn’t be bothered to look at me, much less talk to me. And that’s fine. But don’t stand there banging a bhajan about the importance of sisterhood.” Geeta let the bag fall to the dirt. “Forget it. Let’s go.”

Farah did not move. “But what about the plan?”

“Saloni saw us. It’ll be too suspicious if he dies tonight. She’s a nosy bitch, but not a stupid bitch.”

Farah released a one-note noise of admonishment. “The cursing!”

“Tell me she’s not a nosy bitch.” When Farah opened her mouth, Geeta added, “And remember lying is a worse sin than cursing.”

Farah’s jaw clicked shut.





FOUR


Was it a boy? It’s usually a boy.

Farah’s perspicacity and Geeta’s ordinariness were not welcome realizations.

Yes, it was a boy. If you could call Ramesh—mustache at fifteen, when his family moved from a neighboring village, full beard in by twenty-two—a boy. Ramesh, like Geeta, was neither particularly good-looking nor gregarious. Had he been, his attention would’ve raised her suspicions. Had he been, he’d likely have been smitten with Saloni instead. But while all the boys were wild about what filled Saloni’s undergarments, their parents only cared about what filled her dowry, which was zero rupees and zero paise. (In an early school lesson, their economics teacher explained the custom of dowry. Saloni tried to correct him: the groom’s family pays to take the bride, after all, they’re gaining a whole entire person to help the household. The teacher laughed: no, the groom is paid to take the bride because she’s a liability, another mouth to feed. And, naturally, you can’t buy a person, that’s slavery. But, Saloni snapped back, if you sell one, that’s tradition? She was made to sit in rooster position for the remainder of the econ class.)

Saloni had grown up a severe brand of poor. Geeta’s family was ordinary poor: vegetables with rice or chapatis. In Saloni’s family, they rotated the days half of them wouldn’t eat, always favoring the boys. She was only sent to school due to the state’s Midday Meal Scheme, which offered a free lunch. Most afternoons, they went to Geeta’s home. Once, Geeta’s father brought from work rejected apples that would soon rot; they already suffered from dark spots that Geeta’s mother intended to carve. When she returned from the kitchen with a knife, however, Saloni had already eaten her apple, core and seeds and stem and all.

Geeta’s parents said nothing, but as they finished their apples, and Saloni saw the discarded, evidently inedible bits, her fair skin flushed. That night, Geeta’s parents insisted Saloni stay for dinner before walking home. In their nearly two decades of friendship, Saloni never invited Geeta to her home, and Geeta never asked.

In other parts of the world, Saloni’s nadir of poverty would have subjected her to bullying. But nearly everyone in their village practiced mild asceticism—most possessed simple clothes and two pairs of shoes. Chocolate and cake were rare; on Diwali, they passed around homemade sweets. Besides, while Saloni’s feet may have been bare, her other coffers were full: she was sharp and funny and high caste and, above all, beautiful. So, so beautiful with green-gold eyes that had bewildered her parents, high cheekbones and heart-shaped lips atop a delicately pointed chin. A beautiful child who spawned into a beautiful adolescent, Saloni wasted no time with acne or awkwardness. Like waves under the moon, their classmates bent to her will. Such was her social currency; everyone wanted to be near her, felt promoted by her presence.