The Bandit Queens (100)
“I’m sure it sounds farfetched because Ramesh has been dry, but—”
“No,” she said, chewing the dry skin off her lip. “It’s not farfetched. Ramesh is still drinking. On the sly.”
“Oh.” Karem took a step back. “That’s…”
“Not at all surprising?” she supplied. “I know.”
Her mind chirred. If Bada-Bhai came looking for her, perhaps she could reason with him, offer him what little money she had remaining. Geeta was not too keen on the idea of having a confrontation with an aspiring don, but somehow she felt more equipped to handle him now than she would have three weeks prior. Should she get a gun? No, no, that was lunacy. Well, maybe a little one with—
Beyond Saloni’s porch, a lassi station had been set up next to a jalebi maker’s huge caldron. The confectioner wielded a cone of batter that he swirled in tight concentric circles. Once fried, they were dipped in sugar syrup. The result was bright orange, shiny wheels. Shaped, Geeta thought idly, like mosquito coils. Her mouth watered, which was odd as she didn’t care for sweets the way Saloni did.
“Okay, okay,” Geeta said, convincing herself. “It’ll be fine, I’ll be fine. I’ll figure something out.”
“Geeta,” Karem said, her name a warning.
“What? You said so yourself that he’s not an actual don, how dangerous can Chintu be?”
“Listen, if I had to guess, I’d say he’s more upset about being bested by a ‘housewife’ than your freeing the dogs. But I’m worried that he’ll use you as an example to, I don’t know, make a name for himself.”
For if you kill twenty, your fame will spread; if you kill only one, they will hang you as a murderess.
“Maybe we could use the police to scare him.”
Karem sighed. “The same ones he bribes?”
“There’s one who isn’t in his pocket. ASP Sinha.”
“Should we call him?”
Geeta was too aghast to correct him. “God no! She won’t believe anything I say. But Bada-Bhai doesn’t know that.”
The lassi maker poured milk from a steel cup into a glass. Then back into the steel. Back into the cup. The distance between the two vessels grew and grew as he created a long foaming fountain, but he never spilled. He kept pouring, fomenting, and his dance was oddly hypnotizing. She felt soothed in a strange way, relaxed but awake, as though someone was scratching her head with long fingernails. A stressed slice of her mind clicked off, allowing a dormant portion to wake and suddenly she knew what had been itching her brain two days ago when she’d delivered milk to Ramesh.
“Fuck,” she whispered, her voice nearly reverent as she set down her disposable plate.
“What’s wrong?”
“Fuck, fuck.”
“Arre, what?” Karem’s forehead pleated.
“I have to go. I…forgot to feed Bandit. Poor guy. I’ll be back.”
“I can come with you. With Bada-Bhai looking for you, you shouldn’t be wandering alone at night, right?”
“No, I’ll take Ramesh,” she lied. It was true Karem might be able to help the situation she now realized she’d spectacularly misread, but he had already helped her plenty. And she didn’t want to repay him by dragging him further into danger. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you later, okay? And thanks—for everything.”
She sprinted home, or tried to. Her party sari was stiff silk rather than her usual cotton, and it impeded her until she hefted her skirts. How had it taken her so long, especially in light of all the other lies? He’d recognized her footsteps, he’d identified the alcohol, he hadn’t burned the papadam—Geeta had heard that upon losing sight, other senses heightened. Fine. But he’d known to use plastic cups with the two Dalit men at the tea stand before they’d even said a word.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chanted as she ran. She passed a family unrolling firecrackers. “Ram Ram!” she greeted before resuming her “fuck, fuck, fuck” mantra. Couldn’t one damn thing go correctly? How was it that everyone’s husband was killable except hers?
She raced past some skittish cattle. Firecrackers boomed behind her. Many villagers were at Saloni’s, but a few others hosted their own card parties or preferred to celebrate with immediate family. Now, after dinner, they all took to their yards or clear fields to unfurl and light the leftover patakas that hadn’t been used the night before. Geeta’s bun loosened in its jeweled net, the decorative pin she’d placed earlier sagged. The powder she’d patted under her arms forfeited, and her sweat prickled. The winter chill had teeth but was no match for this level of exertion. Her mouth was dry and she felt queasy. She’d been so busy assaulting everyone with unwanted eye contact, she hadn’t eaten. Finally, she saw her home, the overhead bulb shining inside. She sprinted up the two steps and burst through her front door shouting, “He’s not blind!”
“Yeah,” Saloni mumbled around the gag peeling back the corners of her mouth. “I kinda figured that out.”
TWENTY-NINE
The provenance of a churel is a woman wronged. A pregnant woman’s demise. Death at the hands of vicious in-laws or a violent husband. Dying during childbirth or within the twelve-day period of impurity afterward. Whenever a woman died grossly unfulfilled, she’d return as a churel. Those surviving her could attempt to stymie her transformation: bury rather than burn her, weigh her down with stones, dress her grave with thorns, set her in the ground facedown so as to disorient her. Were that she’d been given such healthy regard in life, rendering such measures moot. Nevertheless, if her revenge-lust was potent enough, she’d find her way home and so it would begin.