The Bandit Queens (108)
“It’s for any woman who dies of unnatural means. And that,” Geeta said, looking at the revolver, “is definitely not natural.”
Bada-Bhai waved his gun between the three of them. “Any of you pregnant?”
“She can’t be,” Ramesh said, pointing to Geeta. “Though Ram knows I’ve tried.”
“How would you know?”
“Because, we haven’t—oi!” His face twisted into outrage. Despite his leg, he lunged toward her and struck her hard with the back of his hand. Her head flung to the right. It had been years since Geeta had been slapped and, while the pain was certainly not negligible, what she’d forgotten was how deeply humiliating it was. Her eyes watered, she tasted her blood. As soon as her head corrected, Ramesh drove his fist into her stomach. She saw white. Her chair scrapped backward against the floor. Air fled her; she gasped for oxygen and failed. Her organs cramped and she felt dizzy.
Saloni gasped. “You asshole,” she whispered.
“None of that—” Geeta started and then broke off with a wheeze. Though her side ached terribly, she could breathe again. “None of that changes the fact that you might’ve just killed a low-caste woman during Diwali.” She jerked her chin toward Khushi’s body. “She could already be a churel.”
“Low-caste?” BB echoed, his neck swiveling. “Who said anything about low-caste? What’s her name?”
“Khushi Balmiki.”
Ramesh cursed.
BB gaped. “She’s a Harijan? She doesn’t look it!”
“Dalit, yes,” Farah said.
BB looked at his hands, much as he had when he’d inadvertently fired the gun at Ramesh. He turned to Saloni, enraged. “But she came inside! She’s right there, polluting everything!”
“You didn’t really give her a choice.”
“I touched her!”
“And the ladoos,” Saloni added. “You ate all of her ladoos.”
Bada-Bhai slapped Saloni with a movement so economical, it took a long moment for Geeta to register what had occurred. Then Saloni’s cheek bloomed red with his print, her lips parted in shock. She, Geeta figured, hadn’t been struck since she was a child.
Bada-Bhai grabbed a fistful of Geeta’s loosened bun and yanked hard. Geeta’s face jerked up. “You didn’t tell me about her on purpose, didn’t you? To fool me again.”
“I—I didn’t,” she lied. “I swear. I was scared; I—I wasn’t thinking straight. Please.”
He released her with a growl. Dismay pooled in her belly. This man had an appetite for violence she foolishly hadn’t taken into account. His temper was now titanic, mutating his face until she had trouble recognizing his formerly soft jowls. “Each one of you miserable bitches has made my life impossible tonight. With your constant yammering and your tricks and your goddamn lies. And he’s right, I’ve let you, but no more. You think this is a fucking joke?” When Geeta was silent, he slapped her, shouting, “Answer me!”
Though it stung little compared to Ramesh’s hand, it was far stronger than the patronizing slap to the back of her head that BB had meted out earlier, and fear roiled through her. She was afraid of dying, certainly, but it was a distant fear. Her more urgent fear was of pain. She’d gone a long while without being subjected to this sort of physical suffering and its return shook her. She wanted to be impervious, to be enraged, but instead only felt cowed and scared.
All those years with Ramesh flooded her, pulling her under, snatching her air. She remembered her marriage too clearly. That trip to Ahmedabad where Ramesh hadn’t let her use the toilet all day. That night she’d woken to find his hands around her throat. How when they went places together, he made her walk behind him and look at the ground. When he’d locked her out in the middle of a monsoon and she’d slept on the wet concrete outside their door. How there was always just enough affection to keep her hoping for more, how it’d been easier to obey than fight, how angry she’d been with herself; if she could just behave, he wouldn’t need anger. Ramesh had waited until everyone who ever loved her was gone before dismantling her. When he was done, he showed her how he saw her: small, worthless, stupid, unloved, unlovable.
“No,” Geeta whispered to BB, her eyes filling. “I don’t think this is a joke. Please.” If this ended as badly as she feared, she hoped Saloni wouldn’t blame herself as she had with Runi. She hoped Saloni would know and remember them as they’d been as girls: not only on the same team, but as the same player.
“I’m polluted!” he shouted into her face, spit landing on her cheek. This close, she saw a tic pulsing below his left eye. Like a clock, it measured the time she had left. “On New Year’s, of all days. You clearly don’t give a damn about your karma, you invite Muslims and chuhras into your house. But some of us are decent fucking Hindus.” BB snapped his fingers twice. “Do you think I’m stupid? All the churel legend means is that I can’t kill you. It doesn’t say I can’t make you wish you were dead.”
He nodded at Ramesh, who limped to the kitchen, favoring his wounded leg, and returned with a knife. He walked to Geeta.
“Stop it!” Saloni shouted, struggling to her feet, the lawn chair strapped to her backside. She tried to hop forward. Her eyes were wild with distress. “Stop it right now. BB! Make him stop!”