The Bandit Queens (110)

Geeta closed her eyes. The other women’s biggest threat was Bada-Bhai, but she knew that even if BB left them unscathed, Ramesh would stay and spend his life ruining hers. He was her husband and she wouldn’t be free of him until one of them died.

“Ramesh,” she said, “you might as well kill me now.”

Saloni gestured for Farah to come closer; Farah refused, her chin jerking toward Ramesh’s back. Saloni’s face twisted ferociously. Farah scooted on Ramesh’s charpoy and extended her bound arms silently; as a widow, she wore no jewelry and only a thin, simple sari. Saloni leaned over to free Farah’s bare wrists. While the women moved, Geeta tried to capture Ramesh’s full attention. Nausea made her mouth water.

“Does a farmer kill his best-producing hen?”

“He does if the hen pecks his eyes out.”

Ramesh appeared amused. “Oh? Is that what you’ll do, my little hen?”

“I asked Saloni to kill you; that was my mistake. I’ll do it myself. And I won’t stop trying until I watch your body burn.”

“You barely ever had brains, much less balls.”

“I’ve killed before. And I didn’t even hate them. Imagine what I’ll do to you.”

Ramesh scoffed. “Who? Who’d you kill?”

“Samir was first,” Farah said behind Ramesh. She’d abandoned her sandals and, like a specter, moved toward him. He whirled, wielding the knife. The moonshine had made him sloppy; Farah sidestepped easily.

“How’d you get free?” Ramesh demanded. “Sit back down. Right now.”

“No,” Saloni said, jumping to her feet. He turned again, swinging the knife between the two women. “It’s your turn to fucking take a seat.”

“I’ll cut you.”

Saloni pretended to consider that. “You’re going to cut all of us? Even if you could manage, think it through. BB will be furious with you. The council will banish you, and then how will you suck Geeta’s blood?”

“The panchayat? You mean four men and a token bitch?” Ramesh laughed. No longer taken off guard, his confidence returned. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Two token bitches,” Khushi corrected, carefully rising from the cot. Ramesh started. With blood staining the right half of her face, her hair in disarray, she looked every bit a churel. “And we don’t need the council to handle you.”

“You think I’m afraid of you, chuhra? Try it and see what happens. I’ll break her legs first.” He stroked Geeta’s split lip with his thumb before smudging the blood into her hairline like vermillion, the mark of a married woman. “But not her hands of course.”

“Where was this concern when you broke my fingers?”

“I did?” He seemed surprised. “When?”

She didn’t answer, stunned. Pain had defined her time with Ramesh, it had been her moon, her seasons. That he should regard her suffering as inconsequential was hardly news, but that he was capable of entirely forgetting baffled her.

“Do you know what happens when a man dies, Ramesh?” Saloni asked. All three women stepped closer, the circle tightening. “He pisses himself.”

“You’d be amazed how many shit themselves, too,” Khushi said.

Farah added, “Samir did. He also begged me to help him. I thought it would be difficult to watch him die, that I’d want to leave and not come back until it was done. But I stayed for every minute. Geeta will, too.”

“You’re bluffing,” Ramesh said, his back hitting the wall. His panic was a balm to Geeta. “BB! Chintu, get in here!”

“She’s not bluffing,” Khushi said, nodding toward Geeta. “We all killed Samir.”

“And Geeta killed Darshan all on her own,” Saloni said. She moved to untie Geeta. Ramesh, sweating and too confounded by the piling revelations, did not stop her. Once free, Geeta stood by Saloni.

“Darshan?” He reared back. His balance was unsteady.

“Yes,” Geeta said. “I beat his brains in. I wish they’d been yours.”

“Bitch!” He lunged forward sloppily, but forgot his leg, which gave out, and Geeta evaded his grip easily. With a flattened foot, she shoved his wound. As he fell, he yawped, half in pain, half in fury.

“He’s not answering,” BB said as he returned from the back door. “That Sinha bitch will probably be here in half an—” He halted upon surveying the tableau. “Are you fucking kidding me, Ramesh? Three tied, one half dead, and you still managed to fuck up?”

Ramesh was on the floor, cradling his injury. Between Geeta aggravating the wound and the alcohol thinning his blood, a fresh torrent quickly stained through the petticoat he’d tied as a tourniquet. “It’s not my fault! These bitches are murderers, BB.”

“Then maybe I should hire them instead!” BB hollered, lifting his gun. The women instinctively raised their hands. “You go on about being a man when you’re a quarter of a mard. Fuck! Look at them: they’re just women, not murderers.”

“Actually we are,” Geeta said. “It’s become sort of a side business. Wives who’d prefer to be widows.”

“You couldn’t,” he scoffed. “How would you even? You’re a bunch of housewives, not dons.”