The Bandit Queens (14)
Farah’s face twisted in desperation, further uncentering her bindi. It was unclear whether she was on the verge of tears or rage. Finally, Farah wailed: “I can’t read!” She hurled the packet as hard as she could. Despite her zeal, the empty packet had no heft and it fluttered to Geeta’s floor with a languid ease that rebooted Farah’s despondency. She thumped Geeta’s pillow like it was at fault. “Now he’s gonna wonder where all the tablets went!”
“Why did you bother, then?” Geeta yelled. “Why not just wait?”
“Wait for what? India’s most perfect plastic bag? Meanwhile, he’ll steal more of my money. We’re just sifting dust here, Geetaben. And every time I ask you what you did to Rameshbhai, you bark at me,” Farah said, forming a claw with one hand. “Is this like a murder-mentor teaching moment or something? Because I don’t think I’ve learned anything.”
“Okay, enough,” Geeta said. “We’ll think of something else.”
“Like what?”
“Well, the poison was a good idea. Easy. Clean.”
“My idea was good?” Farah’s lips stretched into a smile. Her cut began bleeding again. “Ow.” Geeta gave her a handkerchief. Farah dabbed before licking her lower lip to test the wound.
“Yes,” Geeta said in a rare moment of generosity. Then she caught herself and pointed to the medicine on the floor. “Though your execution requires improvement.”
“So what now?”
Geeta considered that for a moment. “What does he like to drink?”
Farah looked at Geeta as though she were daft. “Daru,” she said slowly. “That’s kinda the whole problem here.”
“No, idiot, I mean what else. Milk?”
“Hates it.”
“Juice?”
Farah shook her head. “He says it’s too sugary. Diabetes is a growing epidemic, you know.”
“Liver’s about to fall out of his ass and he’s worried about diabetes.” Geeta paced as she mused. “I guess there’s no other way around it: we’ll have to buy him some more booze.”
Farah released a strangled cry. “Whose side are you on?”
Geeta continued, speaking as though to herself, “It’d be cheaper to poison his food, I guess, but even then, it’s better if he’s drunk. Then he won’t notice or care about the taste.”
“Good thinking. So,” Farah said, her voice innocent, “did that work before? On Ramesh?”
“Nice try. Let’s go to Karem’s.”
“Ah,” Farah said, drawing out the sound. “You can handle that alone, right? You don’t, like, need me there.”
The implication that she needed anyone bristled. “Of course I don’t, but—”
“It’s just— I can’t be seen buying daru. What will people think?”
Geeta scowled. “But I can?”
“But I’m a mother and Muslim, and well, people…I mean, Geetaben, come on. People already think, you know, about you and plus, you don’t even care about gossip—which I’ve always thought is so cool of you, by the way—so what’s the big deal?”
“Fine,” she said. It was silly of her to assume the company. Hadn’t Geeta been the one to insist there was no “we” and that necessity—not friendship—had only temporarily tied their necks together? Besides which, Geeta reasoned, it wouldn’t do to be caught in public with Farah yet again on the eve of Samir’s death. It could raise suspicion. “I’ll get some and meet you back here.”
“Oo,” Farah said. “Could you drop it by the house, actually? It’ll be easier for me, what with the kids and everything.”
Geeta heard her teeth grind. This woman was a connoisseur of piling on.
“Geetaben, you’re the best! Oh, but what do we poison him with?”
That one Geeta was already prepared for. “Something easy and cheap, like rat poison.”
“Okay, I’ll buy some!”
Geeta sighed. “We can’t buy it here. A few questions and you’d be found out. We gotta get it from the city.”
Farah toggled her head in slow appreciation. She tapped her temple. “You’re clever, Geetaben. Like, proper clever.”
“I know.”
“So…not to rush you, but you should get going, na? Before Karem closes for the day?”
Geeta stared at her. “How is it that your husband is ruining my life?”
Farah left, buoyed by such satisfaction that Geeta had the prickly feeling she’d been tuned like a resistant instrument. It was possible that Farah’s dottiness was a convenient act. “Forget it,” Geeta told herself as she put on her sandals. “Just get the booze and be done with all this fuckery.”
She navigated the same route as the evening before. Children played cricket in the schoolyard, a stack of rocks as their improvised wicket. No sign of the tyrannical mini-Saloni this time.
The chai stand near the corner had only three customers. At this time of day, most men, temple time being over, were smoking hookah and playing cards near the panchayat’s office. Two men sat on plastic chairs, reading newspapers while sipping from small glasses. The third was a barefoot Dalit man, sandals tucked into his waistband as he squatted a prophylactic distance from the other two. He blew on his tea, which had been served to him, as it was to all Dalit patrons, in a disposable plastic cup.