The Bandit Queens (15)

When Geeta approached Karem’s shop, she pulled in a deep breath before entering. Rather than being shocked, Karem seemed pleased to see her, which Geeta found odd. No one was ever happy to see her, not even her clients, who considered her wares good luck.

“Geetaben! What can I do for you?”

Plastic boxes of costume jewelry lined the display case in a dusty rainbow. It was clear they hadn’t been moved in many years. Even through the glass, Geeta could spot the asymmetrical, shoddy workmanship. She deliberated over the proper process of bootleg ordering, whether a clandestine passcode or phrase was required.

Geeta held up a finger. “One alcohol please.”

Karem gaped. Doubt clouded his face. “You want hooch?”

“Yes.”

“You got a guest or something?”

“No,” she said quickly. “It’s for me only. I enjoy…inebriation.”

He smiled. “All right, then. What kind?”

“Kind? Uh…”

“I got desi daru and my tharra.”

“Er…what’s the tharra like today?”

“?‘Like today’?” he echoed, confusion and amusement tugging his eyebrows. “Same as every day, I guess. Rough, but it does the job.”

“I see.” She nodded with what she hoped was casual authority. “And the desi daru?”

From behind the counter, Karem extracted a squat bottle of clear liquid. A mixture of Hindi and English lettering crowded the label. The only images Geeta initially recognized were a drawing of a palm tree and the ubiquitous symbol reassuring Indians that something was purely vegetarian: a green dot housed in a green square. As her focus sharpened, she saw it was made in Bareilly, a city in a northern state of Uttar Pradesh, which was famous for the Taj Mahal, handicrafts and escalating drug abuse. The Bandit Queen had also hailed from UP.

“It’s locally sourced rum,” Karem said, presenting the bottle like a sommelier. “No English-Vinglish stuff. All Indian-made.”

“Where do you get it?”

“Kohra.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m going there tomorrow. How much?”

“Sixty-five. It might be cheaper there, though.”

“And how much is the tharra?”

“Twenty.” He grinned. “It’s even more locally sourced.”

“Tharra, then.”

“Okay, but go easy, Geetaben. This stuff could turn a horse cross-eyed.” Karem chuckled at his recycled joke, which he had no way of knowing she’d already overheard Samir say. When Karem failed to elicit a similar laugh from her, he turned uncomfortable, transitioning into a cough. With none of the tenderness he’d reserved for the bottle, he dumped a baggie of clear liquid on the counter. Smaller than a milk packet, its top had been twisted in a knot. It was difficult to believe such a tiny thing could be so powerful.

“That’s it?”

“That’s plenty to get you there.” He bounced the packet between his palms. The moonshine plashed pleasantly. “Twice even.”

“Two packets.”

“What? Why?”

“Do you want my money or not?” Geeta snapped. “If you’d cautioned Ramesh like this, I’d still have feeling in these two fingers.” She lifted her left hand, which he’d broken their fourth summer together and which hadn’t healed properly. The injury had extended her reach, but as that wasn’t a talent Geeta found particularly useful in beadwork (perhaps if she were a pianist), her gratitude was limited.

Karem said nothing for a moment. “I didn’t know. Until later, I mean.”

She released a scoff of disbelief.

“I swear to you,” he said, pinching the skin covering his Adam’s apple, the semiotic for a vow. “I didn’t. How could I? I never saw you—and you obviously never came here.”

“Everyone knew.”

“All the women did! But I didn’t know until Ramesh was gone and everyone was talking. I can promise you that, Geetaben.”

She no longer wished to discuss this. She regretted throwing her injuries in his face. Not to spare him, never that, but because she was not a victim and he was not anyone to pander to. She was suddenly furious at her own folly. “Keep your promises to yourself and give me two packets.”

Karem obeyed one of her directives and produced another packet. “I really am sorry.”

“Fuck you.”

“At least he got his. Blind is pretty clear karma.”

She stilled. “What?”

Karem squinted at her. He wore the careful, frozen mien of someone who’d stepped on a twig in a lion’s den. “What?”

“What did you say about being blind?”

“Nothing. What? You said blind.”

“No,” Geeta said slowly. “You did. Just now.”

“It was a compliment. Like, he must’ve been blind. Obviously. To leave a woman like you.”

He was lying. Poorly, too, which was somewhat endearing: a criminal incapable of a fib. Like a baby in a three-piece suit. But Geeta had what she’d come for and much fatter problems than Karem’s half-assed riddles. Tomorrow she’d have to walk the three hours to Kohra to find cheap poison. She placed four ten-rupee notes on the counter.