The Bandit Queens (19)
Karem took a glass of water. “Geetaben makes jewelry.”
“Oh, like Sarita-bhabhi.”
Geeta’s scalp itched at the slight, piled atop the recent one about her age. To say her jewelry was like Sarita’s was a conflation of art and carpentry. But Karem’s poor wife was dead, this duffer a stranger, and it was a pedantic waste of breath and ego to correct him.
Karem shook his head. “High-end jewelry, I mean, not a hobby. She has her own business: Geeta’s Designs. I wanted to show her your shop. Depending on how the microloans fare, she’s looking to expand Geeta’s Designs beyond the village.”
Which was news to Geeta’s Designs.
“Shabash! If Kohra’s not careful, your little town will soon exceed ours.”
It was a compliment, surely, albeit a condescending one, but hard reservation lined its edges, and Geeta felt as though they’d been warned rather than flattered. Bada-Bhai clapped his hands.
“Karem has the best tharra I’ve ever tasted. I’m not sure what he does with those sugarcanes, but his could be actual rum.”
“Oh,” Karem said, dismissing the praise with a wave. “Hardly. Bada-Bhai here took a chance on me a few years back, after Sarita expired. I didn’t have any contacts or seed money. But he said there was a market for my tharra recipe and the next thing you know, we’re a hit!”
Bada-Bhai clapped Karem’s back. “He makes it sound like I sold gobar to a cowherd—try not selling moonshine in this state! It’s impossible. Speaking of, do you have something for me?”
Karem nodded. “Ji.” He offered his jute bag to Bada-Bhai, who peered at the contents before summoning a man Geeta hadn’t noticed waiting in the corner. The man took Karem’s bag and gave Bada-Bhai an envelope before leaving the room.
“Can’t forget this,” Bada-Bhai said, fishing in his pocket for a one-rupee coin, which he slid into the envelope. “For luck.”
It was considered auspicious to add one rupee to any gifted amount, though Geeta never attributed the practice to business, just birthdays and weddings.
“Count it.”
Karem pocketed it instead. “I trust you.”
“Where there is business, there is always room for doubt.”
Karem smiled. “But where there is friendship, there is none.”
Geeta, still curious about the Rabari woman, asked to use the toilet. She was pointed in a direction near the open mouth of the kitchen, where she overheard snatches of an argument.
“—entirely inappropriate, Lakha, entirely, for a servant’s son to eat the—”
“But he’s not the son of a servant, is he?”
As Geeta hurried past, she saw a well-dressed woman her own age slap the Rabari woman.
Burning with vicarious indignation for Lakha, Geeta grew distracted and found herself outside. A chain-link fence cordoned a dirt patch of nothing. It was as ugly as the front yard was lovely. There was no outhouse, so Geeta turned to walk back inside. She’d forgotten herself; in larger places like Kohra, indoor plumbing was ubiquitous. Dogs barked, the cacophony so proximate that Geeta startled.
She hadn’t noticed the four dogs chained to the fence. Their leashes were short enough to ensure their paws didn’t comfortably rest on the dirt. Rather than tied under the tree in the far corner, they were clustered in the sun and Geeta didn’t see any water vessel in the barren yard. She was about to go inside and remind Bada-Bhai that it was meant to rocket up to forty-one degrees that afternoon when she noticed the smallest dog curving and straightening his spine in a strange dance that resembled yoga’s marjariasana and bitilasana poses. She thought perhaps he was just stretching, but then his jaw opened to release gagging noises that sounded more human than canine. He was going to vomit, she realized a moment before liquid spewed into the dirt. His compatriots attempted to avoid the waste, but they were tied to the same link on the fence, and it was impossible.
Geeta stepped toward the house, then stilled. The Bandit Queen didn’t wait for help, she was help. Geeta approached the dogs tentatively; the last thing she needed was rabies. While she wasn’t afraid of animals per se, like Saloni, neither did she coo over them like you saw in the films where rich people in mansions had fluffy dogs named Tuffy who ate better than the help. But it was clear these four dogs had been adopted from the street and Geeta didn’t know if they’d come out biting and attacking. Her breathing was too quick and she felt dizzy under the sun. With some reluctance, she whispered under her breath as she examined the dogs’ restraints. “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi.”
The leashes were attached to the fence by a simple carabiner clip. She pressed the spring-loaded portion and ran away in case the dogs gave chase. “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi.” Damned if it didn’t help immediately. By chanting, she forced herself to expel more air than she ordinarily would have before her next inhale, thereby deepening her breaths.
Farah would never shut up if she knew.
Geeta’s head cleared and she looked back to witness the dogs’ reactions. Though the grip around their throats slackened, allowing them to properly stand on the ground, they didn’t roam and explore their new freedom. They remained stationary, surveying her. Then one took a few steps toward the shade, leash trailing, and another dog followed suit. The sick dog flopped onto his side, his brown torso rising and falling, his tail a limp, dirty rope. He needed water, if not medical aid.