The Bandit Queens (23)

“Street dogs? Anything that’s not tied down.”

After they exited a sundry kiosk with a fat packet of Parle-G biscuits, Karem asked, “What are your errands?”

Geeta coughed. She’d come here to poison one man but punished another for doing the same to a dog. It was different, she knew that in her bones, but couldn’t articulate how or why.

“I need some beads and wire. And some jump rings and chain ends, oh and clasps.”

“I’ll just pretend I know what those are. Lead the way.”

As they walked, they were a peculiar sight and people stared at the filthy dog she cradled like a baby. She was not, she wanted to tell them, one of those film idiots with more money than sense, and this was clearly not any pampered Tuffy with paws too pristine to touch the earth.

Her usual supply store was tucked between a passport-photo shop and a line of Muslim tailors. An iron spiral staircase led to the second floor, where the shopkeepers lived. On the uneven curb, two men were drinking tea, their sandals off. One discussed seeking a suitor for his daughter: “And that asshole says to me, ‘My son’s a graduate, you’ll have to give a car and ten lakh rupees.’ I say to him: ‘Have you seen your son? Twenty-three and balder than an acorn! Even a two-wheeler and one lakh is too much.’?”

The men laughed as Geeta and Karem passed them to enter. “Dowries,” she said. “Barbaric.” When he was quiet, only nodding his agreement, she asked, “Did you take one? For Sarita?”

“Technically, maybe? Her parents gave us the shop as a wedding present. It was in her name, but it was still for us.”

“That’s not—”

“Namaste, Geetaben,” the owner greeted, before his face seized in aversion. “What is that thing?”

“A puppy.”

“I don’t think I want a dog in here.”

“Look at him: he’s too weak to walk, much less break anything.”

When the owner said nothing, Geeta knew she’d won. He was a slender man with delicate hands and a mustache that reminded her of a meerkat. She listed the amount of thread and black and gold beads she required.

“That’s double from last time, isn’t it? Things must be going well!”

Normally she would have chatted with him. In Kohra, she was neither a witch nor a widow, just a businesswoman. But now she only gave a noncommittal murmur. It didn’t feel right boasting of her success when, not an hour prior, she’d cost Karem his entire livelihood.

“You’ll get that refrigerator in no time.”

Geeta wanted to stuff his meerkat mouth with beads. But then, it was her own damn fault, confiding in him. Despite her panic, Karem didn’t appear interested, instead roaming the narrow shop with polite interest. Still, once they were outside, she offered context.

“I’m thinking of buying a fridge—if I save enough.” She shrugged. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not. It’s great. Be proud of your accomplishments. They didn’t come easily.”

“They didn’t,” she repeated. Then again, more firmly. “They really didn’t.”

“Geetaben—”

She interrupted with more aggression than she intended. “Why do you call me ben?”

“I—uh—I dunno, never really thought about it. Why does anyone? Respect, I suppose. Why?”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Er—” He squinted at her. “My age?” At her thunderous expression, he corrected: “Younger, much younger! Meaning, it’s not like you’re an aunty-type or anything.”

But given her peers and their progeny, that was precisely what she was. She told him as much.

“Okay,” he amended. “Well, you’re not my aunty.” He assumed a countenance of faux outrage, meant to loosen the tension Geeta had knotted. “And by the way, I’m only thirty-nine myself.”

“It’s not your fault,” she soothed. “You have, like, a lakh of children. They age you, you know.”

“Ah, yes, thank you. Though, if you think four is a lakh, then you might not be that great of a businesswoman, Geeta…” He smiled. “…ben.”

She scowled playfully. “Ass.”

They passed a temple, divested sandals and sneakers crowding the staired entrance. The gold paint on the statues winked down at her.

Karem asked, “Did you and Ramesh not want children?”

It was mighty nice of him, Geeta thought, to not just assume (as the rest did) that she couldn’t have them. Still, it was easier to discuss such matters with busy hands. So Geeta offered the dog another biscuit and answered, “I thought I did, but it didn’t happen.”

Despite Karem’s prior diplomacy, Geeta braced herself: people thought the saddest thing was a childless woman. Anyone could sympathize with that scenario—a woman who couldn’t be, in their view, a woman. It was easier to throw pity than to wrap their minds around a woman who preferred it that way. But to Geeta, the actual saddest thing, the real waste, was a woman with children she didn’t want.

“You thought? Meaning you don’t?”

She hesitated; a childless woman was unfortunate, a happily childless woman was unnatural. She finally said, “I don’t think I do.”