The Bandit Queens (25)



No. Even if her pride could stand it, her pocket could not.

“The shop is—”

“No!”

“They wrap them so no one can see, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s fine—”

“But—”

She shouted, “I don’t need napkins!”

He took a step back, blinking his surprise. “Okay. Ohhh,” he drew the sound out like a siren and Geeta dreaded whatever ersatz epiphany awaited. “Is that why you said it was moot now? Because the…seasons have stopped coming?”

She protected her belly from his gaze with the dog. Her tone frosty, she said, “The seasons are fine, thank you very much.”

Geeta handed him the dog, who growled until Karem scratched behind his ears. Only when the puppy settled into Karem did she enter the store. But the chemist carried no rat poison; she bought some Pudin Hara tablets she did not need and left.

“Ohhh,” Karem said in that same infuriating manner when he saw her purchase. “But diarrhea isn’t a woman problem, it’s an everyone problem.”

“I do not,” Geeta seethed, “have diarrhea.”

“Then…”

“It’s just in case, okay? What’re you, a cop?”

“Nope,” he said, still in enragingly good cheer. “Just nosy.” They passed an appliance store, with a frozen, toothy film star beaming his approval at the customers’ choice of vendor. “We must,” he said, grabbing her hand. Suddenly she was a passenger, carried through the door and into air-conditioned silence.

Unlike the bead shop, here Karem did not browse or wander. He marched toward the far wall, where refrigerator models loomed over the washing machines and cooktops. An associate in a short-sleeved collared shirt met them by a stout LG fridge. Painted purple flowers bloomed across its door. The young associate looked nervous but did not comment on the dog.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he greeted. The two pens in his blue breast pocket were unprotected. “May I help you?”

“Just looking,” Geeta said. From the mournful way the salesman appraised them—Karem in dusty slacks, her in a weathered sari—she knew the fellow worked on commission.

“Do you deliver?” Karem asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Karem offered the rough distance and area of their village.

“Yes, there too we can deliver.”

Geeta asked, “For free?”

“That depends on which refrigerator, ma’am.”

“This one.” She touched a steel door.

The associate tried to smile, but he was likely new to this work because he looked closer to laughter. His eyebrows soared. “Ah, your wife has good taste, sir—”

“Oh, he’s not—”

“But that’s a new Samsung, fifty-five thousand rupees”—Geeta snatched her hand back as if the door had turned into a man—“so yes, it qualifies for free shipping, but…” He gestured to them, then realized his discourtesy and dropped his arm.

“Yeah,” Geeta said.

“But! The domestic models are ah, of course, less costly.”

“Of course,” Karem said.

“Like this one?” Geeta asked, pointing to the awful purple flowers.

Karem laughed and spoke to the associate. “Still think she’s got good taste?”

All of a sudden, everything about Karem infuriated her: his ease, his confidence, his jest. She felt dowdy; clearly, Karem thought fancying her was so absurd that there was no risk of her misunderstanding his intentions. That he should think it was a joke—flirting, playacting at married and happy, complete with the jovial deprecation of a domestic life shared—was insulting. It was a mockery, but she didn’t feel complicit. The prank was on her, not this novice salesboy whose pens were beginning to leak onto his pocket seam. The sharp blue dots were still small but would swell.

So she snapped, “Of course I don’t. After all, look who I ‘married.’?”

At Karem’s surprise, she bared her teeth into a smile. His forehead pleated. To see his confidence hiccup was satisfying in the same way scarfing four kulfi bars was: wonderful until the sugar sick rolled in. The associate divided a look between them, unsure of where to place his loyalties. He filled the air with jabber: “Perhaps, ah, a mini fridge would be better? If you don’t need much storage? Are there children, sir?”

In her fantasies, her refrigerator had been taller than her, like the steel-door type. The purple flowered one was ugly and shorter, but at least it was still clearly a refrigerator, unlike the stumpy box the salesboy now approached. He had to squat to open its door. The item felt like a concession rather than a victory.

“This is Samsung, nine-thousand-five rupees, sir. But this other one is only seven thousand rupees, domestic model, sir.”

Karem spoke quietly. “I should be clear. She’s not my wife, I’m just a friend. She’ll be buying a fridge of her own choosing with money she’s earned on her own.”

The salesboy nodded, as though this were interesting rather than acutely awkward. He left them alone, chasing after a phantom phone call, and Geeta found she wished she could do the same. She exited the store, Karem at her heels, and once they were outside, the heat soothed the goosebumps on her arms.

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