The Bandit Queens (28)

“Where are we going?”

“The school.”

“What, why? Listen, I don’t think now is the time to teach me to read.”

When Geeta said nothing, Farah gave up and they walked in silence: Farah shuffling to keep pace and Geeta wielding her lantern. A few minutes later, they stood in front of the formerly white gate that enclosed the school. The paint had chipped on some bars more than others, revealing the dark iron underneath, and the result was zebraic. Beyond the gate was a long, one-story building, skinny white beams framing each brown door. A billboard atop read modern school, with (English Medium) spelled below, but Geeta recalled every lesson inside being conducted in Gujarati, even English class.

Farah rubbed her palms together. “Let me handle this.” One foot on a rung, she heaved herself up with a grunt and straddled the top. As she maneuvered her sari around her knees to get to the other side, Geeta pushed the unlocked gate open.

“Ooh,” Farah said as she swung in an arc along with the door, sari pleats bundled between her legs.

They walked down the line of classrooms. Various bulletin boards were on the walls, posting students’ marks.

Geeta’s lantern cast a puddle of light in front of them. Like a bright moon, it was strongest in the center, surrounded by a dim, pallid ring. It reminded Geeta of su-su, but that comparison could have been due to the uric smell.

As they moved from door to door, Farah asked, “What’re we looking for?”

“Shut up,” Geeta hissed.

Farah looked over both shoulders and lowered her voice. “Oh, right, ’cause we don’t want to get caught.”

“No. Because you’re annoying.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Farah’s eyes were sunken and bruised in the tepid light. She looked like a baby panda.

They found a door with an unlocked bolt. Opening it, Geeta traced her lantern through the dank classroom corners. Brown water damage, ubiquitous and benign in the daylight, loomed with new menace. She signaled to Farah, and they stood over an extinguished mosquito-repellent coil. The grey incense spiral had been reduced to a nub, fallen ash circling the stand.

“What?”

“We need another coil.”

“Why?” Farah stared at Geeta. “I think you’re overtired. Let’s go.”

“They’re poisonous if you eat them.”

“O-kay.” Farah blinked. “Ohhh-kay!” She clapped her hands. Her smile was not minacious, it was almost sweet, but with her bruised face and the jaundiced light, Farah looked contradictory, a zygote on the precipice of monsterhood. Her fresh injuries had distracted Geeta from those that were healing. Her erstwhile black eye had faded to the color of diluted turmeric, rimming her eye like an unwashed glass. “This is a great idea!” She stopped applauding, her hands on her hips. “Is that how you did it?”

“Didn’t I tell you that’s none of your business?”

“I’m asking because I want to know if it works. So we don’t lose another day.”

“I’m aware of the stakes, Farah. It’s my goddamn money. If you’re so eager, why don’t you just sew Samir’s lips shut like one of your fancy dresses? That way he’ll stop drinking you poor.”

Farah took no offense. She shrugged. “We’re poor regardless, Geetaben.”

Geeta’s sigh filled the classroom. “I know.” Closing her eyes, she said, “Just help me find a fresh coil.”

They located a series of drawers below the windows. Most held rulers, pencils, workbooks with weak spines. Farah squatted and yanked at a stuck drawer, her teeth bared in effort. Her acorn biceps hardened beneath her skin as she jerked. When nothing budged, Geeta handed her a wooden ruler. Farah shook her head. “You do it.”

“Why?”

Farah massaged the meat of her palms with her thumbs. “It hurts. My hands are my livelihood!”

“And how do you think I make my money?” Geeta snapped. “Disco dancing?”

“You put beads on string. Monkeys can do that. I do fine craftsmanship,” Farah said.

Geeta rolled her eyes. “You’re a tailor.”

Farah elevated her palms like an Islamic prayer. “Art, Geetaben,” she said in English. “Art.”

Geeta glared at her. “I’ve never understood Samir more than I do right now.”

“He may hit me, but he’d never touch my hands. He knows their value.”

It would have been satisfying to abandon her right then. To volley her ingratitude straight back into her already pummeled face. But they were stuck together, like wet pages of a book Farah couldn’t even read. So instead Geeta snapped, her voice as nasty as she could manage: “I guess it’s just too bad you’re not as good a mother as you are an artist.” Farah’s face folded, but Geeta had no desire to stop. “Oh, everyone knows he beats them, too. You know, when he has to spare your hands because they’re so ‘valuable.’?”

“I am a good mother. I’m doing all this to protect them.”

Geeta forced a nonchalant shrug. “It seems to me that a good mother would’ve never let it get this far.”

“And what do you know about mothering? Hm?”

“So much, thanks to you! One helpless baby.” She gestured to Farah and ticked a finger. “Check. One exhausted woman who must constantly wipe helpless baby’s ass. Check.”