The Bandit Queens (29)

“Not the same thing at all. Not that you would know.”

“And I’m glad I don’t. More trouble than it’s worth.”

Farah gasped. “That’s not true. The joys are—”

“Rewarding. Yeah, yeah. Just move.”

Geeta hipchecked Farah aside. After jamming a ruler into the crevice, she invested her fury into a sharp downward yank. Wood splintered from both the ruler and the drawer. Inside sat matches and a stack of green coils.

Geeta returned the ruler to another drawer while Farah selected a coil. They said nothing as they left the school, but once past the gate, Farah attempted peace.

She pinched both earlobes in the apology semiotic. “Geetaben—”

“Don’t,” Geeta said. “I don’t want to hear it. We’re not friends. We were never friends. I say plenty about Saloni, but at least she’s an honest snake. You have honey on your tongue and a knife in your pocket.”

“No! I—”

“I don’t have to defend my work to you. I eat no one’s salt but my own. And until you and your drunk chut of a husband started harassing me, I was fine. You begged me to save you because you can’t save yourself. You can’t seem to do much of anything.”

Farah began crying, but it was quiet and earnest rather than her usual overblown, onion-cutting tears. “Please forgive me.” She sniffed. “I didn’t mean any of it. You are my friend, Geetaben.” She launched herself at Geeta, the impact forcing her to take a step back. The hug was fierce, Farah’s reedy arms surprisingly strong, and Geeta could smell the coconut oil on Farah’s hair, the regret and fear emanating from her skin. Geeta was not accustomed to hugs; she did not return the embrace, but neither did she pull away. She patted Farah’s shoulder twice before extricating herself.

Farah gathered the skin of her throat with her thumb and forefinger in a vow. “I swear, I won’t ruin it this time. I promise, Geetaben. You can count on me.”





NINE


The dog, obviously, was just a ruse. Even he seemed to realize this, snuffing trash and humping tires on the way to Karem’s door, as though he smelled her intent and was bent on procrastination. If so, his perspicacity impressed Geeta, because she herself wasn’t clear on what she was seeking. Exasperated, she called him over and carried him the remainder of the way. He smelled like unwashed feet and stale sweat. His odor had worsened since the truck ride from Kohra.

“Tomorrow’s bath day, Bandit.” The name had been more of an inevitability than a decision. He squirmed as they arrived, climbing up her chest, attempting eye contact. His cold nose found her chin. She maneuvered around his smelly face to knock. Maybe Bandit knew what she refused to admit, that she was chasing trouble.

After the row with Farah, Geeta hadn’t wanted to be alone. When she’d first pushed open her front door, Bandit bounded toward her, pink tongue lolling. She cooed over his seemingly restored vision, rubbing his fox ears. She’d forgotten about him and it was pleasant to have companionship without the onus of speaking.

In the kitchen, she prepared lentils and rice in a khichdi that neither of them touched. It had been her favorite comfort food as a child. Whenever her stomach had pained, her mother made it, but Geeta always added dollops of spicy mango pickle that, her mother chided, defeated the purpose. But her parents stored loads of achaar—carrot, gooseberry, green chili—in the pantry for her and Saloni, a gesture of love so minor that its absence shouldn’t have stung her eyes, though it did.

Bandit’s body, warm and pulsing, proved a panacea for Farah’s lackadaisical cruelty. Geeta had steeled herself against the typical rubbish: that she could turn children cross-eyed and render men lame. But Farah had struck what Geeta had neglected to protect: her pride in her work.

Geeta rubbed Bandit’s belly, his hind legs extending in wanton hedonism, until he fell asleep on her lap. Her affection, it seemed, was addictive; he awoke each time she stilled her hand. Until she resumed petting him, he glared at her with such focus, it was a marvel he’d been blind only a few hours prior. She muttered that he was already spoiled, but obediently stroked his coat, detangling as she went.

It was satisfying, the unabashed love he’d shown her so quickly for so little in exchange, but after a few minutes, her restlessness proved no match for him. Her mirror revealed the dog hair liberally peppering her sari. Sluicing it off was futile, so she changed into a black one. Though it was plain enough, the bijou blue embroidery announced she was trying too hard. So she changed again into a maroon one that announced she had the aesthetic sense of the gourd on her counter. After shaking out the original sari as best she could, she changed back. As she tamed her brows and hair, Bandit observed her titivations knowingly.

“I liked you better blind,” she informed him.

Now Karem, and thankfully not one of his kids, opened the door. “Geeta! Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, but it’s Bandit. Here.” She thrust Farah’s gourd at him. “For you.”

“Er—thank you. Bandit?”

Geeta lifted her arms to indicate the pungent dog.

“Nice name. That was fast.”

She scowled at his smile. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, I made him some khichdi, but he won’t eat it.”