The Bandit Queens (35)
After taking attendance, Varun called each of the leaders to approach with their group’s weekly repayment. Mrs. Amin went first, teasing Varun as she always did about extending bigger loans. “That’s up to hats bigger than mine,” he laughed. They called him Varunbhai out of respect, despite the fact he was younger than most of them. He hailed from Delhi, and he often fumbled for the correct word in Gujarati. He had a good sense of humor, joining the laughter when the women giggled at his pronunciation. Saloni in particular had taken to him, her eyelashes batting like a turbine whenever he neared. What Geeta noticed most about him were his city shoes. While nearly everyone here wore open-toed sandals or sneakers, Varun wore black dress shoes that arrived polished and left dusty.
Most of the women sat with their groups, knees stacked atop another’s to accommodate all thirty women. Geeta’s group was dispersed: Farah sat across from her while Saloni (predictably) had nabbed the spot closest to Varun. Twins Preity and Priya sat near Saloni. When the sisters were sixteen, Priya’s spurned suitor tossed acid on the wrong sister. Preity’s face had healed with the help of an NGO devoted to such attacks, but the burns puckered dark islands across her face and neck, and one ear suffered enough damage to preclude earrings. Two years later, the man married Preity with her parents’ consent. Who else would have her?
Geeta had no idea how (or even why) they all lived in the same house: Preity, her husband and attacker, her unmarred sister and her brother-in-law. Surprisingly, it seemed Darshan was a doting husband—word was that Preity had complete control of his balls and wallet.
Half of the women had brought their children, each bribed into silence with a different trinket. Geeta watched a small boy shake a miniature bronze bell with tremendous effort. The barren bell ignored him, its clapper long gone, its shell rusting. The dimples of his knuckles were endearing. They reminded her of Raees’s. So mild and so unwelcome was the thought that Geeta didn’t hear her name being called.
She blinked and looked at Saloni, who laid a bug-eyed, slack-jawed glare on her. “The rest of us have things to do today, Geetaben. Give poor Varunbhai his money.”
The twins tittered and Geeta handed him her group’s abused money while the cop looked on. Her hands were so very moist; she wiped them on her sari, but fresh sweat cropped immediately.
“Sorry,” she whispered to Varun. She heard Saloni snort behind her.
Varun, gracious as always, thanked her. He counted the damp bills with crisp economy before organizing them in his tin and marking notes in his ledger. She’d once prided herself on being that efficient. Now, thanks to Farah and this nosy cop, she was a sweaty, shambolic disaster.
After Varun had all six payments, he led them in the same pledge they parroted every week. When the microloans first began, he’d distributed slips of paper with the oath in Gujarati, but by now the women had it memorized. As they began, an idle thought struck Geeta: Farah hadn’t been able to read hers. “?‘We are here to help our own and fellow sisters.’?”
During the second line, “?‘We will pay our loan installments on time,’?” Saloni made a point of staring down Farah. Geeta watched her meet Saloni’s censure with a serene smile.
Saloni averted her eyes on the next oath: “?‘We will help sisters of our center in a time of crisis.’?” Geeta perspired through her sari blouse. It was a hot, breezeless day, and all the women had dark islands under their arms; even Varun’s pressed shirt was wilting.
The meeting ended. Geeta was keen to go home and hide. The women crowded the narrow entrance, hundreds of toes inching into sandals. Everyone stared at the officer in his khaki uniform, a curious sight in their jejune village. They left in pairs and sets, baldly speculating about the cop despite his standing within earshot. Geeta ducked behind Preity and Priya, walking closely as though part of their clique.
Preity stage-whispered, “Sunil Shetty.”
“No, no,” Priya said. “He looks like Ajay Devgn.”
“Well, that’s just insulting.”
Geeta’s laugh was too loud. “I know, right? So where shall we shop?”
Preity turned to look at Geeta in confusion. “Huh? What are you—”
The officer stepped between Geeta and the twins. “You,” he demanded. “Stop.”
ELEVEN
Geeta stopped. As did her heart.
“Farahben?” he asked, and Geeta panted inelegantly. The sun eclipsed behind the officer’s head. The twins left.
“That’s me,” Farah said from the porch. She took her time locating and donning her sandals. Meanwhile, Geeta aged a decade. The cop greeted Farah, his notebook sandwiched between his pressed palms. “Namaskar.” Farah brought a cupped hand near her forehead. “Salaam.”
He looked at Geeta and then his notepad. “And you are?”
“Geeta.” Her damp palms met in a greeting. “Ram Ram.”
“Jai Shree Krishna,” he said. “You loaned Farahben and her husband money, yes?”
“Well, just Farah,” Geeta said, toying with her ear. “For our loan, the group’s.”
The officer nodded. “I see.” He made a note that Geeta knew would spell her doom. Then he ignored her. “I have some questions for you, Farahben. Can we speak in private?”