The Bandit Queens (37)
The business of corpses—collecting, preparing, burning—was reserved for Dalit men, specifically Doms. The villagers didn’t encounter many Dom women because they were usually housebound. Many Dalit families confined their daughters in purdah, where it was easier to shield them from upper-caste men’s concupiscences. Easier perhaps, but not completely effective; Geeta recalled the recent cases brought before the village panchayat—those poor girls assaulted at dawn while relieving themselves. Historically, Dom women tended to night soil, but here the villagers either went out in the fields or used their new plumbing, so there was little reason for the women to wander across the tacit line. Bigger areas like cities still forced the need for manual scavengers, which Geeta didn’t think about too often. But now, talking to this woman, Geeta felt ashamed of wanting things like refrigerators.
“Yeah, I’m the only one I’ve ever seen, too.” The woman did not appear offended. “After my husband died, I took over the business. Had to. They’ll take over after me,” she said, nodding toward her kids. “Yadav, ay-ya, what are you doing? It’s a dog, not your firstborn—just grab the ankles, na?”
Geeta did not bother masking her admiration. “What’s your name?”
“Khushi.”
“Geeta.”
“Geetaben, that your house over there?” When Geeta nodded, Khushi’s lined face broke into a huge smile. Her teeth were straight, except for one missing bicuspid, but tinged with red; it was clear she was a fan of paan. “My house is way bigger than that! When you said you had a pet dog, I thought, you know, madam with a bada-bada house.”
Geeta was all too happy to have the joke be on her. “Well, it’s just me. So what’s the need for a big-big place?”
“No babies?”
“No babies.”
Khushi calculated Geeta’s lack of jewelry, her barren nose piercing. “Widow?”
“Something like that.”
“How’d it happen?”
“He was just…gone.”
Khushi nodded. “Mine died in the earthquake.”
“That’s awful.”
She shrugged. “Not really. The life of a widow is more peaceful than the life of a married woman. And I got the business and the fire, not that his parents didn’t rain shit on my head over it, ay-ya. Do you work?”
A tenacious part of Geeta’s ego was eager to display herself as a kindred spirit also About the Work. “I do. I have a small jewelry business, I make mangalsutras. So keep me in mind when your sons marry.”
It had been a joke, but Khushi just nodded. She looked at her boys, who were finished playing with Bandit and now each held two of the dog’s legs. They stood patiently, awaiting their mother’s instruction. Geeta saw that they’d tucked their sandals into the waistbands of their shorts. When they left this part of the village, and reentered the south where no upper castes were present, they could wear their shoes again. “We’ll be going.”
Though Geeta couldn’t pinpoint how, she was worried she’d somehow offended Khushi. Had she unintentionally drawn attention to their social disparities? “Oh. Right. It was nice meeting you. I’ll see you around?”
“I hope not.” Khushi grinned again. She jerked her chin toward a jouncing Bandit. “It’d be a shame to lose that one.”
“Excellent point.” Geeta gave a final wave before unlocking her door.
Once inside, she refilled Bandit’s water bowl. He tried to keep his eyes trained on Geeta, but he had a habit of blinking each time he lapped, and the result was more flirty than vigilant. He was so keen to be near her that she couldn’t help but smile.
“Not sick of me yet, eh? Well, at least someone isn’t.”
Okay, so Karem loathed her. A week ago, she’d loathed him. Now balance had been restored. She’d lost nothing. If she wanted to agonize over something, it should be that she’d killed a man. Or that she’d starve if she didn’t resume working.
She unlocked her armoire with a key and then aligned the lockbox’s combination (it was silly, but she’d used the same password since she was ten: 2809, Saloni’s birthday) to remove some gold wire. The most costly part of any wedding necklace—the gold pendant thali—was thankfully never in her care. Upon delivering the chain to the family, she’d connect it to their chosen thali. Even with the various locks, keeping that amount of solid gold in her home would have been too stressful.
Geeta forced herself to follow a design she’d sketched earlier, but her mind wandered to the interrogation Farah was currently undergoing. What if, Geeta thought, Farah blamed the entire thing on her? Anxiety held her captive, her shaking hands unable to mate the beads and wire. She looked up from her hands, impatient with herself, and saw the pinned photograph of Phoolan.
“You,” she said, “killed plenty of shit men and didn’t fall apart.” She turned to scold her morose reflection. “So get it together.”
One bead at a time. Geeta hoped to lose herself in the work as she frequently did. To look up and find it was dark, or that she’d skipped a meal or desperately needed to su-su. Instead, she awaited Farah’s return, though they had no plans to meet. As she worked, each rustle from Bandit had her leaping toward the door. Then she’d slink back to her desk, sheepish. When exactly had Farah become someone she wanted to see?