The Bandit Queens (38)
Geeta switched on the radio. The nature segment on Gyan Vani’s channel was about bonobos in Africa. Bonobo females had to leave home before puberty and find another sect to join. Meanwhile, males remained under their mothers’ aegis for life, counting on them to procure food and mates. Geeta snorted at the radio; evolution had limits, it seemed. But unlike apes, which were the other closest relative to humans, female bonobos, though not kin, forged alliances to obtain food and ward off male harassers. Two females in estrus once fought an overly aggressive male, and bit his penis in half in the process.
This reminded Geeta of the story of the Bandit Queen once castrating a man. It’d been after Vikram’s murder and her three-week captivity and torture. Dressed as a male cop, she was doing reconnaissance in a village while plotting revenge on her rapists. The man she was spying on, ever the good host, “offered” her one of the many young Dalit girls he’d already assaulted. After the cut, she’d allegedly tied it around his neck. She let him live—the Bandit Queen said she’d never killed without reason. Geeta tried to rationalize: didn’t she and Farah, too, have ample reason?
When Farah finally arrived, Geeta’s rush of relief pained her pride. “What did the cop want?” she asked.
“Just a few questions about Samir’s body.” Farah smiled. She still wore all white. “He asked if I wanted to sue the corpse handler! Can you imagine? I swear, the way this country white-knuckles caste…it’s a disgrace. Those poor guys can’t catch one damn break. Y’know, back in my village, our mosque had a big conversion drive for Dalits: ‘Convert to Islam, there’s no caste in the Qur’an!’ And these Bhangis were like, ‘Okay, we’re not allowed inside the temples, so why not?’ And after they converted, the Muslims had the cheek to say, ‘No, no, you can’t pollute our mosque, we’ll build another for you Bhangis.’ Can you imagine a bigger sin?”
Geeta’s jaw slackened at Farah’s oblivious irony, but no words came out. Yes, she wanted to say, she could indeed imagine a bigger sin.
“Allah will get them, that’s for sure.”
“And possibly us,” Geeta snapped. “Are you sure you didn’t give anything away? He’s not suspicious?”
Farah went to pour water and found there was none. She sat at Geeta’s desk. It was a trespass she couldn’t be bothered to correct. “You need to calm down, Geetaben. You were very jumpy with that cop. If you’re not careful, you’ll look guilty.”
“We are guilty!” Geeta’s voice rose. “Which is why we—you—need to be careful.” She shook her head, turning away from Farah. “I’m not going to jail for you.”
“No one is going to jail,” Farah said, her voice hardening. “Everything is fine. The cop doesn’t suspect a thing.”
“That you know of. You didn’t leave behind any evidence, did you?”
“No, I covered all the tracks. Would you stop being so hyper?”
“Can you blame me? You’re not the most capable person, Farah. I mean, you tried to poison him with hair-growth pills.”
Farah’s lips twisted in offense. “I got the job done, didn’t I? So back off.”
But Geeta was too stressed to listen. “Are you sure nothing could be tied to you?” she pressed. “Because I’m not taking the fall for this. You’re the one who actually murdered him, so if the police were to come sniffing around, they’d be far more interested in you than me, right? You have way more motive than I do.”
“Have you gone mad?” Farah demanded. “Or is this a poor joke? It was your idea.”
“Right,” Geeta said. Oddly enough, she’d reassured herself with her rambled musings, but now Farah appeared agitated. “No, I know that. I just meant that, if we were to get caught, hypothetically, you’re more guilty since you, technically, did the, you know…killing part.”
Farah pulled her hand down the side of her face, temporarily distorting her features. Then, as Geeta stared in dark awe, Farah visibly calmed herself, inhaling and nodding. She massaged her temples for some time, chanting quietly, “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi.” When she spoke again, her voice was pleasant. “I’m not going down for this alone. I’m not going to rot in jail while my orphan children starve on the streets. So don’t you dare threaten me.”
Geeta blinked. “Wait. I’m not—”
“What? Guilty? Neither am I.” Farah crossed the room to float her face near Geeta’s. “Samir was nothing but a sister-fucking son of a pig. He wasn’t even worth this conversation. He died a dog’s death, covered in his vomit, shit and piss, and that’s more dignity than that chutiya deserved. They don’t get to make all the choices, Geeta. We get to make some, too. And I’ve come too far to let you ruin this for me.” She held Geeta’s forearms and gave her a hard shake. “Understand me?”
Fear, dark and oily, numbed the tips of Geeta’s fingers. Farah’s epithets stung her cheeks like wind. From behind a veil of dazed horror, Geeta wondered if that’s how she looked when she cursed.
Farah shook her again. “We did this together. Get that through your head. And if we are caught, hypothetically, if you try any dhokhebaazi, you’ll go to jail longer than me. You’re a serial killer. Ramesh, remember?”