The Bandit Queens (40)
Preity used her free hand as a plate as she bit into a samosa. “Tasty!”
“Like, so tasty,” Priya gushed. “But we should be bringing you food. After what you’ve been through…”
Saloni did not open her tiffin box.
Farah made herself demure. “Oh,” she said. “It’s been difficult, of course, but we’re managing. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but…”
The women leaned toward her, the scent of promising gossip stronger than the fried food.
Farah sighed, as though begrudgingly relinquishing a treasure. “Samir was a drinker.”
“No!” Preity gasped.
“O Ram,” Priya moaned.
“Yes, it’s true. He was a drinker, and that’s not all.” Farah paused and closed her eyes, summoning courage. “He struck me. Often.”
“No!”
“O Ram!”
“Excuse me,” Geeta said. “Are we all just going to pretend that that’s news? That we all didn’t see her busted face last week? I have eggplants less black than her eye was.”
Except for Saloni, who looked at Geeta with more bemusement than annoyance, the women ignored her. After pulling in a brave breath, Farah added, “And I’m ashamed to say, he hit the kids, too.”
“No!”
“O Ram!”
“Oh brother,” Geeta muttered.
Perhaps it should’ve been a relief that she wasn’t the only sucker in the group. Ramesh had manipulated her plenty, kept her in a suspended state of believing she didn’t deserve him. Her pride could admit that because she’d been so very young and so very in love. But to be played by a seeming dolt like Farah stung, and Geeta required a plan to remind Farah of their hierarchy.
This past week had been odd in its mildness. Geeta had risen and worked with her usual diligence. She’d eaten with her usual appetite. Apparently, all you had to do was get used to something, then it was like it couldn’t have happened any other way. While it was true humans were impressive in their capacity to adapt, Geeta felt it should have taken her longer to grow accustomed to being a murderess. Even three weeks would have been more respectable. But—and this was shameful to admit, though more for its immaturity than moral repugnancy—what truly troubled Geeta about the week before was how she’d left things with Karem.
The initial humiliation that left her promising to never lay eyes on him again dissipated, replaced by the urge to reconcile. She required a friend now more than ever and, while she would confess nothing to Karem, his company would have been a balm.
So, earlier that day, before this meeting, she’d capitulated. After tucking her pride in the back of her closet and grabbing the slightly softening bottle gourd, she walked to his store. Music played from the shops, all of which boasted of sales that were not really sales. Most households were preparing for tomorrow’s festival, buying henna cones, clay pots, sieves decorated in tinsel, new thali plates. Karva Chauth celebrations were a recent trend and women were dedicated to ensuring that everything was in its proper place on their prayer plates: the rice, the vermillion, the water cup, the diya and incense. Why anyone would voluntarily add another fast to the already endless list of fasts was beyond Geeta. But apparently movies could make anything popular and romantic.
The participants also check-listed the sixteen adornments of married women: the solah shringar. From bindis to anklets, armbands to kohl. Gold noosed around their neck, arms, waist, ankles and feet, wrists and fingers, ears, and of course, nose. For her own wedding day, Geeta had chosen a haathful piece, four rings linked to a bracelet by delicate gold chains. Saloni had been adamant that the aarsi, a fat thumb ring with a mirror on it (so that a veiled bride could catch a glimpse of her groom), suited Geeta better. Ramesh had sided with Geeta, though his loyalty had sounded like anything but (It’s not meant for your build; your fingers are too stubby). In any event, after her father died, Ramesh had sold all of her solah shringar, except her wedding necklace, that stalwart rope tying her to the tree.
Karem’s shop was empty, the plastic boxes of his wife’s atrocities as dusty as usual.
“More tharra?” Karem asked without looking up from his ledger.
“Ah, no.”
“Then?”
“I—I wanted to see how you were doing after…”
“After you came into my house uninvited to shame and insult me?”
Had she done that? Geeta felt dazed. Her words tripped. “No, I meant after Bada-Bhai and the business stuff.”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“No, Geeta, not really. I have children depending on me and nothing to give them. They’re my top priority. I don’t have time to make you feel better about the shitty way you treat people.”
She’d felt so ashamed that she stammered an apology and fled, still carrying the gourd.
Now, during this ridiculous loan meeting, she’d been thinking about the savings in her armoire. It was the height of foolishness, but she was tempted to give it to Karem. Not to bribe his forgiveness, but the universe’s. Amends were in order. She’d stolen a life but could help five others’. He’d never take it if she offered, but he didn’t have to know its source. She could delay the refrigerator a while longer; after all, she’d made it this far. Such goodwill wouldn’t buy her into the heaven she only faintly believed in, but it might ease her nights. An idiom her mother’d often said returned to her: After eating nine hundred mice, the cat goes to Hajj.