The Bandit Queens (41)

Farah was still talking. “…trying to be strong for them. I don’t want to focus on the negative, you know, I just want to remember the good times with Samir—”

“Like when he was asleep?” muttered Geeta.

“—and move forward and provide for my children. Which it’s a privilege to do.”

“Yes, so rewarding.”

“Joys of motherhood.”

“You’re brave,” Preity said, shaking her head. The movement swung her hair, revealing the tiny nub that remained of her ear.

Priya said, “Like, so brave.” Geeta had noticed a while back that Priya, perhaps in solidarity, had also stopped wearing earrings.

“She’s brave?” Geeta gaped, gesturing to Preity with a wild hand. “What about you?”

Preity blinked. “What about me?”

“Seriously? Has everyone gone mad?”

Farah coughed. “Geetaben, aren’t you gonna eat?”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“But I made them especially for you!” Farah looked crestfallen. “I wanted to thank you for all your help.”

Preity wrapped an arm around Farah’s crumpled shoulders. “Rude.”

Priya glared. “Like, so rude.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Geeta snapped. “Here.” She yanked off the plastic lid and selected a fried pyramid. Making elaborate eye contact with the twins, she bit into one tip. Though the dough was dry and adhered to the back of her throat, she emitted loud noises of enjoyment. As she concentrated on swallowing, she looked down at the now open samosa. Turmeric and masala dyed the potatoes yellow, but the peas retained their bright green skins. One pea in particular, however, appeared faded, a shabby sibling of the others. Geeta squinted and recognized the small jewel of a mosquito coil nestled into her samosa with the loving concentration of a dressmaker’s hand.

She choked and immediately looked at Farah. Farah was ready, her smile impish, her brown eyes clear and healed and waiting. She winked so quickly Geeta couldn’t be sure she hadn’t just imagined it. Geeta coughed and Saloni thumped her back, continuing, Geeta noticed, long after she stopped hacking.

“You can,” she wheezed. “You can stop hitting me now.”

“It’s okay,” Saloni assured her pleasantly. “I don’t mind it.”





After the meeting, Geeta cut open the samosas and found mosquito-coil pieces in all four. First Samir, now Farah. Talk about “dropping from the sky only to get stuck in a date tree.” Geeta stood in her kitchen nook, staring at the deconstructed samosas, trying to digest the new turn of events. She’d heard or read somewhere that people didn’t panic in emergencies so much as they froze, their brains unable to draw from a comparable previous experience, so they were simply glued to an awful moment, spinning their wheels in amber.

What she desired was to return to anger. Fury was fuel, at least temporarily, before despair chased it away. She found, however, that she couldn’t summon any. Exhaustion held her immobile. She didn’t feel each of her years so much as she felt each of the lonely ones. Do something, she instructed herself, do one productive thing and hope it will lead to another.

So she burned her trash, in case Bandit poked around and ate the samosa remains. As the smoke plumed, Geeta regarded Bandit, who was investigating the carcass of a busted cricket ball. His pudgy haunches waggled in the air as he tripped over his own paw in excitement. His tail was an extravagant stole, wasted on a dog his size, but pleasing all the same. He was a harmless whelp who was more obsessed with cadging physical affection than serving any master. And yet—Farah was wary of him and his bite. Bandit was the one weakness of Farah’s that Geeta knew of. Given that she was currently burning poison meant for her, perhaps it would behoove her to make use of it.

“Bandit!” she called. He responded promptly, tail flicking like a feather duster as he trotted. She’d discovered early on that he’d been trained with English commands. Whatever his previous name, Bandit could come, stop, sit, and stay.

Inside her home, she shucked her pillow and wrapped its case around her arm. She tapped Bandit’s face; he shied away but returned. His ears drew back when she rapped his snout again, but his mood remained buoyant. With his front paws, he tried to stay her arm and lick her nose. She fended him off to hit his face again. Finally irritated, he sulked away from her, mopey tail dragging across her floor.

“Bandit! Come.”

When he complied, she hit him again. Before she could blink, his jaw was around her pillowcased wrist. The points of his small teeth poked her through the thin material, but he was careful to only warn, not injure.

“Good boy! That’s attack, Bandit. Attack. Do you understand? Attack.” She shook him loose and repeated the exercise until dusk darkened her window. As rewards, she gave him Parle-G biscuits and belly rubs. Finally, she removed the abused pillowcase and set it on the kitchen floor. She stood on the other side of her home, near her desk.

“Attack!” she said, pointing. “Bandit, attack!”

Bandit came to her, stout legs waddling.

“No, Bandit,” she said. “Over there. See where I’m pointing? Over there. Licking is not attacking, Bandit. Attack!” He snuffed her hand for an unearned biscuit. “No, no treat. Bad dog. Very bad!”