The Bandit Queens (50)
“Mind your own business.” Without turning back to the fallen boy, she added, “See? I told you the churel would get you.”
“You must not have any pictures of elders in your home,” Geeta snapped, her palm itching. But slapping the girl would ruin the henna, which Geeta was now partial to. “To be so rude. Hutt!”
“Or what? You’ll make me childless? Go ahead—I never want kids anyway.”
“How ’bout I give you ten, then?”
Her arrogance faltered, but she sniffed. “Whatever.”
“I— My condolences about your father.”
The girl’s face puckered and then broke. Geeta couldn’t be sure if she was crying. She abandoned her plate, sprinting down the alley, the twin ends of her scarf flying behind her like streamers.
“Er—you okay?” Geeta turned to the boy. “Raees!”
“Hi, Geeta-aunty.” He sounded as weary as his father.
“What’s all this about? Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
“We were playing house. She wanted to do the moon thing.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No. But I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Raees said miserably. “She’s my girlfriend. And boyfriends have to do what girlfriends tell them. That’s the rule.”
“She doesn’t seem very nice to you.”
“Girlfriends don’t have to be nice.”
“Another rule?”
“Yes.”
“I think,” she said carefully, “that you may be too nice.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
She mulled that one over, thinking about the invites she’d ignored because it’d been easier to hide than potentially risk censure. Perhaps the men and children would have still spread tales, but if she’d used the loan group as a way to connect instead of sequester herself, maybe the stories would have dimmed. All this time assuming she was a pariah when perhaps she was a hermit. She heard Saloni’s words, spoken with such confidence: Anyone who gossips or gives her trouble will have to answer to us.
“No,” Geeta decided. “I don’t think it is. But you also can’t be a doormat. So you must exercise kindness and judgment. Not everyone will deserve your kindness. When they show you they’re not worthy, believe them.”
“But she’s right. We’re, like, the only Muslim kids here.”
“Well, who says you have to marry a Muslim girl?” Caution was warranted here. While she doubted Karem was a stickler for communalism, this was not her child to be indoctrinating.
“I don’t?” He looked at her with a sudden, wild awe that left Geeta a bit jealous. To have simple words from a trusted adult crack open the darkness like a walnut…she’d likely never feel that again. That was childhood, she supposed.
“Nope. And anyway, if you decide you want to marry a Muslim girl, I’m pretty sure there are loads of them outside the village. Some might even be nice to you.”
“I guess. But it’s our ‘kismet,’ she says, because I only have a father and she only has a mother.”
She hoped the dark hid her wince.
“Hey, is Bandit with you?”
“No, beta, he’s at home.”
“Can we go see him?”
“Maybe some other time. Your father must be very worried.”
“Nah, I’m no baby.”
Geeta had planned to leave the boy at his door, but Karem opened it immediately. He blinked at his son. “Oi! Where’re your brothers? They’re supposed to be watching you!”
“Dunno.”
“I thought I’d better walk him home,” Geeta said. She smiled at Raees because it was easier than facing his father. “Even though you’re no baby.”
“Thanks,” Karem said.
“Anytime. Good night. Oh, and Eid Mubarak. I didn’t wish you earlier.”
“Geetaben, wait. Raees, inside.”
“Why can’t I stay?”
“Now.”
Raees went, cowed. Karem shook his head and stepped outside. “New crush, I suppose.”
Her temperature spiked. “Huh?”
“Raees.”
“Right,” she said. Then: “Huh?”
“He likes you. It’s cute.”
Geeta laughed to avoid answering. She knew herself well enough to know she’d later regret most of what she said now as being too stupid, too self-conscious, not funny or casual enough.
“Listen, I owe you an apology. You came into the store the other day to be nice, and I wasn’t. I’d been fasting—you know, Ramadan—and I was cranky. I lashed out at you and I shouldn’t have. It took me some time, but I think I understand what you meant…that night. You’re a woman and it’s not the same. It’s not fair that it’s not, but you were just trying to protect yourself. And you had every right. My meter skyrocketed because I was thinking about my feelings, not yours.”
Geeta was not accustomed to men apologizing. Her father had never said sorry to either her or her mother. He hadn’t been a tyrant; it simply hadn’t been expected of him. “Sorry” was an English word, brought to cover all manners of sin and, with the increased use of English in films, “sorry” (as well as “thanks”) was bandied about more often. It was more casual than the literal equivalent, which Indians only dusted off for the really big slights, not bumping into someone or being tardy. Ramesh, for all he impelled her apologies, had certainly never offered one. She wanted to hug Karem, but she tamped down the urge to further embarrass herself.