The Bandit Queens (62)

“Darshan,” she said to stop him, not because she cared that he was profusely bleeding, but because Preity might not want him staining her pillows.

How was it no one had come to check on either of them? How much time had passed? Hadn’t they made a ruckus?

She blindly returned the statue to the socle and took a step forward. “Hey.” Her voice was scratchy, foreign to her ears.

Though blood streamed from his forehead into his eyes, he seemed to register her approach because he scampered away sloppily, warding her off with one ringed hand. She halted, but he slipped in his haste and pitched forward, smacking his head on the dresser corner. The sound was loud and thick. He dropped, landing on his side.

“Oh shit!” Geeta cried, hands covering her mouth.

He was inert, resembling some sort of rodent that had failed to properly time its highway passage.

“Darshan. Darshan? Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She then heard the hands pounding on the bedroom doors. Darshan had drawn the bolt when he’d entered, his intent clear and premeditated. For a moment, she was frozen. From a recessed corner of her mind, she had enough detachment to wonder at her reaction. She would’ve assumed panic, hysterics, fluttering frenzy, but she was slow and congested, any movement of her mind laborious. The knocking continued. Geeta’s unsteady hands fumbled with the long bolt. She had to pump a few times to squeak it free. The doors parted. The women nearly stampeded to gain entry.

“What—”

“Oh my God.”

“Dhat teri ki!”

Preity bent, fists hitting her thighs with each “No, no, no, no!” she tantrumed as she viewed her husband’s body, a corona of blood expanding around his head.

“I can explain,” Geeta said, her voice still hoarse. “It was an accident. He—”

“It was supposed to be a heart attack! Natural causes!” Preity seethed. She kept her voice low and Geeta realized that the children were somewhere in the house. Saloni locked the door again. “What about any of this looks natural, Geeta!”

Geeta worried her earlobe as she tried to explain. “He…I…”

“Wait, is he even dead?” Saloni asked. “He could just be…out.”

“He’d better be dead!” Priya said. “For all this trouble.”

“We should check, though, right?”

Everyone nodded. No one moved.

Preity glared at Geeta and pointed at Darshan’s body. “Well? Check, dammit!”

The prospect of touching Darshan repulsed her far more than the prospect of touching a corpse. “Why me?” she squeaked.

Priya tsked her disgust. “It’s, like, the least you can do, Geetaben. Considering how royally you’ve bungled this.”

Saloni held out her palms in peace. “I’ll do it.” To spare her sari, she climbed on the far side of the bed and leaned over in prone position to check his pulse. She closed her eyes and waited a long, long while. Their collective breathing was heavy. The room grew warmer. Geeta felt like she was drowning in her own adrenaline. Her head buzzed as though stuffed with mosquitos. How had she let this happen? “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi,” she whispered to herself, rubbing her hands up and down her opposite arms.

Saloni rolled off the bed.

“Well?” Priya asked.

“Definitely dead.”

Preity said, “We’re fucked.”

“Like, so fucked,” Priya said.

“I had to! He was—he tried to—” Geeta gestured to her body, her abused neck, Darshan’s cadaver, but the words wouldn’t leave her throat and she felt dizzy and sick.

“This was not the deal,” Preity soft-shrieked. “This was not our deal!”

“Yeah.” Priya held her sister’s shoulders. “Great job.”

“Let’s let Geeta tell us what happened.” Saloni positioned herself between Geeta and the twins. “Breathe, Geeta. Bolo.”

On the floor, Darshan bled near their sari hems as Geeta told them about his hands on her. “I grabbed the statue,” she said, pointing. “I hit him, but he came back. I hit him again and then he tripped. And fell there. I’m sorry.” Geeta did not notice when she’d begun crying. It was humiliating to narrate it all for them—like she was announcing her appeal and how much she thought of herself. Opening herself to ridicule with the notion that she, looking as she did, could be the object of lust. She felt not only violated but conceited. Shame coursed through her and she couldn’t even look at the others.

Saloni touched her shoulder and Geeta launched herself into an embrace Saloni hadn’t offered. “Please. You have to believe me, I—”

Preity shook her head. “Of course I believe you. He’s a first-class pig. Was.” She moved away from her sister to stand over her husband’s corpse. She kicked his side with her bare foot. Her toe ring glinted in the overhead light. “Asshole. Ghelchodiyo. Of course you couldn’t even die easily for me. You couldn’t keep it in your pants for one more day to just let the poison do its job, you nasty pervert chutiya. Goddamn you. I hope worms eat your tiny okra dick in hell and—oh, gross. Che!”

“What?”

“He su-su’d!”

Geeta closed her eyes. Saloni smelled of sweat and talcum powder, but it wasn’t unpleasant, rather the opposite. The scent of skin and soap and life was comforting. But soon the urine Preity complained of reached Geeta’s nostrils. She released a mewl that Saloni understood.