The Bandit Queens (66)

“I believe you.”

“Geeta, really, seriously. I didn’t—”

“I said I believe you and I do.”

“You know, maybe it’s actually better that we can’t find Ramesh.”

“How so?”

“Because we’ve been on the defense when we should be increasing our offense instead. If we keep allowing Farah to believe that you killed Ramesh, then at least she thinks she’s dealing with an actual killer. If you threaten her—convincingly, mind you—she’ll back off.”

“I’m not threatening Farah. She’s a killer, too.” Geeta shrugged, resigned. While the events in the twins’ house seemed to whirl by, now time was molasses; she felt as though she were watching a film slowed by half. “Whatever happens now, happens. What good is proving my innocence with the Ramesh tamasha, when I have nine other sins tied to my neck?”

“What are you babbling about?”

But Geeta wasn’t babbling. Odd calm shrouded her. “I’ve killed not one but two men. If I land in jail, I can’t say I don’t deserve it.”

Saloni stopped in the road. “Listen to me. Darshan killed himself. No, listen to me. I’m serious. Sure, you’re not supposed to kill, but you’re not supposed to rape either, okay? He broke the contract first. Gandhiji had it wrong about some things. When someone threatens your body, you have every right to protect yourself. Satyagraha or passive resistance or whatever may be fine for freedom and salt marches, but not when someone’s trying to rape you. You don’t have to love the assholes oppressing you, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Why aren’t we ever the oppressing assholes? Why is everything a reaction for us?”

“Because,” Saloni said. “Women were built to endure the rules men make.”

“But don’t we get to make choices, too?”

“You did, with Darshan. And you’re going to stand up for yourself with Farah, you hear me? You’re going to tell her that if she doesn’t get in line, she’ll go the same way as Ramesh and Samir, and who will feed her rude children then?”

“I just want this to be over.”

“Soon. You gotta meet crazy with crazy. ‘People like that don’t understand words, only kicks.’?” They were outside Karem’s store. “Ready?”

“Geeta!” Karem smiled, only catching himself when he saw Saloni, who observed him with shrewd interest. “Saloniben.” He coughed. “How’re you?”

“Fine, fine. We’d like some desi daru. The good stuff.”

Karem’s brow rose. “A kitty party, eh?”

“No, no.” Saloni laughed. “We’ll be giving it to the men.”

Karem nodded. He presented two of the same glass bottles Geeta had seen when she bought tharra for Samir. Saloni asked him to add it to her husband’s tab. Karem obliged, marking a note in his ledger. “I’m still waiting for that ‘vine,’ Karembhai.”

He grinned. “Oi madam, how will I keep it from spoiling? Not all of us have fridges.” He winked at Geeta, who immediately looked away. None of it escaped Saloni; Geeta knew this as surely as she knew her own name.

“How are you, Geetaben?”

“I am well.” It was so stilted it was suspicious. She tried to fix it with a “Thank you,” which was, of course, even more formal. Saloni’s smile was wider than India. She put the bottles in her jute bag with a telltale tinkle.

“Oh my god,” Saloni said as they left. “You like Karem.”

“What! No—I—that’s madness. I do not.”

“Yes, you do!” Saloni bumped her shoulder into Geeta’s. “You like-like him! You’re blushing!”

Geeta batted Saloni away. “I am not. I can’t blush. I’m brown. And you’re inappropriate.”

“Fine, but you would be if you could. Because you like-like him.”

“Even if I did,” Geeta started, and when Saloni clapped in delight, she raised her voice: “And I’m not saying I do, but even if I did, what would be the point? Nothing can come of it.”

“Why not? One minute, I forgot my keys.” She gave the bag to Geeta and hustled back to the shop. When she returned, hitching the clip to her sari, she asked, “Why not? It’d be a bit of happiness. Ram knows you deserve some.”

“How would it even work? He’s a Muslim widower with four kids.”

“And you’re a ‘Hindu widow’ with none. We could sell the movie rights.”

“Things like that don’t happen in our villages. City people can mingle, not us.”

“Who says you’re marrying the guy? Have some fun. Chakkar chal.”

“Fun? Everyone is up everyone’s butt here. If you fart in one corner of town, they smell what you had for dinner in the other.”

Saloni’s nose wrinkled. “My, what an elegant metaphor, Geeta. Take a right. They’re usually near the water tower.”

The village’s water tower was to inebriated men what the water pumps were to the women. Every so often, they’d congregate, pour a few pegs and tease each other about their low capacities for booze. At times, they stumbled up the stairs, hoping to catch a breeze and a view, but neither were readily available in their village. There were few trees here and the men’s voices carried easily. A burst of raucous laughter guided Geeta and Saloni.