The Bandit Queens (69)

If he was surprised by the request, he did not reveal it. “Of course.” He left the plastic chair for her cot. He held her hand in his lap. It was warm and dry. Their skin rasped together. Solace journeyed through her, relaxing the painfully taut space between her shoulder blades. She felt, with the indigenous instinct born from occupying a body for decades, that if she were to lie down with the comforting weight of his hand on her forehead, she would sleep well. But if she realized this on an inhale, by the accompanying exhale she knew it couldn’t happen.

“Tell me something about her.”

“Who?” But he knew. “Sarita?”

“Yeah. I saw her in school, but she was a couple of years ahead so we didn’t talk much.” When he was quiet, she added, “Sorry. Is it weird I asked?”

“No, it’s not. I like talking about her, especially with the kids. It’s painful for me to remember, but it’ll be more painful for them to forget. Let’s see.” He thought. “She was obsessed with politics. Very much wanted to be a politician.”

Geeta scooted until her back was against the wall, her legs hanging over the bed. “Really?” Karem shifted as well.

“Really. Jewelry-making, she hated—likely why it’s so god-awful. But she was fantastic with people, so charming. I think she could’ve done it, if the cancer hadn’t…you know.”

“That’s a shame. She could’ve joined the council. When they started their quota seat.”

“Well, I’m not sure how the panchayat would’ve felt about a Muslim woman on the council. That, too, a Dalit woman.”

Her head turned. “What?”

Karem cleared his throat. “Sarita’s parents converted to Islam before she was born, they thought it’d help their status. But it didn’t change a thing until they moved here from a different village and passed as upper-caste Muslims.”

She recalled Farah’s words. “Islam doesn’t have caste, though.”

Karem laughed. “Ji. But India does.”

Something else occurred to her. “Girls either marry someone local or leave town. But not only were you an outsider, you moved here for her. Did you know beforehand? About her being Dalit?”

“Yeah, I knew. And it didn’t matter to me. No, you’re looking at me like I was noble or selfless. Let me be clear. I didn’t care because I had nothing—no family left, no job, no proper home—and her parents offered me all of that in exchange for some safety and credibility. It sounds crude, but it was a deal of sorts. I guess most marriages are. After we married, our friendship happened quickly enough, then affection, and then came a time when I couldn’t remember not loving her.”

Geeta had little time to reflect on this before he continued, “She made me promise to never tell the kids. She said she regretted her parents telling her, that she was always looking over her shoulder, waiting for someone to call her an imposter. But I think I must tell them. I don’t want them to be afraid, but I also don’t want them to be ashamed, or think they’re better than others. But I don’t want to break my promise to her either.”

“That’s a hard one. But you’ll make the right decision. You’re raising pretty great kids.” After a long moment, Geeta asked, “How did Sarita feel about your business?”

“She worried. We both did. I still do. But it provided for us, plus I got to be home with her and the kids so…” He lifted his shoulders.

“Were you happy?”

“Hm, what a question.” He rubbed his stubble with his free hand as he thought. “There were far more good days than bad days. Maybe that’s what happiness is?”

“Did you fight?”

“Of course.” But he knew Geeta’s mind, he must have, because he added, “Never physical, though.”

“Don’t you all hit once in a while? It’s not beating, not really.”

Karem paused. “Yes, it is. Don’t get me wrong, Sarita and I —it wasn’t perfect, nothing is. And there were times we hurt each other plenty with words, but no, Geeta, no. I don’t hit.”

“Not even your kids?”

“No. Sometimes I wonder about that. I wasn’t beaten as a kid, but I was spanked, and I think that fear helped me turn out okay. They—those little tyrants are fearless. I think you can be a good parent and spank. But Sarita said never, so I promised and I meant it.”

“I remember my mother slapped me once or twice when I disobeyed. But my father never did. He hit her a couple times, though. But it didn’t make me love him any less. I wonder if it should’ve.”

Lately, each night a new memory landed upon Geeta. “Landed” was the wrong word. It wasn’t a sudden memory, startling her with its new presence. No. Each memory’s gentle unearthing was met with mild recognition: the one and only time she’d ever tried chicken, with Ramesh, the taste not bad but the forbidden secret tying them together better. The elusive name of the Dalit girl from school, the one with the high marks whom they’d all branded a cheater—Payal. Saloni and Geeta attempting to remove their pubic hair with expired Veet cream they’d found, and incorrectly reading the instructions to boot, nearly burning off their clitorises (plus she’d itched something awful when the hair grew back). Her father bringing her a chocolate on her birthday, massaging her legs when she fell ill, slapping her mother for a domestic trifle that was more about his mood than her failing. Was it really so much easier to be a decent father than a decent husband?