The Bandit Queens (77)

“Alone? That’s unfortunate. You know what they say about women living alone—they’re like unlocked treasure chests, just inviting looting.”

“Er—”

“Now, it’s true you’re no longer in the height of your jawani, but you can’t be too careful. Even in your diminishing years, men can be dangerous creatures.”

Geeta sputtered, but Saloni put a quelling hand over hers. “Thank you, sir. We look after each other. We’re very close; it is the way of our village.”

“Not all men, of course,” he said, puffing. “Some of us support M.A.R.D., you know?”

“Ji,” they said, though they did not.

He recited in painstaking, flawed English: “?‘Men Against Rape and Domestic violins.’ A film star founded it, so you know it’s credible. He’s a Muslim, but still.”

“Ji.”

“Some men don’t need to rape. Some get plenty of offers.”

“Che,” Geeta muttered.

“What was that?”

“I said ‘ji.’?”

“So you were not in the house when Darshan attacked Preity? Or when she attacked him?”

“Um, sir, do you mean Priya?”

“What? Er, yes, whichever isn’t”—he gestured vaguely to his face—“you know.”

“No, sir, we’d left. We would have done something if we’d been there, na?”

He shook his head. “If only Zubin had not left to ‘socialize.’ He could have protected his wife.”

Geeta couldn’t help but say, “I think she managed to defend herself pretty well. He’s dead.”

“Yes, but it took many weak blows to do what would’ve taken a man one.”

Geeta narrowed her eyes. “It seems to me that she did a satisfactory job.”

“Now, now, Geeta,” Saloni chided. “?‘A single blow of a blacksmith is equal to a hundred blows of a goldsmith.’?”

“That’s good,” Trivedi said, smoothing the corners of his mustache. “Very good. You came up with that?”

“Me? No, no!” She laughed. “How could I, sir? My father used to say it.”

“Yes, that makes more sense.” He cleared his throat. “Where is that damn boy with the chai? I bet you he’s shitting again.”

“Don’t mind, sir, no need for you to take the trouble. You must have very important work waiting. And you finished here anyhow, much faster than ASP madam.”

“I did?” He looked down at the folder where he’d written no notes. “Yes, I did.”





TWENTY-TWO


“Since we’re here,” Saloni said as they left the station, “can we stop by the salon? I need to get my arms done.” She presented her forearm, where fine roots of hair disturbed the skin.

“Sure.”

Outside the station, a voice gave Geeta pause. Not because it called to her, but because it was familiar. She turned to see Khushi speaking into her mobile phone. With her free hand, she let her sandals fall to the ground. One landed upside down and she toed it upright before stepping into them. Geeta moved toward her in greeting, but a uniformed man reached Khushi first. He shook his head, pointing at her chappals and then at the road. Khushi nodded absently, bent to collect them and walked past Geeta and Saloni.

“Khushiben?”

“Ji?” She hung up. “Namaste.” Now officially out of the station’s ambit, she donned her shoes. Geeta saw she looked weary, the skin beneath her blue-clouded eyes puckered with fatigue.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ay-ya.” Khushi’s sigh was taxed. “There was a mix-up with a body I collected. I cremated him, but turns out he’s Muslim, so obviously I made a mistake. Which they just love to rub in.”

Geeta balked at the thought of the fallout crashing on Khushi’s head instead of Farah’s. “Samir Vora?”

“Ji. If this place had a proper funeral home, I wouldn’t even deal with Muslim last rites, but where else are they gonna go?”

“We know his wife, er, widow. Let’s go back inside and sort this.”

“I’m not allowed inside,” Khushi said. “I was fine with waiting outside, but that damn lady cop was all, ‘Article 15 this, Article 15 that.’ Then the fat cop kicked me out. Why do I need to be in their drama? But forget it, na? It’s sorted now. I just wanted to pay them and be done, but that damn lady cop was all, ‘bribes are offensive to the badge.’ Going on about how I destroyed evidence in a murder investigation. Bah! What murder? The drunk choked on his own vomit. Smelled worse than a dry latrine, and I would know.”

Saloni aimed to lighten the mood: “One honest cop in all of India and she’s in Kohra. What’re the odds?”

Geeta didn’t laugh. “How is it sorted?”

“Oh, the fat cop was happy to take the bribe.” The left corner of Khushi’s mouth twisted up in a deprecating smile. “I guess my money’s not polluted.”

“Do you need a ride back?”

Saloni coughed. “Shit, but I only have a two-wheeler.” A valid point, but Geeta realized she didn’t know how Saloni, a Brahmin, regarded caste.