The Bandit Queens (85)
“Huh?” Geeta said.
“The panchayat. They even said they’d pay all the expenses for me to run. It makes sense. A woman and a scheduled caste—fills both reservations but only one seat, one vote.”
“But you said no?”
Khushi’s snort was derisive. “Why would I say yes? So I can drag my ass to the office once a year to pose for a photo while they do whatever the hell they want the other days of the year? If anything, it’d be worse, because then everyone here would think I’m actually a part of the shit they decide. I’ve worked too hard for too long to let them spoil my reputation. And all for a false crown? Ay-ya!”
“But it doesn’t have to be false! You could make real change.” She’d planned on explaining her Ramesh problem, but Farah’s presence complicated matters.
“Listen, er, what was your name again?”
“Geeta,” Farah supplied helpfully. Her glee radiated like heat from asphalt.
“Right. Geetaben.” Khushi released a generous plume of smoke. “I have very little use for your guilt.”
“No, I—”
“I don’t feel particularly honored that you ‘lowered’ yourself by coming here, entering my home. You let my kids touch your dog, so what? I’m not gonna fall over in gratitude.”
“I didn’t think you would, I just—”
“Yes, you did.” Khushi’s smile was indulgent but knowing. And now, finally, Geeta registered Khushi’s titanic anger, initially blanketed by a close-lipped smile and a livid civility that had since fallen like a veil. A little spit collected in the corner of Khushi’s mouth as her voice crescendoed.
“You thought that you’d run here to the bad part of town offering to save me so you could feel like you did something of consequence with your little life making…jewelry, was it?”
“Mangalsutras,” Farah answered before Geeta could. “But it’s still ‘art,’ right, Geetaben?”
Geeta glared at Farah, whose smile was all teeth. Not for the first time, Geeta marveled at the vast emotional gamut of women. Here sat Farah, repurposing her tenderness toward Amali and Khushi as a further foil for her savagery against Geeta. Geeta wasn’t offended so much as impressed. And it wasn’t just Farah, it was all of them: Saloni, the twins, Geeta herself. Their ranges, as women, were extreme. Men gravitated toward one side or the other and remained; Ramesh certainly had. Women splayed the far corners, their cruelty and kindness equally capacious.
“I just wanted to help,” Geeta said quietly, unable to look at either woman. She omitted that she also desperately needed help. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. He,” she continued, pointing to Ambedkar’s photograph above Khushi’s head, “wanted separate seats for Dalits in government. Because he knew you couldn’t expect the ‘touchables’ to look out for others. It didn’t happen, but I thought it could here, at least.”
Khushi’s face softened a fraction. “Dr. Ambedkar also thought it’d be better for us to live separately from caste Hindus. To him, untouchables only existed where the idea of ‘touchability’ does—it’s parasitic. But his reasoning doesn’t work. Because it follows us. Do you see her?” Khushi pointed to Amali, who was outside in the courtyard. Geeta looked as Amali tossed a bucket of water on the ground and squatted with a jhadu broom. Her scarf bisected her torso, the two loose ends tied in a knot at her hip while she worked, ambling on her haunches as she swept.
“Amali got a job cooking meals at the school, but when they found out she was Dalit, they fired her and threw out all the food she’d touched. So I offered her work here, and her parents refused. Why? Because she’s of the Dhobi caste and I’m a Dom, and working here would pollute her.
“Her parents died last year, starved to death. They would rather she die than pollute them, can you imagine? Of course you can—it’s not exactly a special story. My point is: we don’t need you caste Hindus to tell us we’re untouchable, not when we’re too busy keeping each other down.”
“But Amali’s here now.”
“Yes.” Khushi nodded. “She eats from my vessels and lives here, too. She values her belly before her karma.”
“Or maybe she just doesn’t believe in this bullshit either.”
Khushi laughed then and Geeta felt the relief like a cool breeze. She wanted Khushi’s approval with the same eager desperation that likely hindered it. Knowledge of this, however, did not equal the power to alter or mask her thirst. Though Geeta had gotten her answer, and knew she wasn’t exactly welcome, she sought to avoid being shown the door. All that awaited her was Ramesh. She procrastinated:
“So, how long have you two been friends?”
“?‘Friends’?” Khushi said the word like she was trying on an outfit she didn’t find immediately flattering. “Would we say ‘friends’?”
“Sure, friends,” Farah said. “But more business partners.”
Khushi nodded but corrected her. “Not even partners, more like we made a necessary arrangement.” Khushi inhaled from her hookah wand while Geeta tried to determine what a dressmaker and a corpse burner needed from each other. It read like the very odd premise of a riddle.
“What arrangement?”