The Bandit Queens (89)

“Isn’t that offensive? Having lower expectations for the blind?”

She glared at him. “We’re not back to jokey just yet.”

“Sorry,” he said, as subdued as a castigated Bandit. “I still want us to be friends.”

“Me, too, I just need some time to sort things out.”

“Like how you feel about Ramesh?”

Geeta was quick to correct him. “No, but I need to be careful. I can’t legally kick him out, and everyone here feels sorry for him.”

Karem shrugged. “Not everyone.”

“Most of them do. I mean, the guy’s blind, Karem. You said yourself, that’s rock bottom.”

“But he’s been blind. And still, he stayed away. Why come back now?”

It was not, Geeta thought as she walked back home, an unfair question. Which was why she pulled the bottle of clear rum—the one Saloni had impelled Karem to deliver—from the forgotten back corner of her provisions and tucked it near the canister of loose tea Ramesh reached for every morning. Was there a difference between a test and a trap? Maybe just what one hoped the outcome was.

Whether it was overkill or insurance, Geeta adjusted furniture akimbo, watching Ramesh as he tripped over the chair left here, the bucket placed there. He walked with the authority of someone who’d memorized and depended upon a layout, and each time Geeta saw him stumble, shame shrouded her. But the most despicable she felt was the night Ramesh asked, over their plates of potato curry, “I never expected you to trust me overnight, Geeta. And you’re due a bit of revenge. So move all the chairs and buckets you want. I deserve it. But sabotaging me?”

“What?”

“I found the bottle. Like you meant me to.”

“Oh. I…” Though she was scrambled about her motivations for her test-cum-trap, she was also mildly triumphant. “Wait, how did you even see it? You—”

He tapped his nose.

She deflated. “Oh.”

“But why?”

“I—I’m not sure what I was trying to prove. That you haven’t changed, maybe.”

“I said I don’t drink anymore, not that I’m not tempted to. That’s how addiction works. I try to keep myself away from temptation because I accept that I’m powerless. So what you did…” Ramesh shook his head. “It wasn’t kind.”

“You’re right.”

“I understand you’re angry with me. And that doesn’t just go away because I’ve changed. I hurt you so much for so many years.” His unfocused eyes swam with tears. “Sometimes I’m grateful I’m blind just so I don’t have to actually face you. Cowardly, huh?”

“I—”

“I came here to make amends. But I don’t think you’re ready.”

Surely she was a better person than this? Confusion writhed fiercely inside her and her guts felt like a wrung dishrag. She didn’t want to live with him, but that didn’t mean she had to ruin him, turn him back into the monster he’d been. “I—I’ll get rid of it. It was wrong of me.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I’ll move tomorrow.”

His words were so sad, so surprising, so lacking in censure that it prompted more self-loathing. Instead of basking in the relief of freedom, she found herself blurting, “Why?”

“Geeta, I can’t risk my sobriety by being around someone who wants me to fail.”

“I don’t—”

He held up a hand. “I can be blind, deaf and dumb, but I can’t drink again. My sobriety is everything to me. Without it, I’m nothing.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gave her a rueful half smile. “It’s just disappointing, is all. I was finally discovering how wonderful you are, finally able to appreciate you as a person. This past week with you has been great. It made me believe what they told us: when you stop drinking, things start falling into place.”

Geeta couldn’t face him. It was a pathetic day when she was a viler human than Ramesh. People changed, she knew that, they grew. She had, Saloni had. She didn’t have to open her arms for Ramesh, but neither did she have to be as malicious as he’d once been. “And I shat all over it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to. I risked something precious to you, and for what? To convince myself that you’re the same? More like I wanted you to be the same. Because then I wouldn’t have to wrap my mind around forgiving you, which is something I never thought I’d have to consider.”

“You don’t have to. But forgiveness is a gift you give yourself. Which is why I’m forgiving you for your little trick, whether or not you ask for it.”

Despite his words, a question, a request, a demand bloomed in the space between them. She felt certain about the words that fell, but as an automaton, blank and mechanical. She was performing a memorized task, one born of survival, buried upon freedom, resurrected now: “You’re right. I’m wrong. I’m sorry.”





TWENTY-SIX


The women were arguing. The loan officer was due to arrive in a few hours, but they were still missing two hundred rupees. Rather, Geeta and her two hundred rupees were missing. The other four women of their group had convened at Saloni’s, as they did every Tuesday, to aggregate their respective funds.