The Bandit Queens (9)

“Why are you asking?”

“No need to be so suspicious. We’re on the same side.” Farah sighed. “You won’t talk about the end, so I thought maybe the beginning is less painful for you. Samir and I were a love match. My parents didn’t approve, but we eloped and I moved here.” Her smile was dreamy.

“Maybe you should’ve listened to your parents.”

Farah’s smile sank.

Unwelcome memories of Ramesh crashed into Geeta: the heat of his arm against her side as she’d burned the papadam. The gentle way he’d nudged her aside to fix her error. “Mine was arranged.”

“Oh.” Farah sniffed. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. The movement pulled up her nostrils, and Geeta saw the underwire of her nose ring. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. At least I can blame my parents. Your situation is your fault.”

“I guess.” Farah held up a pink bag. Red letters covered one side. “What about this one?” She put it over her head. A rip at the seam allowed her nose to poke straight through.

Geeta growled her disgust, smacking her forehead. “I swear, you can’t even count on the trash in India.”

Someone else spoke: “What’s going on?”

Geeta immediately recognized Saloni’s voice. Of course she’d turn up here, her radar for rumors—and therefore power—had always been finely tuned. Geeta turned with a deep breath, giving her back to Farah, who worked to yank the bag from her head. “Oh, hi there,” Geeta greeted with faux charm. “Ram Ram.”

Farah’s breathing fluttered. Geeta nearly groaned as she heard a whimpering, “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi.”

“Ram Ram.” Saloni stood a few meters away, her own solar lantern in hand. “Well?”

“Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi…”

“Not now, Farah!” Geeta seethed.

Saloni squinted in the night. “What—is she saying kabaddi? Are you playing?”

“Uh…” Geeta started, but every conceivable excuse fell from her like clipped hair.

Farah, mantra apparently having worked, was calm when she said, “We were just looking for Geeta’s bag. She thought she dropped it here.”

Saloni nodded toward the torn, pink bag still in Farah’s hand. “That thing?”

Geeta cleared her throat. She grabbed the bag from Farah and pressed it to her chest. “Yes. It has, er, sentimental value.”

Saloni rolled her eyes. “As weird as ever, I see. You know, just because your name’s mixed with dirt, doesn’t mean you have to, like, literally mix with dirt.”

Geeta’s heart thumped in anger; being dubbed weird at thirty-five years of age should hardly sting, but it figured that Saloni wouldn’t let an opportunity slide, not when she could twist the blade instead. She thrived on spite, always had. Geeta’s voice was accusatory when she demanded, “What are you doing out this late?”

Saloni shifted her weight onto her other foot. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my son left his workbook at the school, so naturally I’m the one walking in the dark to get it.” She blinked. “But I’m happy to do it. It’s a small price to pay.”

“Because it’s so rewarding,” Farah said, nodding.

“Joys of motherhood,” Saloni added on automation, her eyes dragging heavenward. “I’m blessed. It’s exhausting, though. I sometimes think, ‘Saloni, how do you manage to raise those kids and run a business?’?”

Farah gushed eagerly, “Yes, you’re practically a divinity.”

“Good god,” Geeta muttered.

“Stop.” Saloni flicked away the praise but then agreed solemnly. “Yes, I suppose I am. But it’s worth it. I always say, ‘Until you’ve brought forth the gift of life, you’re not complete.’?”

Geeta guffawed.

When Saloni opened her viper mouth, Geeta braced for a bite, but instead Saloni narrowed her eyes at Farah. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”

“Like sisters,” Geeta said. “That’s why I call her ben.”

Saloni’s brow folded like an accordion. “You call every woman ben.”

“Not every woman, Saloni.”

Saloni glowered at the pointed lack of suffix. The wind carried a small biscuit wrapper across her toes and she kicked it off. “If I were you, Farah, I’d spend less time pawing through trash and more time figuring out how you’re going to pay back this week’s loan. And Geetaben of course.”

Farah hung her head and Saloni, clearly feeling her work was done, left. Until now, Geeta had been too occupied with her own pariah status to notice Farah’s. She crushed the plastic bag, imagining it was Saloni’s fat head.

Farah turned, hand over heart, eyes and voice hopeful. “You think of me as a sister?”

Geeta groaned. “We should just kill her instead,” she muttered. “Nosy bitch. ‘Saloni, how do you manage to raise those kids and run a business?’ I dunno, could it be your rich husband?”

“What’s the scene there anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“You two hate each other.”

“So? No one actually likes Saloni, they just pretend to because they’re scared of her.”