The Bandit Queens (90)
“Where is she?” Saloni asked.
The others looked at her blankly.
“Well, when was the last time anyone saw her?”
No answer. Priya scratched a scab on her left elbow while Preity hunted for a strand of shed hair that was tickling the valley between her breasts.
Even Saloni’s plosive sound of irritation, which signaled her displeasure and usually triggered at least minor amounts of sycophancy, did little to gain their attention. Complacent. When had they all gotten so complacent? She pointed at Farah. “You.”
“What.” Farah’s voice was bored.
“You’re always lurking around, trying to squeeze money out of her. Where is she?”
Farah shrugged. “I dunno, I’ve been super busy. It’s nearly Diwali. I’ve been up to my tits in measurements and—surprise, surprise—turns out Irem stitches like she’s as drunk as her dead father. The joys of motherhood.”
Priya offered, “I think I saw her about a week ago.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
Saloni closed her eyes and tried to summon patience. “So at our last meeting, then? Where we all saw her?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you, Priya. As helpful as ever. Anyone seen her since then?”
“I mean,” Preity whined the last word. “We have lives, you know. I’m a widow now, remember? And it’s not just sitting around crying all day, okay? I’ve had to find ways to boost sales since Darshan’s savings won’t last long. It’s hard work!”
“Like, so hard,” Priya said. “Anyway, why assume something’s black in the lentils? Geeta’s never been social.”
Preity nodded in support. “She’s probably just busy with Ramesh. I hear he’s been trying to win her back. Blind and still working so hard. It’s romantic.”
“Like, so romantic.”
Saloni glared at Preity. “And when people thought Darshan was reformed, trying to prayashchit his way back into your panties? To you, he was still the same chut, correct?” Preity squirmed, silent, but Saloni hadn’t been planning on letting her answer anyhow. “Correct. Because a chut is a chut is a chut.”
Farah squinted. “So then why don’t you know where she is?”
Self-censure hadn’t escaped Saloni. She, too, had not registered Geeta’s absence. Habits weren’t altered easily, and Saloni had long ago grown accustomed to not seeing Geeta. Their reunion had been an anomaly in an otherwise hectic rotation of housework, pottery, mothering and daughter-in-lawing. Recently added to her lazy Susan of duties was Geeta’s righteous voice banging on about how to abolish casteism. After their trip to the Kohra police station, Saloni had been subtly hinting to her father-in-law that they may want a Dalit on the village council, as per the quota.
Meanwhile, as preparations escalated for her annual Diwali-cum–New Year’s party, she went about town, squandering her best eat-shit-and-die glares on that chut Ramesh wherever she saw him working—not that he was aware of her venom. But Geeta…well, excuses and assholes being common to all, at the end of the day, Saloni had known The Chut was sniffing around and still she’d failed to check in on her friend.
It’d been many years since she’d thought of her personal sobriquet for Ramesh, longer since she’d had to use it. Early on, The Chut had revealed himself as a Baniya—though, now that Geeta had planted the scourge of casteism in Saloni’s mind, she figured stereotypes were also harmful. Fine. Early on, The Chut had revealed himself as a greedy, money-salivating miser, with the looks and morals of a male bedbug (a breed Saloni now unfortunately knew, courtesy of Geeta and her blasted radio program, was prone to something called traumatic insemination, an adjective Saloni also felt after image-searching on Arhaan’s computer).
At first, when Ramesh’s interest in Geeta had proved exclusive and absolute, Saloni had been pleased; her friend deserved a man with steadfast eyeballs. It seemed Ramesh wasn’t invested in looks, and Saloni’s pretty head (it wasn’t vain if it was true) hadn’t budged his. But, while The Chut’s crotch wasn’t greedy, his pockets sure as hell were. Geeta’s allure wasn’t in being a kind, funny, intelligent young woman, it was her status as the only daughter of a family with some material possessions and no male heir.
No sooner had Geeta’s parents sent out the wedding invitations than The Chut & Co. (as Saloni dubbed him and his avaricious family of like-minded bedbugs) surged their dowry demands. The Chut swore his devotion to Geeta, lying about refusing a dowry; the Co. meanwhile gouged her parents for a scooter, gold jewelry, furniture, kitchen appliances, a television and an actual silver platter of cash to be presented by Geeta’s father. Their side was to be served first at every function, with food and drink of better quality than the bride’s side. Prostrated over a barrel of dishonor, Geeta’s parents relented on each demand—moving money, calling in debts and favors, signing over their house, taking on outrageous loans. They had no choice; the invitations had already been delivered. If the wedding was canceled, Geeta’s name would be mixed with dirt. And, as she was to spend a lifetime with The Chut & Co., Geeta’s parents swore Saloni to secrecy. There was no sense, they said, in Geeta entering her marital home with resentment. This is what parents did for their children, Geeta’s mother assured Saloni as she removed her own wedding jewelry to be weighed and pawned. And they did it gladly. It wasn’t sacrifice, not when it was your child.