The Bandit Queens (91)

Bullshit, Saloni had seethed. Bullshit. Parents’ dreams were too myopic—they clasped their hands and prayed to get through their daughter’s wedding. If we can just get her married, everything will be all right. No one bothered with the question Saloni found frantically obvious: if they were a pack of shameless extortionists pre-wedding, what kind of in-laws would they be afterward? Try naming a village that hadn’t seen a new bride burned alive when retroactive dowry demands weren’t met. No, Geeta would never be safe in that household.

So Saloni had tried, without breaking the promise she’d made to the people whose salt she’d eaten most of her life, to guide Geeta toward seeing The Chut & Co. for what they were: the bowels of outdated Indian society, terrorizing others by wielding the two penises that The Chut’s mother had happened to expel from her smug womb, all under the guise of tradition. But one fucking papadam had Geeta in rosy horse blinkers. As blind as The Chut was now.

An unwelcome thought: what if history was repeating itself?

“Oh, fuck no,” Saloni announced aloud to the befuddled loan group. “Farah, come with me.”

“Where? Why?”

“We’re gonna check on Geeta.”

“But I don’t care about Geeta,” Farah whined. “Take one of them.” She pointed to the twins.

“Need I remind you how much Geeta has done for you? For all of you? The least you can do is come with me.”

Farah walked, Saloni stomped. Despite having far less heft, Farah struggled to keep pace. Saloni’s face, fair enough to flush, was thunderous, brooking no patience for pleasantries, but she was still a well-known village figure: the daughter-in-law of the sarpanch and a member of the council herself. “Ram Ram,” every passerby greeted her. And to each passerby, Saloni muttered a hurried “Ram Ram.”

Huffing as they neared, a thought occurred to Farah. “We can’t show up empty-handed! Should we get a gourd?”

“Now is not the time for a fucking gourd.”

“Oof, fine. You really don’t like him, huh?”

“He’s a terrible, terrible man.”

Farah scoffed. “He’s got some competition in this village.”

Saloni shook her head. “No, I mean it. He’s—he’s…I don’t have the words.”

“Are you okay?”

Saloni knocked on Geeta’s door, noting grimly that the charpoy The Chut had been heroically sleeping on was no longer outside. “I dunno. Ask me in two minutes.”

Geeta answered quickly, to Saloni’s surprise. Though what had she expected, Geeta bound and gagged?

“Oh, shit! Is it Tuesday?” She appeared hale, if alarmed. No visible bruises, Saloni catalogued. No marks on her arms or face, or hidden by hair that was combed but loose, not in her typical severe bun. That material difference impelled Saloni to notice others.

“What,” Saloni said, “the fuck are you wearing?”

Geeta looked down at her orange sari. “Ramesh got it for me.”

“Not that. This.” Saloni tapped her own nose ring.

“Oh.” Geeta’s hand fluttered to cover her nostril. Ramesh appeared behind her, cane in hand. A wave of loathing swept over Saloni, leaving her breathless. Dizziness pixelated her vision and her chest felt like a very fat man was squatting on it. When her eyes finally cleared, Farah was giving her a curious look.

“Geeta? Who is it?”

“Namaskar, goat fucker,” Saloni greeted pleasantly.

Ramesh scowled. “Saloni. Geeta, I thought you said you weren’t friends anymore.”

“Oh,” Geeta faltered with a timid deference Saloni ironically wanted to slap off of her. “I—we—it—”

“We weren’t, an oversight we recently fixed. And I see you’ve made changes, too,” Saloni said. “Orange still isn’t her color, duffer, not that I’d expect blindness to improve your fuck-all taste.”

Ramesh narrowed his eyes, his gaze unfocused but nonetheless hostile. “I wish I could say I’ve missed you, Saloni. But I’m no liar.”

“Since when?” Saloni snorted. “Why are you here? Other than to ruin Geeta all over again.”

“Ruin her? How, by giving her jewelry? Why shouldn’t she wear it? She’s not a widow, she doesn’t have to dress like a martyr.”

“You have to admit,” Farah whispered, “she does look way better.” She drew closer to Geeta and squinted. “Did you exfoliate?”

“Shut up,” Saloni told Farah without tearing her eyes away from Geeta. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

“Anything you can say to her, you can say to me.”

“Geeta?” Saloni implored. “Please?”

Geeta’s voice was calm as she told Ramesh, “It’s almost noon, you need to go to the tea stand anyway. I’ll be fine.” Saloni’s fear intensified. Geeta didn’t harbor actual tenderness for The Prodigal Chut, did she?

Ramesh left with a sigh, cane tapping.

Saloni sang after him, “Aavjo, goat fucker.”

“Aavjo, you fat shrew.”

Still on the doorstep, Saloni then noticed the quiet. “Where’s your dog?”

Geeta fiddled with her earlobe. “Oh, he…Well, Bandit and Ramesh don’t get along, so I only let him in when Ramesh is away.”