The Bandit Queens (96)
Though Phoolan Devi stabbed her first husband, the one who’d raped her as a child bride, she hadn’t killed him. But at some point, her attitude changed and she began executing her rapists, others’ rapists. With each man Phoolan killed, the bounty for her head increased. As her crimes piled, so did her lore, until she was revered and reviled in equal measure. Previously Geeta had equated Phoolan’s lack of regret with stalwart courage. But now Geeta saw that her theories were based upon corrupt data. If Phoolan Devi didn’t feel regret for her crimes, perhaps it was because, to her, they weren’t crimes at all, simply justice.
In the village, marigolds and bunting again decorated homes, as they had for Karva Chauth, but now twinkle lights in assorted colors also latticed overhead. Many girls sat outside their front doors, outlining festive shapes in white chalk before filling them in with colored powder, to form rangolis. While walking, Geeta counted several floral patterns, a few Ganesh renderings, a lopsided dancing woman holding a dandiya stick in each hand, and one especially wonderful peacock.
Karem’s shop sold seasonal firecrackers and Geeta was positive his shelves were barren by now. The next two nights would be alive with smoke and noise pollution. Families would unfurl long strips of clay-colored firecrackers that, once lit, would fissure and sizzle for forty seconds or longer, each timed by giddy video recordings on mobile phones. Sky lanterns were also popular, though the following day the local papers were abuzz with fire incidents wherever the things landed, scorching yards and shanties and sleeping animals’ tails.
Geeta paused to switch arms, the milk more cumbersome now than when she’d left the Rabari camp. Children in costumes shrieked, chasing each other. Hanuman was always a popular choice with the boys because of his extraordinary strength. Some of them donned ape masks and wielded blunt maces wrapped in cheap gold paper. She waited until they ran past her, limp tails dragging in the dust. She didn’t realize she was checking to see if any of them were Raees until she knew none were. A man hopped off his ladder and nodded at her. “Ram Ram,” he said.
“Ram Ram.” Ever since Ramesh’s return, Geeta was no longer mixed with dirt, and the number of times she now had to say the greeting rivaled Saloni. It was, she found, tiresome.
As she neared the festooned tea stall, she paused, allowing herself a moment before she once again had to pretend that she did not wish to flense Ramesh’s face like halal meat on a spit.
Ramesh bustled with a confident economy of movement. He’d situated the stand to his liking, knew the tea, sugar and glasses would be exactly where he’d left them previously. He’d installed small statues of Ganesh and Lakshmi, offering them all the money he accepted from customers for blessings. By now Geeta knew that he sometimes held court, telling customers stories and explaining how he managed without sight. Two Dalit men, barefoot, approached for tea. Ramesh set to work immediately, pulling apart two plastic cups and pouring the tea. He fingered their coins, counting, while they squatted away from the unoccupied plastic chairs and sipped.
Geeta had not spoken to Khushi since that evening at her home over two weeks ago. Saloni had reported that she was making progress on convincing the council to give a seat to a member of the Dalit community, which pleased Geeta, even if she no longer required the panchayat’s vote, as Ramesh would be dead soon enough.
“Milk,” Geeta told him. She guided the handle into his grasp.
“Geeta! Just in time!” He announced to the stall, “I tell you, not since Ram’s Sita has such a wife existed!”
Geeta looked around the vacant area. The two men were laughing at a shared joke, their attention unwavering. “Yeah, there’s no one here.”
“Oh.”
“I should return the pail.”
“Okay, I’ll see you at home? Our own choti-Diwali celebration?”
A gaggle of older men with thick ear hair and thin calves arrived for tea, sparing Geeta from having to answer with any affection. Something was amiss, itching her brain like an old name buried under new information. She concentrated but no epiphany struck, just the lingering gnaw of a missed opportunity. Frustrated, she tried to release the question as she began the return journey to the Rabari camp. Lately, all of Ramesh’s words irritated her like cheap polyester. Yes, describing Sita as belonging to Ram was irksome, but Geeta’s objection there was more academic than personal.
Really, comparing her to Sita was pink salt in the wounds Ramesh had reopened. Before the first domino of this entire mess tipped, before she’d helped Farah kill her husband, Karem had jokingly referred to Geeta as adarsh nari. The Ideal Indian Woman was, everyone from politicians to cowherds knew, Sita. But Karem’s jest hadn’t driven up her hackles, not like Ramesh’s saccharine praise now did.
The story of Ramayana was especially popular during Diwali, when children dressed up as its various characters. Geeta recalled one classmate who’d refused to change out of his pungent Hanuman costume for the entire two-week school holiday. Boys had their choice of heroes: Ram, Lakshman, Hanuman, even Ravana and his ten heads. Their list was ample, but the only option for girls—lecherous vamps and old crones aside—was Sita. Beautiful, patient, silent, long-suffering Sita. A stick used to beat other women, their heads hanging in shame when they dared express unideal emotions, like indignance or self-respect.
On paper, the holiday marked the end of the battle between Ram and Ravana, the triumph of good over evil. The Festival of Lights, some dubbed it, because when Ram and Sita returned to their kingdom, villagers lit diya lamps to welcome home their prince. But that fire was not the only fire, just as Diwali was not a happy ending, merely a happy pause. The stories we tell ourselves, Geeta realized, empty pail clanging, the stories we tell each other, are dangerous.