“Did he say it did?”
Perhaps preservation glued blinders onto Geeta. She did not even think to investigate their mirrored answers. It endangered the plans she’d made, the ideal she’d fabricated in the kitchen when Ramesh roasted the papadam. Instead, Geeta played her part and asked her friend exactly what she’d asked her fiancé: “Why don’t you like him?”
“I didn’t say that I didn’t…”
The prevarication was so weak, Geeta didn’t even need to press for it to crumble. She stared at Saloni until Saloni sighed. “I just don’t, okay? He hogs all your time and barely lets you see me.”
“Well, what would you prefer? I don’t get married so I can spend all my time with you?”
“What? No, of course not. Get married. Just not to him.”
“Why?” When there was no answer, Geeta had the terrible, sticky feeling that perhaps Ramesh had been correct. “Why? Are you…jealous?”
“What! Come on, look at me. Of course I’m not jealous.”
That stung. Like you’re lesser. Like you’re ugly. Friends should be nice. Geeta continued, “Saloni. Do you…want him?”
Saloni displayed none of the diplomacy and tenderness Geeta had with Ramesh. She laughed. And Geeta felt herself pulled from Saloni’s team to Ramesh’s. While earlier Geeta had had the same reaction—Saloni was a goddess and Ramesh a mere mortal—to see Saloni underscore this admittedly true fact with her lovely, cruel laugh suddenly raised another question: how did Saloni see her?
“Nice,” Geeta said. “Very nice.”
Saloni coughed. “No, Geeta, come on. I just don’t see him like that.”
“Because he’s not good enough.”
Saloni shrugged. “He’s not.”
Geeta’s hurt quickly cloaked itself in rage. “Because what—you’re beautiful? That’ll fade, you know. One day you’ll be old, grey and wrinkled. Maybe bald! Maybe fat! And nothing will change the fact that you can’t afford to get married anyway. So it doesn’t matter that he’s not good enough for you because he wouldn’t have you anyway. He wants me.”
Saloni blinked. “I meant,” she said quietly, “that he’s not good enough for you.”
Maybe that was true, maybe it was not. But it was too late. She’d already laughed. Everything after, in Geeta’s eyes, was a deliberate walk back, crafted and constructed, not genuine.
“You were right,” Geeta cried later while Ramesh stroked her arm. “She’s not my friend. Maybe she never was.”
“You were wrong about her.”
“Yes.”
His hand stilled. “Say it.”
Geeta looked at him through lashes spiked with tears. “I just did.”
“Say it again. You owe me an apology. You made me feel like I was crazy, when all this time Saloni’s been the problem between us.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made you feel like you were crazy.”
His fingers were soft against her skin, which rose with goosebumps despite his and the sun’s warmth. “Tell me. Say ‘You’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry.’？”
Because they were just words, because it was easier than fighting, because she’d already lost so much that day, she said, “You’re right. I’m wrong. I’m sorry.”
FIVE
The next evening Farah bounced up the two cement steps to Geeta’s door with a proud smile. The village temples were playing their evening bhajans, the nasal song of the shehnai floating over the thumping drums. Farah sailed in past Geeta before she’d even finished opening the door.
“I took care of it,” she said, sitting on Geeta’s bed rather than the floor.
Geeta raised her brows at this liberty, but her curiosity superseded her offense. “How?”
“I put all his sleeping tablets in his last daru bottle.” She dusted her hands. Her black eye had darkened to violet. Above it, her bindi, small and maroon, was off-center. “He should be dying any moment now.”
Relief warmed Geeta. “I’m impressed. What kind of sleeping tablets do you even get around here? Do you have the packet?”
Farah handed her a ravaged square the size of a playing card, each bubbled unit crushed and emptied. Geeta squinted at the writing across the torn foil. She looked down at Farah, who was reclining on Geeta’s cot like a maharani on a divan.
“This is Fincar, it’s for hair growth. He won’t be dead, but he might be better-looking.”
Farah shot up. “What?” She snatched the packet and stared. “He said the doctor prescribed them! That he needed them! I’ve been paying ten rupees a day for his hair?” She crushed the packet in her fist. “Ya’Allah, I could kill him!”
“No shit.” Geeta shook her head. “How did you not know? Didn’t you check?”
Farah’s face twisted in desperation, further uncentering her bindi. It was unclear whether she was on the verge of tears or rage. Finally, Farah wailed: “I can’t read!” She hurled the packet as hard as she could. Despite her zeal, the empty packet had no heft and it fluttered to Geeta’s floor with a languid ease that rebooted Farah’s despondency. She thumped Geeta’s pillow like it was at fault. “Now he’s gonna wonder where all the tablets went!”
“Why did you bother, then?” Geeta yelled. “Why not just wait?”
“Wait for what? India’s most perfect plastic bag? Meanwhile, he’ll steal more of my money. We’re just sifting dust here, Geetaben. And every time I ask you what you did to Rameshbhai, you bark at me,” Farah said, forming a claw with one hand. “Is this like a murder-mentor teaching moment or something? Because I don’t think I’ve learned anything.”
“Okay, enough,” Geeta said. “We’ll think of something else.”
“Like what?”
“Well, the poison was a good idea. Easy. Clean.”
“My idea was good?” Farah’s lips stretched into a smile. Her cut began bleeding again. “Ow.” Geeta gave her a handkerchief. Farah dabbed before licking her lower lip to test the wound.
“Yes,” Geeta said in a rare moment of generosity. Then she caught herself and pointed to the medicine on the floor. “Though your execution requires improvement.”
“So what now?”
Geeta considered that for a moment. “What does he like to drink?”
Farah looked at Geeta as though she were daft. “Daru,” she said slowly. “That’s kinda the whole problem here.”
“No, idiot, I mean what else. Milk?”
“Hates it.”
“Juice?”
Farah shook her head. “He says it’s too sugary. Diabetes is a growing epidemic, you know.”
“Liver’s about to fall out of his ass and he’s worried about diabetes.” Geeta paced as she mused. “I guess there’s no other way around it: we’ll have to buy him some more booze.”
Farah released a strangled cry. “Whose side are you on?”
Geeta continued, speaking as though to herself, “It’d be cheaper to poison his food, I guess, but even then, it’s better if he’s drunk. Then he won’t notice or care about the taste.”