“Good thinking. So,” Farah said, her voice innocent, “did that work before? On Ramesh?”
“Nice try. Let’s go to Karem’s.”
“Ah,” Farah said, drawing out the sound. “You can handle that alone, right? You don’t, like, need me there.”
The implication that she needed anyone bristled. “Of course I don’t, but—”
“It’s just— I can’t be seen buying daru. What will people think?”
Geeta scowled. “But I can?”
“But I’m a mother and Muslim, and well, people…I mean, Geetaben, come on. People already think, you know, about you and plus, you don’t even care about gossip—which I’ve always thought is so cool of you, by the way—so what’s the big deal?”
“Fine,” she said. It was silly of her to assume the company. Hadn’t Geeta been the one to insist there was no “we” and that necessity—not friendship—had only temporarily tied their necks together? Besides which, Geeta reasoned, it wouldn’t do to be caught in public with Farah yet again on the eve of Samir’s death. It could raise suspicion. “I’ll get some and meet you back here.”
“Oo,” Farah said. “Could you drop it by the house, actually? It’ll be easier for me, what with the kids and everything.”
Geeta heard her teeth grind. This woman was a connoisseur of piling on.
“Geetaben, you’re the best! Oh, but what do we poison him with?”
That one Geeta was already prepared for. “Something easy and cheap, like rat poison.”
“Okay, I’ll buy some!”
Geeta sighed. “We can’t buy it here. A few questions and you’d be found out. We gotta get it from the city.”
Farah toggled her head in slow appreciation. She tapped her temple. “You’re clever, Geetaben. Like, proper clever.”
“I know.”
“So…not to rush you, but you should get going, na? Before Karem closes for the day?”
Geeta stared at her. “How is it that your husband is ruining my life?”
Farah left, buoyed by such satisfaction that Geeta had the prickly feeling she’d been tuned like a resistant instrument. It was possible that Farah’s dottiness was a convenient act. “Forget it,” Geeta told herself as she put on her sandals. “Just get the booze and be done with all this fuckery.”
She navigated the same route as the evening before. Children played cricket in the schoolyard, a stack of rocks as their improvised wicket. No sign of the tyrannical mini-Saloni this time.
The chai stand near the corner had only three customers. At this time of day, most men, temple time being over, were smoking hookah and playing cards near the panchayat’s office. Two men sat on plastic chairs, reading newspapers while sipping from small glasses. The third was a barefoot Dalit man, sandals tucked into his waistband as he squatted a prophylactic distance from the other two. He blew on his tea, which had been served to him, as it was to all Dalit patrons, in a disposable plastic cup.
When Geeta approached Karem’s shop, she pulled in a deep breath before entering. Rather than being shocked, Karem seemed pleased to see her, which Geeta found odd. No one was ever happy to see her, not even her clients, who considered her wares good luck.
“Geetaben! What can I do for you?”
Plastic boxes of costume jewelry lined the display case in a dusty rainbow. It was clear they hadn’t been moved in many years. Even through the glass, Geeta could spot the asymmetrical, shoddy workmanship. She deliberated over the proper process of bootleg ordering, whether a clandestine passcode or phrase was required.
Geeta held up a finger. “One alcohol please.”
Karem gaped. Doubt clouded his face. “You want hooch?”
“Yes.”
“You got a guest or something?”
“No,” she said quickly. “It’s for me only. I enjoy…inebriation.”
He smiled. “All right, then. What kind?”
“Kind? Uh…”
“I got desi daru and my tharra.”
“Er…what’s the tharra like today?”
“？‘Like today’？” he echoed, confusion and amusement tugging his eyebrows. “Same as every day, I guess. Rough, but it does the job.”
“I see.” She nodded with what she hoped was casual authority. “And the desi daru?”
From behind the counter, Karem extracted a squat bottle of clear liquid. A mixture of Hindi and English lettering crowded the label. The only images Geeta initially recognized were a drawing of a palm tree and the ubiquitous symbol reassuring Indians that something was purely vegetarian: a green dot housed in a green square. As her focus sharpened, she saw it was made in Bareilly, a city in a northern state of Uttar Pradesh, which was famous for the Taj Mahal, handicrafts and escalating drug abuse. The Bandit Queen had also hailed from UP.
“It’s locally sourced rum,” Karem said, presenting the bottle like a sommelier. “No English-Vinglish stuff. All Indian-made.”
“Where do you get it?”
“Kohra.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m going there tomorrow. How much?”
“Sixty-five. It might be cheaper there, though.”
“And how much is the tharra?”
“Twenty.” He grinned. “It’s even more locally sourced.”
“Tharra, then.”
“Okay, but go easy, Geetaben. This stuff could turn a horse cross-eyed.” Karem chuckled at his recycled joke, which he had no way of knowing she’d already overheard Samir say. When Karem failed to elicit a similar laugh from her, he turned uncomfortable, transitioning into a cough. With none of the tenderness he’d reserved for the bottle, he dumped a baggie of clear liquid on the counter. Smaller than a milk packet, its top had been twisted in a knot. It was difficult to believe such a tiny thing could be so powerful.
“That’s it?”
“That’s plenty to get you there.” He bounced the packet between his palms. The moonshine plashed pleasantly. “Twice even.”
“Two packets.”
“What? Why?”
“Do you want my money or not?” Geeta snapped. “If you’d cautioned Ramesh like this, I’d still have feeling in these two fingers.” She lifted her left hand, which he’d broken their fourth summer together and which hadn’t healed properly. The injury had extended her reach, but as that wasn’t a talent Geeta found particularly useful in beadwork （perhaps if she were a pianist）， her gratitude was limited.
Karem said nothing for a moment. “I didn’t know. Until later, I mean.”
She released a scoff of disbelief.
“I swear to you,” he said, pinching the skin covering his Adam’s apple, the semiotic for a vow. “I didn’t. How could I? I never saw you—and you obviously never came here.”
“Everyone knew.”
“All the women did! But I didn’t know until Ramesh was gone and everyone was talking. I can promise you that, Geetaben.”
She no longer wished to discuss this. She regretted throwing her injuries in his face. Not to spare him, never that, but because she was not a victim and he was not anyone to pander to. She was suddenly furious at her own folly. “Keep your promises to yourself and give me two packets.”