“Lakha? The Rabari woman?”
Karem nodded. “You’re observant. Took me a few trips to figure out she’s his son’s mother.”
“Bastard?”
“Yup, but his only son, so Bada-Bhai would never disclaim him. Plus, Bada-Bhai’s…I wouldn’t call it love, but he’s a bit, I don’t know, obsessed with her. Hard to say which pisses his wife off more.”
Geeta had far more questions, but instead she asked, “If he’s not dangerous, why can’t you find another vendor here?”
“This place is too small. He’s the only game in Kohra. I’ll have to start from square one somewhere else. Make contacts, let them sample the tharra, build a reputation. Until then…” He shrugged.
“We can get you help. The loan officer can—”
“Geetaben,” he said, “you know the loans are only for women. Besides which, I doubt they’ll be queuing up to fund a liquor business in a dry state.”
“You’re just doing what other states do. A random map line decides if you’re a criminal or not? Nonsense.” When he squinted at her, she asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Your support is surprising, is all. Given what happened with Ramesh.”
“Well.” Geeta paused. After what she’d said to him in his shop last night, she had to be damn sure any retraction was sincere. She decided that she didn’t know who he’d been before, but the man she was with now, the one who’d refused to poison people for profit, deserved a second chance. “Ramesh made choices.”
“Yes,” Karem agreed. “That he did.”
Their eye contact flustered her. Geeta pulled on her earlobe, her arm brushing her bag. The dog whimpered from within. Karem blinked. “Is that—”
“Oh!” She’d forgotten. Guilt softened her touch as she extracted the dog. His fox ears were the only perky part of him. His mottled tail sagged; his own vomit had dried on his fur. “This one was sick. He couldn’t run. I don’t think he can even see.”
Karem petted him. “Let’s get him some water.”
“What about a doctor?”
“For dogs? Kohra isn’t exactly Bombay.”
They found a public tap. The dog sniffed before drinking, his black nostrils fluttering. He drank for a good two minutes before stopping to pant.
“He looks a little better,” Karem said.
Geeta assessed the dog in her arms with doubt; he trembled from the exertion of lapping. The fur around his paws was white but dirty. The remainder of him was light brown save a dark stripe wrapping his long torso like a belt and one black ear. “You think?”
“Not really, no.”
“Do you think he could die?”
“If he keeps the water and some food down, I think it’ll be a good sign.”
“What do dogs eat?” The Gyan Vani radio segment talked about the wild; they didn’t offer tips on domesticating strays. Geeta set him down, but he cried out so she held him again. His warmth and weight, minimal though it was, was reassuring against her midsection. She felt maternal and needed; the feeling was not wholly repugnant.
“Street dogs? Anything that’s not tied down.”
After they exited a sundry kiosk with a fat packet of Parle-G biscuits, Karem asked, “What are your errands?”
Geeta coughed. She’d come here to poison one man but punished another for doing the same to a dog. It was different, she knew that in her bones, but couldn’t articulate how or why.
“I need some beads and wire. And some jump rings and chain ends, oh and clasps.”
“I’ll just pretend I know what those are. Lead the way.”
As they walked, they were a peculiar sight and people stared at the filthy dog she cradled like a baby. She was not, she wanted to tell them, one of those film idiots with more money than sense, and this was clearly not any pampered Tuffy with paws too pristine to touch the earth.
Her usual supply store was tucked between a passport-photo shop and a line of Muslim tailors. An iron spiral staircase led to the second floor, where the shopkeepers lived. On the uneven curb, two men were drinking tea, their sandals off. One discussed seeking a suitor for his daughter: “And that asshole says to me, ‘My son’s a graduate, you’ll have to give a car and ten lakh rupees.’ I say to him: ‘Have you seen your son? Twenty-three and balder than an acorn! Even a two-wheeler and one lakh is too much.’？”
The men laughed as Geeta and Karem passed them to enter. “Dowries,” she said. “Barbaric.” When he was quiet, only nodding his agreement, she asked, “Did you take one? For Sarita?”
“Technically, maybe? Her parents gave us the shop as a wedding present. It was in her name, but it was still for us.”
“That’s not—”
“Namaste, Geetaben,” the owner greeted, before his face seized in aversion. “What is that thing?”
“A puppy.”
“I don’t think I want a dog in here.”
“Look at him: he’s too weak to walk, much less break anything.”
When the owner said nothing, Geeta knew she’d won. He was a slender man with delicate hands and a mustache that reminded her of a meerkat. She listed the amount of thread and black and gold beads she required.
“That’s double from last time, isn’t it? Things must be going well!”
Normally she would have chatted with him. In Kohra, she was neither a witch nor a widow, just a businesswoman. But now she only gave a noncommittal murmur. It didn’t feel right boasting of her success when, not an hour prior, she’d cost Karem his entire livelihood.
“You’ll get that refrigerator in no time.”
Geeta wanted to stuff his meerkat mouth with beads. But then, it was her own damn fault, confiding in him. Despite her panic, Karem didn’t appear interested, instead roaming the narrow shop with polite interest. Still, once they were outside, she offered context.
“I’m thinking of buying a fridge—if I save enough.” She shrugged. “It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not. It’s great. Be proud of your accomplishments. They didn’t come easily.”
“They didn’t,” she repeated. Then again, more firmly. “They really didn’t.”
“Geetaben—”
She interrupted with more aggression than she intended. “Why do you call me ben?”
“I—uh—I dunno, never really thought about it. Why does anyone? Respect, I suppose. Why?”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Er—” He squinted at her. “My age?” At her thunderous expression, he corrected: “Younger, much younger! Meaning, it’s not like you’re an aunty-type or anything.”
But given her peers and their progeny, that was precisely what she was. She told him as much.
“Okay,” he amended. “Well, you’re not my aunty.” He assumed a countenance of faux outrage, meant to loosen the tension Geeta had knotted. “And by the way, I’m only thirty-nine myself.”
“It’s not your fault,” she soothed. “You have, like, a lakh of children. They age you, you know.”