The lizard finally dropped from above—alas, missing Saloni’s disdainful face—and scrambled for its bearings. With the broom, Geeta slapped the floor, herding it toward the open entrance.
“Right,” Saloni said. “So we agree: Geetaben will cover it. You’ll settle it with Farahben later, correct.” It was not a question.
Given Saloni’s stamp of oppressive approval, the others did not even pretend to mew or protest. Saloni’s social weight was as robust as her physical. Her father-in-law was the head of the panchayat, the village council. Five years ago, when the government demanded their village observe the reservation system and elect a woman to fill one of the five council seats, Saloni was the obvious choice. In fact, these pre-loan meetings were usually conducted at Saloni’s house, but this week Geeta’s empty home had been selected for reasons no one had bothered explaining to her.
The twins stared at Geeta, wary, as though she were the death goddess Kali and her broom a sickle. She knew they were thinking of Ramesh, what had allegedly become of him at her hands. And just like that, she was no longer a part of the pack; they avoided her gaze and her touch as they handed her their money on their way out. Saloni alone met her eyes, and though Geeta recognized the scorn as easily as she would her own face, at least it was some manner of acknowledgment. A response, however negative, to the space Geeta occupied in this world, in their village, in their community.
She slammed the door shut after the three of them. “No, no,” she muttered effusively to no one. “Thank you.”
Farah visited that evening, wilted and scared, bearing a gourd as a gift. Her left eye was swollen shut, a tight pistil amidst a purple bloom. Geeta made it a point not to stare as Farah thrust the long green vegetable toward her.
“What’s this?”
Farah waggled the vegetable until Geeta took it. “You can’t show up to someone’s house empty-handed, everyone knows that. Saloniben came by my place. She said you covered for me. Thank you. She said I should work out an interest rate with you for—”
“Saloni’s a bitch.” Farah blinked at the language. “I only have one question,” Geeta said, leaning against her doorframe. She thumped one end of the gourd against her palm like a nightstick. That she should invite her guest inside was not lost on her.
Farah fidgeted. “I’ll pay you as soon—”
“Navratri just ended, so I know you had plenty of new dress orders.” Farah’s bent head nodded. “And I think we both know who did that to your face.”
“I don’t hear a question, Geetaben.” Farah’s hands cupped her opposite elbows, the movement further rounding her already stooped back.
“What’re you going to do when he takes the money again?”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t know.”
“What’s he doing with it?”
“Karembhai.” Farah sighed.
Geeta knew Karem; so had her husband. Karem sold his dead wife’s spectacularly ugly costume jewelry out of a small shop. That business was hardly thriving, but his bootleg liquor sales fed his litter of children. “If some of the other women complained to their husbands, maybe they could confront your husband.”
“No!” Farah’s thick eyebrows rose and her good eye stretched open in fear, making its swollen sister appear smaller. The image was so disturbing, Geeta focused on Farah’s collarbone instead.
“No, please,” Farah repeated. “He’d be so angry. And anyway, I doubt you could convince the other women—I’m not exactly their favorite.”
This bit of news surprised Geeta, who’d assumed she was the only outsider in their loan group. She sighed. “Can you hide some of your money away from home? Or just lie about what you’re making?”
“I thought of that last week, after I missed those other payments.” Farah swallowed and Geeta watched the walnut of her throat retreat and return. She pointed to her split lip. “But he found out.” She shuffled forward. “May I come in?”
Geeta asked, “Why?” even as she stepped aside. Farah removed her sandals, and Geeta noticed her shoulder blades protruding from her thin blouse like nascent wings.
Geeta did not offer her a place to sit, or a glass of water. A guest was to be treated like God, but Farah was not her guest; and while Geeta went to the temple about three times a year, she wasn’t the serial supplicant her mother had been.
The two women stood barefoot in the middle of Geeta’s single-roomed home. Farah moved closer and Geeta, alarmed, took a step back. It upset her, that intimate liberty, as though she were this woman’s confidante. They were not friends—covering the payment had been a necessity, not a kindness. And yet Farah had latched on to the gesture with the desperation of a neglected dog.
Geeta suddenly wanted to tell her to retain some pride. To withhold parts of herself because there were plenty of people like her husband waiting to pilfer what they could. It was unlike Geeta, not only to intrude in others’ affairs, but also to offer advice. Advice was a cousin of caring; apathy was Geeta’s mantra.
But then Farah said: “Y-you must remember how hard it is. Rameshbhai went to Karem all the time before…” and any desire to counsel the woman vanished. Farah trailed off due to some sense of belated tact, but the damage was already done, and stopping short was just lazy. Various endings to her abandoned sentence whipped around the room like detached lizard tails, all echoes of the gossip that had consumed their village on the heels of Ramesh’s disappearance. Before she’d sprinkled crushed glass in his food, before she’d used her fangs to desiccate him into a husk, before she’d chopped up his body and fed it to the dogs.
“Yes,” Geeta finally said. “Before.” It was past time for Farah to leave, and Geeta itched to shut the door on Farah’s swollen, judgmental eye and her presumptuous camaraderie.
But she pressed on. “I need your help—a favor.”
It was a bold move, enough to surprise Geeta, which in turn cadged a bit of begrudging respect from her as well. “Piling on, are we? Well, I don’t have any more money for you.”
“No, I mean, I think I know how to stop him.”
“Good,” Geeta said. “You do that. Then you can pay me back.” She herded her unwanted guest toward the door as she had the lizard earlier, all but thumping a broom at Farah’s chapped heels.
“No, wait.” Farah sidestepped deeper into the room. Geeta sighed. “You stopped Ramesh. He drank and he hit you, I know he did. I saw. We all did.”
“You all did,” Geeta repeated. “But nobody did anything about it.”
Farah’s head lowered, diffident once more. “It was a family matter.”
Geeta nodded her agreement. “Yes, and so is this. Good luck, Farahben.” The respectful suffix of “sister” was not required as Geeta was elder. However, she took comfort in the distance it created. She reached for her door handle.
“Just teach me!” Farah burst out, more hyper than Geeta had ever seen her. Her good eye was manic with possibility. “I can stop Samir, too. I just need to know how you did it, how you got away with it.”