“What kind of dog is he?”
“That’s a good question. I don’t know. I think he’s a lot of different things. I bet that’s what makes him so cute.”
“Is he the one you fed your husband to?”
“Raees!” Karem’s voice was appalled. “Apologize at once. I’m so sorry, Geeta.”
“It’s all right,” she said. That one stung more than the sweets comment. She’d forgotten herself. Forgotten that children were scared of her. Forgotten that she preferred it that way. “It’s not his fault he hears things.”
“Well, he didn’t hear it here.” Karem didn’t lift his gaze from his son. “Apologize.”
“I’m sorry, Geeta-aunty.”
“It’s okay, Raees. No, I didn’t feed my husband to Bandit.”
“So then what happened to him?”
“Another good question. Can you keep a secret?”
When Raees issued a somber nod, she bent at the waist and curled a finger. The boy floated closer. “I don’t know what happened to my husband.”
“That’s not a secret!”
“It’s not?”
“No, a secret is like when you break your father’s watch but then you say your sister did it ’cause she never gets in trouble for anything.” Raees clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, Papa.”
Karem shook his head. Farah was right; his hair was very thick. Grey heavily decorated his crown and temples. “I’ll forget I heard that, but off to bed.”
But Raees was adroit in the art of dithering. He showered their guest with attention, avoiding his father’s unamused eyes completely. “Geeta-aunty, can I please show you my birthday balloons? Papa brought them all the way from Kohra.”
Geeta, too, ignored Karem. “I’d love to see them.”
Raees slipped inside his room. Karem stage-whispered, “Don’t wake your sister.”
“He’s a nice boy.”
Karem smiled. “He’s got a crush.”
She patted her bun demurely. “Oh, well, I wouldn’t call it—”
“He’s really taken to Bandit.”
“Yes.” Her hand fell. “The dog.”
Raees returned holding five strings. The speckled balloons still hovered near the low ceiling, but they were beginning to sag. The pastel skins puckered, no longer taut. For some awful, horrible, inopportune reason, Geeta thought of her breasts and how this was what she had to look forward to.
She offered the proud boy her soft applause. “Lovely!”
“Bed,” Karem said.
Raees made an unsuccessful plea for water, and then padded to his room, head hanging comically low, balloons in tow.
She followed Karem through the house and outside to the small, unfenced dirt patch that was his backyard. A bicycle with a broken kickstand was on the ground. In the far corner, a buffalo slept, tied near the clay stove and a jumble of tins and jars.
“Sorry about all that.”
“Don’t be.” For a brief while, she hadn’t spared a thought to her problems. Or Farah. Their tiff suddenly mattered little to her. When Farah once again bungled things tonight, she’d land on Geeta’s doorstep and Geeta would grant her both forgiveness and a new plan to eliminate Samir.
“So did you poison him or what?”
Geeta balked. “What?”
“Bandit? Your cooking, remember? It was a joke.”
“Oh, yeah.” She forced a laugh that came out a wheeze. “I mean, no. No, he wouldn’t eat the khichdi.”
It was a very strict truth. She surmised that Bandit had eaten so many Parle-G biscuits that the rice and lentils held little interest. Geeta set him down and Karem squatted to inspect the pup. Arms bereft, Geeta didn’t know what to do. She tugged her ear and stared down at the back of Karem’s dark head.
“He seems very happy. I wouldn’t worry about it. Has he tutti-ed?”
“What?” she sputtered.
His question didn’t scandalize her, it was that he used that benign but infantile word.
He sighed in self-deprecation. Bandit hopped near his ankles, demanding attention. “Sorry. Habit. In this house I forget how to talk to adults. I may remind you to go su-su next.”
Bandit jumped at Karem’s shins, higher and higher.
“Bandit! No! Off!” Geeta rapped his snout. He whimpered but settled and as a reward, Geeta scratched his rear, which she’d noticed he enjoyed. “Oof. Did he hurt you?”
Karem laughed. “No, he’s the size of your gourd. Ugly thing,” he said, squinting. “So ugly he’s cute.”
“Oi! Show some respect. This dog is a hero. He’s a survivor of abuse.”
Karem continued to chuckle. “Well, so are you, and you manage to look great.”
Geeta scoffed before she could stop herself. Not because she didn’t believe him—which she did not, to be clear—but because it was so wildly audacious: presenting a smooth line while addressing her marked history. It was preferable, she found, mentioning Ramesh as a footnote rather than the thesis. Once again she admired how Karem managed it—always saying things she liked hearing, rarely offending even someone as prickly as she was.
In return, she offered him a scarce gift: the truth. “That was nice. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Then he touched her, his palm on her cheek.
It had been eons since someone had touched her with purpose rather than by chance. Even before she and Ramesh, more by time than agenda, became strangers, she didn’t feel touched. They’d devolved into a perfunctory dance. Enough time passed and touch became a hollow parody of itself. It was, however, a basic human need. Now, she found she could not bear to be touched, all the while craving it with a dipsomaniacal desperation that drove alcoholics to eat their vomit or addicts to snort or smoke dead scorpions. Geeta’s raw brain yelped even as she leaned into Karem’s hand like a heliotrope toward the sun.
And it wasn’t that she went wild with desire or that arousal skewered her abdomen. It was worse than merely being confronted with her own sexuality after five years of dormancy. Geeta discovered a few awful things under Karem’s light, unsuspecting palm. That she’d spent years assuming she was no longer a creature of want. That despite this first fact, she’d been starving for touch that entire time. That despite the first two facts, there was absolutely nothing to be done, not in a speck of a village where her name was mixed with dirt.
Which was why she stunned no one more than herself when she unglued his hand from her cheek and kissed him.
He tasted of tobacco, but it was fresh enough to not be unpleasant. His kiss was open-mouthed and intimate, but tidy. Nothing about his technique was as tentative as hers was, his was not a mouth that had taken long hiatuses from kissing. She was surprised by how quickly she adjusted and emulated his style.
Karem nuzzled the space between her neck and ear. “He’s a fool. A blind fool.”
The kissing was excellent, but Geeta was not so swept up that she didn’t think to ask, “Who?”
“Ramesh.”
She canted back. “Why are you thinking about Ramesh?”
“I’m not. Well, earlier, but not now—”