She was being prickly again, ruining things for herself before they began. They’d mentioned Ramesh before in the abstract and now Karem was giving her another compliment. It was what normal people did, she reproached herself, people who weren’t busy squashing their libidos. “Never mind. It’s okay,” she said, and returned to his mouth.
She didn’t care that the excitement she felt was a direct result of his experience, dalliances with the lay-deez Farah had mentioned earlier tonight. It was precisely why she’d come here. She supposed she could admit that now, what with Karem’s tongue against hers. She was possessive of nothing other than her own pleasure.
Geeta often wondered how Phoolan Mallah had tolerated having lovers after being subjected to such systemic sexual abuse. She’d run away from a bad childhood and worse husband to join a gang whose leader, an upper-caste man, immediately planned to rape her. Vikram Mallah, a man of her same caste, killed the leader and became her lover and husband. She joined his dacoit of mixed-caste men. But even among thieves, caste polarized. The upper castes turned on Vikram, slaughtering him. Then they trapped the seventeen-year-old Phoolan in their village, alternating between beating and raping and parading her, naked and leashed, through neighboring villages, where they encouraged the locals to use her.
After three weeks, she escaped with the help of men from her own caste, one of whom became her lover. They created a new gang—comprised solely of their own Mallah caste—and on Valentine’s Day, she returned to that village, and stained it red with the blood of twenty-two upper-caste men. After her revenge resulted in an interminable imprisonment, Ummed Singh helped secure her release, and she married him.
Geeta had assumed that each time Phoolan embarked on a new relationship, it was a purely strategic move, seeking protection rather than love. Each new man shielded her from the past’s consequences. Such circumstances could hardly spell choice. In a world where her vagina was a liability, was there even room for petty things like love? But maybe Phoolan had managed to separate Vikram from those before him, and exercise trust. Perhaps it wasn’t about power after all, but companionship.
Geeta had thought she’d frozen herself, but all the while, time had chipped away at her. She was not now what she’d been then, but enough remained to thaw. Enough to realize why and how Phoolan had managed.
Still, discretion was essential to her survival. While widower Karem was expected to service himself outside the village, Geeta was afforded no such berth for humanity. If people discovered that she was a woman rather than a virago, shit would shower on her head. The women’s gossip would worsen, and men would issue lascivious invitations. Seeking his understanding, Geeta managed to choke out her request between heady kisses, “No one can know.”
His mouth stilled. “What?”
“I just meant…you know, the village is so small and you…”
His hands were gentle but firm as he removed her from his orbit. “I, what?”
It was difficult to face him in light of what they’d shared. Geeta wished to resume kissing so they didn’t have to suffer the intimacy of eye contact. She moved for another embrace, but he deflected.
“Listen, no one minds your indiscretions, they’re natural because you’re a man, but for me…”
“My indiscretions?”
“You know, what you do in Kohra…” She gave a vague wave of her hand. “And wherever.”
“What do I do in Kohra?”
“You know.”
“Work?”
“Sure. And chakkar chal or whatnot.” She added, “Look, I’m not judging. That’s my whole point. You and I get it. They don’t. That’s why—”
“No one can know.”
She went limp with relief. “Yes.”
He nodded, rubbing his stubbled jaw. His gaze shifted to a spot behind her. “Do you not know how insulting you are, Geetaben, or do you just not care?”
The distance of his formality was crushing. She scrabbled for understanding so she could resume control. If she knew where she stood, she could protect herself. She blinked, trying to adapt, but she had no idea how they’d landed here.
“I should go,” she said, hoping he’d contradict her.
“Yes.”
It was a long, mortifying walk through Karem’s house to the front door. Geeta burned while Bandit trailed behind her, so content and oblivious that she wanted to cry out her jealousy. Though Karem had accused her of being insulting, she felt terribly insulted. And rejected. Not to mention stupid. She could never face him again. Which was feasible, she reasoned as the door closed behind her, because before her whole killing club with Farah began, she’d barely seen him around the village.
Maybe it wasn’t Farah, Geeta thought as she held Bandit for comfort. Maybe it was her. She couldn’t keep or maintain any relationship. She was impossible to be around, to get on with. Such was her toxicity that she was awful even when she thought she was being agreeable. She’d driven away everyone from Saloni to Ramesh, only to sit around her barren home, puzzled over her solitude. Even Karem—patient, abiding Karem—whose unflappable good humor could withstand four exhausting children, had a limit to her bile.
She should have had a child after all, at least then there’d be someone forced to stay. Bandit would wise up one of these days and run away; she gave him tacit permission by keeping him unleashed. He was free, never a goat tied to a tree, never a bride with a mangalsutra. She was so engrossed in self-pity that she didn’t realize she was crying until Bandit licked her face.
“Well,” Geeta said as she nuzzled his sour body. “Fuck.”
TEN
The following morning, while she nursed her humiliation hangover, temple bhajans screeched outside and Bandit finally ate the stale khichdi. She eyed him warily, afraid he’d get sick, but he chased the lizard in hale cheer, paws scrabbling around her unused desk. In addition to all her other failures, she’d also been neglecting her business.
Matters, she assessed as she flopped back on her bed, were not ideal.
She’d awoken with a dull headache from crying herself to sleep like some love-starved teenager, but at least her shame was private. She couldn’t look at her reflection, her swollen eyes and lips neatly summarizing the duality of the previous night. She examined the events under the day’s new light: she’d shared a kiss and an argument. It was nothing to cringe over. She’d endured grosser mortifications than rejection. It would’ve been far worse if she’d flung her lips at him and he’d batted her away immediately. Still, the mere prospect of facing Karem made her want to hide under her bed with Bandit, who was romping around with such unapologetic joy that Geeta found it a bit rude.
“You,” she told Bandit, “need a bath.”
Outside, he dodged her like he sensed her agenda. By the end of it, they were both dripping and Geeta had used two days’ worth of water. All of her tubs were empty, but Bandit’s dingy paws were white again and his odor benign. He flung a welter of droplets at her as she wrung out her nightdress. It was before ten, but already very warm. She couldn’t locate a single cloud. Bandit panted, clean tail wagging. It curled up in an attractive question mark, the fur already fluffing.