“But your children,” Geeta said. “They’re—”
“Sad now, but they’ll be happier for it. We all will be.” She patted Geeta’s head. “Don’t forget: now that he’s gone, we both get to keep our money.”
“It’s not about the money,” Geeta said. The back of her neck pleated as she looked up at Farah, blazing in white like a deity. Geeta was not crying, but her eyes watered. “What good is money if we spend our lives in jail?”
Looming above Geeta, Farah gave her an odd look. Strange and quizzical. “Of course it’s about the money, Geetaben; it was always about the money. Get some rest and you’ll see that.” She let herself out, stepping over Bandit, while Geeta remained frozen on her bed.
The authorities arrived soon enough, faster than Geeta’d expected, slower than she’d hoped. The anticipation was gnawing and persistent, like hundreds of mosquitos after a monsoon rain. Farah, she’d heard through water pump gossip, had declined a medical report but requested that Samir be “returned” within twenty-four hours for his burial, per Islamic ritual. However, the Dalit corpse handler, somehow both outcaste and lower caste and thereby the only one who’d go near the pollution of a dead body, had apparently confused Samir with a Hindu man （despite the circumcision） and Samir was ultimately buried in an urn under three clumps of dirt that a brave Farah, sans nose ring, had lovingly tossed.
The cop arrived in the middle of the weekly loan meeting, his presence sparking the women’s tittered curiosity. He waited, respectfully, outside Saloni’s packed house, where they now held their meetings. Before poor Runi’s death, she’d hosted them on her porch. Even with the swing in the center, Saloni’s front porch was spacious with good acoustics, conducive to large gatherings.
The loan officer, Varun, perched on the thick parapet lining Saloni’s porch, collection box to his side, while the women sat cross-legged in a sloppy circle. Varun began the meeting and everyone quieted.
Geeta crushed her group’s money in her hands, then remembered herself and smoothed the bills. She tried not to look at Farah, still clad in her mourning whites, or the cop, but her eyes sought them time and time again. Fear tethered her like a yoke. Certainly the officer could smell her guilt from her copious sweat alone.
That all six of the smaller loan groups were gathered together again signaled one week, just one week since Farah’s timid shuffle and swollen eye had come begging. To Geeta, it felt more like months. Back then, Farah’s imploring had been morbid, yet somehow sweet. That Farah, Geeta had not seen lately. The Farah now sitting in the circle, subdued but confident, had a healing face and a perfectly centered bindi. Geeta looked down; she was wringing the money again. How was it that Farah—arguably the more culpable between the two of them—exhibited no fear of reprisal?
After taking attendance, Varun called each of the leaders to approach with their group’s weekly repayment. Mrs. Amin went first, teasing Varun as she always did about extending bigger loans. “That’s up to hats bigger than mine,” he laughed. They called him Varunbhai out of respect, despite the fact he was younger than most of them. He hailed from Delhi, and he often fumbled for the correct word in Gujarati. He had a good sense of humor, joining the laughter when the women giggled at his pronunciation. Saloni in particular had taken to him, her eyelashes batting like a turbine whenever he neared. What Geeta noticed most about him were his city shoes. While nearly everyone here wore open-toed sandals or sneakers, Varun wore black dress shoes that arrived polished and left dusty.
Most of the women sat with their groups, knees stacked atop another’s to accommodate all thirty women. Geeta’s group was dispersed: Farah sat across from her while Saloni （predictably） had nabbed the spot closest to Varun. Twins Preity and Priya sat near Saloni. When the sisters were sixteen, Priya’s spurned suitor tossed acid on the wrong sister. Preity’s face had healed with the help of an NGO devoted to such attacks, but the burns puckered dark islands across her face and neck, and one ear suffered enough damage to preclude earrings. Two years later, the man married Preity with her parents’ consent. Who else would have her?
Geeta had no idea how （or even why） they all lived in the same house: Preity, her husband and attacker, her unmarred sister and her brother-in-law. Surprisingly, it seemed Darshan was a doting husband—word was that Preity had complete control of his balls and wallet.
Half of the women had brought their children, each bribed into silence with a different trinket. Geeta watched a small boy shake a miniature bronze bell with tremendous effort. The barren bell ignored him, its clapper long gone, its shell rusting. The dimples of his knuckles were endearing. They reminded her of Raees’s. So mild and so unwelcome was the thought that Geeta didn’t hear her name being called.
She blinked and looked at Saloni, who laid a bug-eyed, slack-jawed glare on her. “The rest of us have things to do today, Geetaben. Give poor Varunbhai his money.”
The twins tittered and Geeta handed him her group’s abused money while the cop looked on. Her hands were so very moist; she wiped them on her sari, but fresh sweat cropped immediately.
“Sorry,” she whispered to Varun. She heard Saloni snort behind her.
Varun, gracious as always, thanked her. He counted the damp bills with crisp economy before organizing them in his tin and marking notes in his ledger. She’d once prided herself on being that efficient. Now, thanks to Farah and this nosy cop, she was a sweaty, shambolic disaster.
After Varun had all six payments, he led them in the same pledge they parroted every week. When the microloans first began, he’d distributed slips of paper with the oath in Gujarati, but by now the women had it memorized. As they began, an idle thought struck Geeta: Farah hadn’t been able to read hers. “？‘We are here to help our own and fellow sisters.’？”
During the second line, “？‘We will pay our loan installments on time,’？” Saloni made a point of staring down Farah. Geeta watched her meet Saloni’s censure with a serene smile.
Saloni averted her eyes on the next oath: “？‘We will help sisters of our center in a time of crisis.’？” Geeta perspired through her sari blouse. It was a hot, breezeless day, and all the women had dark islands under their arms; even Varun’s pressed shirt was wilting.
The meeting ended. Geeta was keen to go home and hide. The women crowded the narrow entrance, hundreds of toes inching into sandals. Everyone stared at the officer in his khaki uniform, a curious sight in their jejune village. They left in pairs and sets, baldly speculating about the cop despite his standing within earshot. Geeta ducked behind Preity and Priya, walking closely as though part of their clique.
Preity stage-whispered, “Sunil Shetty.”
“No, no,” Priya said. “He looks like Ajay Devgn.”
“Well, that’s just insulting.”
Geeta’s laugh was too loud. “I know, right? So where shall we shop?”
Preity turned to look at Geeta in confusion. “Huh? What are you—”
The officer stepped between Geeta and the twins. “You,” he demanded. “Stop.”