“Yeah, I’m the only one I’ve ever seen, too.” The woman did not appear offended. “After my husband died, I took over the business. Had to. They’ll take over after me,” she said, nodding toward her kids. “Yadav, ay-ya, what are you doing? It’s a dog, not your firstborn—just grab the ankles, na?”
Geeta did not bother masking her admiration. “What’s your name?”
“Khushi.”
“Geeta.”
“Geetaben, that your house over there?” When Geeta nodded, Khushi’s lined face broke into a huge smile. Her teeth were straight, except for one missing bicuspid, but tinged with red; it was clear she was a fan of paan. “My house is way bigger than that! When you said you had a pet dog, I thought, you know, madam with a bada-bada house.”
Geeta was all too happy to have the joke be on her. “Well, it’s just me. So what’s the need for a big-big place?”
“No babies?”
“No babies.”
Khushi calculated Geeta’s lack of jewelry, her barren nose piercing. “Widow?”
“Something like that.”
“How’d it happen?”
“He was just…gone.”
Khushi nodded. “Mine died in the earthquake.”
“That’s awful.”
She shrugged. “Not really. The life of a widow is more peaceful than the life of a married woman. And I got the business and the fire, not that his parents didn’t rain shit on my head over it, ay-ya. Do you work?”
A tenacious part of Geeta’s ego was eager to display herself as a kindred spirit also About the Work. “I do. I have a small jewelry business, I make mangalsutras. So keep me in mind when your sons marry.”
It had been a joke, but Khushi just nodded. She looked at her boys, who were finished playing with Bandit and now each held two of the dog’s legs. They stood patiently, awaiting their mother’s instruction. Geeta saw that they’d tucked their sandals into the waistbands of their shorts. When they left this part of the village, and reentered the south where no upper castes were present, they could wear their shoes again. “We’ll be going.”
Though Geeta couldn’t pinpoint how, she was worried she’d somehow offended Khushi. Had she unintentionally drawn attention to their social disparities? “Oh. Right. It was nice meeting you. I’ll see you around?”
“I hope not.” Khushi grinned again. She jerked her chin toward a jouncing Bandit. “It’d be a shame to lose that one.”
“Excellent point.” Geeta gave a final wave before unlocking her door.
Once inside, she refilled Bandit’s water bowl. He tried to keep his eyes trained on Geeta, but he had a habit of blinking each time he lapped, and the result was more flirty than vigilant. He was so keen to be near her that she couldn’t help but smile.
“Not sick of me yet, eh? Well, at least someone isn’t.”
Okay, so Karem loathed her. A week ago, she’d loathed him. Now balance had been restored. She’d lost nothing. If she wanted to agonize over something, it should be that she’d killed a man. Or that she’d starve if she didn’t resume working.
She unlocked her armoire with a key and then aligned the lockbox’s combination （it was silly, but she’d used the same password since she was ten: 2809, Saloni’s birthday） to remove some gold wire. The most costly part of any wedding necklace—the gold pendant thali—was thankfully never in her care. Upon delivering the chain to the family, she’d connect it to their chosen thali. Even with the various locks, keeping that amount of solid gold in her home would have been too stressful.
Geeta forced herself to follow a design she’d sketched earlier, but her mind wandered to the interrogation Farah was currently undergoing. What if, Geeta thought, Farah blamed the entire thing on her? Anxiety held her captive, her shaking hands unable to mate the beads and wire. She looked up from her hands, impatient with herself, and saw the pinned photograph of Phoolan.
“You,” she said, “killed plenty of shit men and didn’t fall apart.” She turned to scold her morose reflection. “So get it together.”
One bead at a time. Geeta hoped to lose herself in the work as she frequently did. To look up and find it was dark, or that she’d skipped a meal or desperately needed to su-su. Instead, she awaited Farah’s return, though they had no plans to meet. As she worked, each rustle from Bandit had her leaping toward the door. Then she’d slink back to her desk, sheepish. When exactly had Farah become someone she wanted to see?
Geeta switched on the radio. The nature segment on Gyan Vani’s channel was about bonobos in Africa. Bonobo females had to leave home before puberty and find another sect to join. Meanwhile, males remained under their mothers’ aegis for life, counting on them to procure food and mates. Geeta snorted at the radio; evolution had limits, it seemed. But unlike apes, which were the other closest relative to humans, female bonobos, though not kin, forged alliances to obtain food and ward off male harassers. Two females in estrus once fought an overly aggressive male, and bit his penis in half in the process.
This reminded Geeta of the story of the Bandit Queen once castrating a man. It’d been after Vikram’s murder and her three-week captivity and torture. Dressed as a male cop, she was doing reconnaissance in a village while plotting revenge on her rapists. The man she was spying on, ever the good host, “offered” her one of the many young Dalit girls he’d already assaulted. After the cut, she’d allegedly tied it around his neck. She let him live—the Bandit Queen said she’d never killed without reason. Geeta tried to rationalize: didn’t she and Farah, too, have ample reason?
When Farah finally arrived, Geeta’s rush of relief pained her pride. “What did the cop want?” she asked.
“Just a few questions about Samir’s body.” Farah smiled. She still wore all white. “He asked if I wanted to sue the corpse handler! Can you imagine? I swear, the way this country white-knuckles caste…it’s a disgrace. Those poor guys can’t catch one damn break. Y’know, back in my village, our mosque had a big conversion drive for Dalits: ‘Convert to Islam, there’s no caste in the Qur’an!’ And these Bhangis were like, ‘Okay, we’re not allowed inside the temples, so why not?’ And after they converted, the Muslims had the cheek to say, ‘No, no, you can’t pollute our mosque, we’ll build another for you Bhangis.’ Can you imagine a bigger sin?”
Geeta’s jaw slackened at Farah’s oblivious irony, but no words came out. Yes, she wanted to say, she could indeed imagine a bigger sin.
“Allah will get them, that’s for sure.”
“And possibly us,” Geeta snapped. “Are you sure you didn’t give anything away? He’s not suspicious?”
Farah went to pour water and found there was none. She sat at Geeta’s desk. It was a trespass she couldn’t be bothered to correct. “You need to calm down, Geetaben. You were very jumpy with that cop. If you’re not careful, you’ll look guilty.”
“We are guilty!” Geeta’s voice rose. “Which is why we—you—need to be careful.” She shook her head, turning away from Farah. “I’m not going to jail for you.”