“No one is going to jail,” Farah said, her voice hardening. “Everything is fine. The cop doesn’t suspect a thing.”
“That you know of. You didn’t leave behind any evidence, did you?”
“No, I covered all the tracks. Would you stop being so hyper?”
“Can you blame me? You’re not the most capable person, Farah. I mean, you tried to poison him with hair-growth pills.”
Farah’s lips twisted in offense. “I got the job done, didn’t I? So back off.”
But Geeta was too stressed to listen. “Are you sure nothing could be tied to you?” she pressed. “Because I’m not taking the fall for this. You’re the one who actually murdered him, so if the police were to come sniffing around, they’d be far more interested in you than me, right? You have way more motive than I do.”
“Have you gone mad?” Farah demanded. “Or is this a poor joke? It was your idea.”
“Right,” Geeta said. Oddly enough, she’d reassured herself with her rambled musings, but now Farah appeared agitated. “No, I know that. I just meant that, if we were to get caught, hypothetically, you’re more guilty since you, technically, did the, you know…killing part.”
Farah pulled her hand down the side of her face, temporarily distorting her features. Then, as Geeta stared in dark awe, Farah visibly calmed herself, inhaling and nodding. She massaged her temples for some time, chanting quietly, “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi.” When she spoke again, her voice was pleasant. “I’m not going down for this alone. I’m not going to rot in jail while my orphan children starve on the streets. So don’t you dare threaten me.”
Geeta blinked. “Wait. I’m not—”
“What? Guilty? Neither am I.” Farah crossed the room to float her face near Geeta’s. “Samir was nothing but a sister-fucking son of a pig. He wasn’t even worth this conversation. He died a dog’s death, covered in his vomit, shit and piss, and that’s more dignity than that chutiya deserved. They don’t get to make all the choices, Geeta. We get to make some, too. And I’ve come too far to let you ruin this for me.” She held Geeta’s forearms and gave her a hard shake. “Understand me?”
Fear, dark and oily, numbed the tips of Geeta’s fingers. Farah’s epithets stung her cheeks like wind. From behind a veil of dazed horror, Geeta wondered if that’s how she looked when she cursed.
Farah shook her again. “We did this together. Get that through your head. And if we are caught, hypothetically, if you try any dhokhebaazi, you’ll go to jail longer than me. You’re a serial killer. Ramesh, remember?”
She squeezed Geeta’s skin, which gave easily beneath the pressure, and Geeta could feel Farah’s finger pads against her bones. Pain flared. Suddenly, it was eight years ago and she’d burned a chapati and Ramesh was looming over her, his breath hot on her neck.
Farah pressed, “You see why double-crossing me would be a very bad idea, Geeta?”
And then Geeta finally, stupidly realized that she was being threatened. Though their conversation had been a misunderstanding, Geeta now understood more than ever that Farah was only a simpering idiot when it suited her. To guarantee her safety, she’d played on Geeta’s ego perfectly and pulled her into this mess.
Farah waited for an answer, brows lifted. Self-preservation jump-started Geeta’s desultory brain. Farah believing Geeta was an experienced murderer was the only ammunition remaining in Geeta’s depleted arsenal. It would do no good to admit the truth about Ramesh because this woman was not her ally.
There was nothing to do but grit her teeth and say, “Yes.”
Farah’s mien and grip immediately relaxed. Geeta’s upper arms ached where Farah’s fingers had burrowed. “Good.” As her brows relaxed, the yellow center of the bruise surrounding her eye expanded, a leonine mane. It would soon be gone entirely. Geeta could not recall Farah’s face before this week, before the bruising and the cuts.
When Farah released her and returned to the desk, Geeta shook her numb hands, flicking them as though to remove excess water. The fan chuntered above their heads. “This is pretty,” Farah said, toying with the unfinished mangalsutra chain while looking at the picture of Phoolan Devi.
“I know a thing or two about the Bandit Queen myself,” Farah said casually. “Do you know what her first lover told her? Vikram something. He said, ‘If you are going to kill, kill twenty, not just one. For if you kill twenty, your fame will spread; if you kill only one, they will hang you as a murderess.’？”
Delayed anger pulled at Geeta’s gut: that this ungrateful, brainless bitch thought she could out-alpha her was laughable. Still, she needed time to think of her next move; she needed Farah gone, so Geeta simply waited. Farah grinned and lifted one shoulder in an “oh well,” as though she’d spilled a bit of milk.
“I know you admire her, Geetaben. What’s not to? A woman abused and cheated, crushed and humiliated, raped and discarded, that’s nothing new here. But she got revenge each time. Every single time. None of them knew what she was capable of. You know why? I mean, just my theory, of course; what do I know, I’m an illiterate widow. But I think that she was capable of anything because everything had already happened to her. She’d been beaten up and raped and betrayed so many times by so many. She was fearless because she’d already suffered what the rest of us live in fear of.
“I can understand that, I think. On a smaller scale of course. But here’s where it might sting a bit, Geetaben: you’re no Bandit Queen. No Phoolan Devi. You’re Phoolan Mallah. Before she ran away from home, before she got Vikram and the gang and the name. You’re her before she had any power. A paper tiger. And that’s fine; not everyone can be a Devi. We need some acolytes, too, na?”
When Farah moved for the door, Geeta’s shoulders relaxed. Then Farah turned. “We’re friends. Right, Geetaben? And you’d never betray a friend, would you?” Her voice was suddenly imploring and meek. Geeta knew a brief flash of fear.
She nodded. “Sure.”
Farah’s smile was beatific. “I thought so.” Concern gathered her eyebrows together. “Eat something. You’re wasting away these days.”
TWELVE
The following week, Farah paid her share of the loan. It was Tuesday again, and the women met at Saloni’s home. Bandit was banished outside after Saloni and Farah each expressed their displeasure. Preity, however, had rubbed his ears with enthusiasm, laughing when he licked her scars. Geeta felt a silly spark of jealousy seeing Bandit take so eagerly to the woman. After the collection, Farah presented the other four women with samosas, made fresh that morning, as a thank-you for their patience with her.
“I figured it’d be a nice treat before we all fast tomorrow.” Farah lowered her gaze and touched her unadorned nose. “I mean,” she corrected herself sadly. “Before you all fast.”
Geeta watched the performance with self-deprecating irony—how had she fallen for this?—but the twins rushed to encompass her in their sympathy. Though Farah was Muslim and Karva Chauth was a Hindu festival, all the married women fasted together, from sunrise until the full moon rose, for their husbands’ long lives.