“And by stop him, you mean you want to—”
“Kill him!” Farah said, her voice far too loud. She chopped one hand on the opposite’s palm with a meaty thunk. “Get rid of him. Take him out. Give him a dog’s death.” She clicked her tongue as her thumb sliced across her throat.
Geeta gaped at her. “Have you been buying from Karem?”
“Of course not!” Farah took deep umbrage, as though that prospect was morally repugnant. She was breathing heavily, too fast and nearly hiccuping. She fanned her face.
“Calm down,” Geeta instructed.
Farah nodded while hyperventilating, and began muttering with one long breath. “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi…”
Geeta stared. “The fuck’re you doing?”
Farah’s breathing steadied. “It helps me breathe deeper. You know? Like the game?” She shrugged. “Whenever I get stressed or scared, it soothes me. It’s, like, my mantra.”
“Your mantra is ‘kabaddi.’？”
“I know it’s a little odd, but—”
“No, you’re a little odd. That’s super weird.”
Geeta inhaled. This meeting—which should’ve been a brief ThankyouGeetaben–WhateverFarah one-off—had derailed into insanity. That Geeta had even allowed it to get this far spoke of an unusual loss of control—was she really so starved for company that she’d indulged Farah’s madness? She smoothed wayward strands of hair against her crown and spoke calmly, “You have no idea what you’re saying, Farah. You’re not the Bandit Queen that you can run around killing men as you please. Go home and think of something else.”
“I have thought about this!” Farah said, her hands clenched into fists, the thumbs tucked in like little turtles. A child on the verge of a tantrum after being dismissed by the adults as adorable but untethered to reality. “If I don’t get rid of him, I’ll lose the loan and the business. Or, Ya’Allah, I could end up like poor Runiben.” She shuddered. Even Geeta instinctively gulped at the mention of the unfortunate woman who’d once been a part of their loan group.
“He’s the father of your children; think of what this would do to them.”
“I’m doing this for my children, not to them. You don’t know the things he’s capable of. He—” She exhaled. “I think if it were just me, I could handle it. But I can’t be everywhere at once, and there’s three of them, and sometimes I—” She blinked. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Of course not.”
“No, obviously, obviously I love the—”
And here Geeta chimed in, too: “Joys of motherhood.”
Farah closed her eyes as though receiving a benediction. “So rewarding. But, Geetaben, everyone is better off without him. Me, the kids. Our loan group. Please,” she begged, pressing her palms together. “Remove my nose ring.” Though it was a figure of speech Geeta hadn’t heard for many years, she understood Farah’s plea: Make a widow out of me.
Geeta crossed her arms over her chest. “Two men disappearing in one village won’t go unnoticed. What would you tell the police?”
Farah bobbed up and down, practically airborne with hope. Her enthusiasm was pathetic. “We’ll leave the body for them to find. It’ll look like an accident. Besides, Ramesh was what, five years ago now?”
“An accident? Where are your brains? What, he tripped and fell onto a knife a couple of times? He shot himself with a gun he doesn’t own?”
“Okay fine, I don’t have all the details sorted yet. That’s where you come in! We’ll do what you did, only we’ll make it look like an accident.”
“？‘We’？” Geeta held her hands up, palms out. She stepped back. “I’m not with you.”
“Yes, yes you are.” An odd calm spread over Farah’s bruised features. Her shoulders relaxed and her voice lowered. Dignity uncurled her spine and seemed to elongate her limbs; the transformation unnerved Geeta. “The others will expect you to keep covering for me if Samir keeps stealing from me. Think about it. You’re the only one without a family to take care of. But if we end up losing the loan, you’re the only one without a family to take care of you.” Farah crept closer. “So it is ‘we.’？”
Her logic was immaculate; she had only spoken the truth. But Farah’s sudden, clever bravery inspired Geeta’s resentment. “Keep your filmy dialogues to yourself and get the hell out of my house.”
Then Farah slumped, exhausted, and Geeta recognized her once again. “Please, Geetaben.”
“No.”
Farah left as she’d arrived: head lowered, back falcate as though the evening air presented too much of a burden. Watching her leave, Geeta felt an unexpected urge to call her back. Not to capitulate to her batty plan, but to make tea and talk about the terrifying loneliness and loathing that accompanied the black eyes and broken ribs. Then Geeta remembered that Farah was walking home to her family. And the urge cured itself.
TWO
While Geeta regarded herself as a self-made woman, she was not, in fact, a self-made widow. Contrary to neighborhood chatter, she did not “remove her own nose ring” by killing Ramesh. She never had any desire to destroy him, just parts of him. The part that drowned himself in drink, the part that was quick to fury but slow to forgive, the part that blamed her for their childlessness, though it could’ve just as easily been him. But little was monochromatic in marriage and even in abuse, because there were other parts, too, parts she’d loved, parts that, when she wasn’t vigilant, still drew drops of unwilling tenderness from her.
But missing Ramesh now was more habit than compulsion; the memories she had felt like someone else’s—all soft focus and cinematic. Like when his parents first came to inspect her suitability, and he’d saved her skin by properly roasting a papadam for her. How, for the first year of their marriage, he’d slept with one hand on her shoulder, her hip, her stomach. The time he’d tried to teach her how to whistle with her fingers. The way he’d laughed, his eyes folding at the corners as she failed, spittle shining on her chin and hands.
But there were other things Ramesh had taught Geeta, too: how not to interrupt him, how not to oversalt his food, how to correctly apologize in the event she failed at the aforementioned （You’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry）， how to be slapped and not cry out. How to feed them on half a typical budget because he’d siphon their money to Karem and still demand a proper dinner.
She no longer needed such lessons. In the time after Ramesh left, Geeta blamed first herself, then Karem. She associated him with the smell of her husband’s bootleg alcohol: sweet yet repulsive, cloying as it enveloped the bed, the house, her. She wondered whether Farah ever felt suffocated by the stench. Did she, too, learn to breathe through her mouth? There was that pesky urge again, the desire to share and listen, to compare survivor notes with Farah.
If she was this lonely, Geeta berated herself, she should get a damn dog.
Ramesh hadn’t possessed the decency to leave after a huge row; no, he absconded after a cloudless Tuesday evening—she didn’t interrupt him once, the undhiyu was not salty, he peppered her jawline with kisses before bed and she’d fallen asleep smiling. Like a goddamn idiot. His final blow: sneaking away and leaving only his debts and her dusty womb, so that everyone took turns whispering as to which terrible vice of hers had driven him away. That is, until Ramesh didn’t send for the rest of his belongings, or lay claim to their house. Even his elder brother, who lived in a bungalow a few cities away and took care of their parents, was unable to contact him. Then the whispers shifted toward foul play. Ramesh was clearly dead, there was no other explanation.