“You know,” Saloni said, “I’ve been wondering that exact same thing since you told me. Something’s black in those lentils. She’s either fantastically stupid or smarter than the rest of us combined. Either way, we can’t trust her.”
“Yeah, I pieced that together when she tried to poison me.” Geeta’s breathing quickened and she felt light-headed. “I can’t do this, Saloni. I really, really can’t. Not again. You talk about facilitating karma, but what about mine if I kill Darshan? He’s not like Samir; he hasn’t threatened me. Or anyone! Lately, I mean. I’ll have to find some other way to prove Ramesh is alive.” She lowered her head between her knees. “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi.”
“What’re you doing?”
“It calms me.”
“Listen.” Saloni sighed. “I’ll help you with Darshan. Your karma won’t have to bear it alone, okay?”
Geeta looked up with hope. “But why?”
“I’m not saying you were right about Runi. Ram knows you’re wrong about most everything—you have bogus instincts, always have. And you’re also wrong that I don’t feel bad about what happened. It wasn’t my fault; she made a choice. But. I’m human. I have regrets. So I’ll help you. Like your bonobo or whatever.”
“How are you not afraid? What if the police find out? We could go to jail!”
“No one is going to jail, Geeta. Me and Preity and Priya and even Farah aren’t afraid because we know that.”
“How?”
“Because we’re middle-aged housewives. Who’s more invisible than us? We can get away with murder. Literally. Once you realize that, you’ll stop whimpering like an incontinent baby raccoon.”
That, Geeta felt, was uncalled-for. “Kit,” she said absently.
“Eh?” Saloni rummaged through the kitchen and helped herself to some biscuits.
“Baby raccoons are called kits.”
“O-kay. And while all your fun nature facts are super fascinating, do you have anything to drink?”
“There’s water in the pot.”
Saloni grimaced. “No, I mean something more…you know.”
Surprise lifted Geeta’s brows. “You drink?”
“You don’t?”
“No. Can we focus? What’s your plan?”
“We need to get into Farah’s yard. That’s the only tricky part. After that, we’re set. I’ll cook the seed in some dish for him.”
“How do we get the seed?”
“Well, I think it’d be suspicious if I visited her; we’re definitely not friends. But you two have a weird bond now, so tomorrow you’ll visit, play nice, tell her you’ve got no plans to turn her in, that your little freak-out or whatever has passed and you’re on the same side. Be convincing. She’s not an idiot, but I do think she’s lonely. And while you’re inside distracting her, I’ll get the fruit outside.”
“That’s a rubbish plan.”
“You don’t have to be rude, Geeta.” Saloni snapped a biscuit in two with her front teeth. “Manners don’t cost anything, you know.”
The power returned. They blinked as their eyes adjusted. Saloni flicked on the radio and lowered the volume.
“The fruit part is first-class, absolutely. But the other part sounds…not great. Like, how are you going to sneak into the back without the mukkabaaz noticing?”
“They’ll be at school.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, and anyway the mukkabaaz stopped going to school so she could help Farah at home.”
Even as she said it, Geeta had a solution as to how to distract Farah’s daughter, but she was reluctant to pull Raees, and thereby Karem, into their crime, even tangentially. On the radio, a film song ended and an advertisement began. Geeta immediately recognized the Nirma washing detergent jingle.
“The boy the mukkabaaz was fighting tonight, he’s a good kid. We could have him get her out of the house while you get the pong pong.”
Saloni hummed quietly. “？‘Washing powder Nirma, washing powder Nirma.’ Who?”
While Geeta thought, she absently joined the tune. “？‘Turns whites like milk.’ Raees. Karem’s son.”
“？‘Even colors glow!’ Since when are you friends with children? You hate children.”
“I don’t hate children; I just don’t see what the big hoopla is. They’re kinda boring, and dumb. But Raees has a good heart. He’ll play with the mukkabaaz if I ask.”
“Okay. That’s good. ‘Greater whiteness at lower costs.’？” Saloni’s head danced. “Oh! Maybe they could play in the backyard, and he could grab a fruit—”
“No,” Geeta said, her voice sharp. “Absolutely not. We’re not dragging him into this. ‘A pinch of powder, piles of foam.’ I mean, what if it was Arhaan?”
“Yeah,” said Saloni. “You’re right.”
They both sang as the song concluded: “？‘Washing powder Nirma. Washing powder Nirma.’？”
“Do you remember when we used your mom’s entire box on your underwear?” Saloni asked.
Geeta laughed. “I wouldn’t have had to if she’d warned me about periods.” At twelve, Geeta had been traumatized. Saloni’d been zero help. Malnourished and underweight, she didn’t get her period until sixteen, so she’d somberly listened to Geeta’s story of a massacre in her undergarments, and they both concurred that scrubbing the symptom would cure the malady. Geeta’s mother had found them neck-deep in foam, several months’ supply of washing powder wasted, the suds encroaching from the washing cubicle into the bedroom.
“She was so pissed.” Nostalgia softened Saloni’s features.
“I know,” Geeta said. “She told me my period cramps would be better or worse depending on how well I behaved that month.”
“She told me you could get pregnant if you used a toilet after a boy did.”
“No!”
“Yeah.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Only for like a day.” Saloni paused with a grin. “Or two years.”
They laughed. Saloni looked around the room. “You really don’t have anything to drink?”
“Saloni!”
“What! It relaxes me. You look like you could use some, too. I’ll stop by Karembhai’s tomorrow.”
“You buy from Karem?” Her initial reaction was happiness that he’d have customers and income for his family. But her invocation of his name was too familiar, and she tried to rectify this by adding the belated suffix, “bhai.” But Saloni had already heard, Geeta could tell from the way she tilted her head, filing away the tidbit, though she said nothing.
“Yeah, everyone does. He’s the only guy around. Not tharra of course; that stuff’ll grow hair on your chest. But the hi-fi booze. What I’d really like to try is the classy stuff in the films, you know”—Saloni arced a hand in the air like a marquee—“wine.” Only in their alphabet, “w” was pronounced “v,” so she actually said, “Vine.” She shrugged. “But you only get vine in the big-big cities.”