Preity exhaled with gravitas. “I just want to say thank you, sisters. You are my strength when I have none.”
Priya said, “？‘We are here to help our own and fellow sisters.’？”
The rest of them joined in the loan oath, even Geeta. “？‘We will help sisters of our center in a time of crisis.’？”
When Geeta moved to free her hands, Priya held fast. Preity looked at her. “Saloni just told us that Farah’s blackmailing you, Geetaben. It’s underhanded.”
“Like, so underhanded.”
“Don’t you worry. As soon as Darshan is gone, Ramesh will be here and Farah won’t have any leverage.”
Priya squeezed Geeta’s damp hand. “We’re in this together now, Geetaben. Don’t be tensed.”
“Aren’t any of you worried that Farah will figure it out when Darshan also dies? She may blackmail us all!”
Saloni shook her head. “There are more of us than her. If she pushes her luck, we’ll get her in line. But one thing at a time.”
Preity grinned. “Let’s pluck this bastard’s mustache!”
Maybe the village hadn’t turned into a lunatic asylum after all, Geeta thought, dazed. Maybe they were all normal and she was the only lunatic. Was sanity, like beauty, in the eye of the beholder?
After Preity returned from rousing Darshan so he could freshen up, the women set the table. It was a different experience for Geeta, placing water cups next to each identical steel plate. She was accustomed to eating alone at her desk. But most families usually ate cross-legged on the ground. This house, however, had a proper, circular dining table with mismatched chairs. Saloni’s did as well, Geeta remembered from her visit, but then again, Saloni also had a refrigerator. The women sat down and waited for the men. Between them, a lazy Susan held a jug of water, papadam and green chili pickle.
“Wait, where does he usually sit?” Geeta asked.
“Here.” Priya pointed at one chair while Preity pointed at another, saying, “There.”
The women divided looks among each other. Then they all stood and rearranged themselves.
“Is that the cashew one?”
“Yeah, I think I see kajus.”
“You think?”
Priya’s husband, Zubin, entered, forestalling the conversation. He was taller than average, the type of man who’d be slender all his life. Zubin aimed to sit next to his wife, but she stopped him, guiding him to another plate.
“Aren’t you sick of me yet?” Priya teased, her voice too thin and high. “We can’t be apart for one meal? Acting like it’s still our honeymoon!”
He looked confused but sat where he was told, to the left of Geeta and before an unpoisoned plate. Saloni was on Geeta’s right.
Darshan joined them, drying his washed hands on his pants. He wore two rings on each hand. “You all are in for a treat, my Preity’s vegetable curry is legendary. Isn’t that right, jaan?” Despite the company, he had no reservations about showing affection. He kissed Preity’s scarred temple.
“I made it extra spicy today.” She moved his chair back. “Sit.”
“Wonderful! That’s why you’re the absolute best, meri jaan.”
She tolerated his second kiss with a copacetic smile. Darshan sat, Zubin grunted a greeting at his brother-in-law. Preity did not sit, instead shuttling in and out of the kitchen with a series of freshly cooked rotis, distributing them where needed.
“My Preity’s rotis are first-class, aren’t they?” Darshan asked, though no one but Zubin had begun to eat. “Priya’s are also good, but one is made stronger when he’s fed from his soulmate.”
Geeta looked at Saloni. “Is he serious?”
Saloni stomped on her foot.
Geeta explored her roti with an index finger. “Yes, Preity, you must teach me how to get them so…so buttery.”
Zubin looked at her. “Butter,” he suggested.
“Right,” she laughed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
She looked down at her plate. Dinner smelled enticing—it was times like these she realized that while she prepared food, she was no actual cook—but choking down food at the moment seemed as feasible as sprouting wings and flying to freedom. She tore her roti with one hand and pinched a mound of curry. She opened her mouth and froze. With a mewl, she immediately set down her food. She kicked Saloni. Saloni kicked back, harder.
Geeta’s shin ached. She bent to massage it, hunching over her plate awkwardly. “Kaju,” she mouthed behind her hand, pointing to her plate.
“What?” Saloni mouthed back.
“Ka-ju,” Geeta hissed, stabbing at her plate twice with her pointer finger.
“What?” Saloni hissed back.
“Kaju!”
“Bless you, Geetaben,” Darshan said. “Please use your handkerchief, we’re eating here.”
“Sorry.”
When Preity returned with two more steaming rotis, Saloni established frantic eye contact. Then, as Priya chittered about the local elections, Saloni glared at Darshan’s plate and then at Geeta’s. Twice. Thrice. Preity cocked her head to the side, confused, and Geeta saw when sudden understanding transformed her features. Tubelight, Geeta thought.
“Darshan!” Preity yelped.
“Yes, jaan?”
“I need you to get the pickle from the top shelf.”
“There’s pickle here, na?”
“But I want carrot pickle.”
Darshan stood. “Whatever my jaan desires, she shall have.” With a solicitous bow, he left. Zubin barely raised his head from his food as Priya and Saloni hurriedly swapped plates over the lazy Susan.
Empty-handed and sheepish, Darshan returned. “I can’t find any carrot pickle, jaan.”
Preity laughed. “Oh, that’s right, silly me. I didn’t make any. Just sit and eat.”
While the others ate, Geeta chewed on a bare roti until she abruptly asked, “I’ll just use the latrine?”
“Oh, we have a toilet,” Preity said. “We got it last year!”
Zubin snorted. “Government said, ‘Go on, Clean India, we’ll pay for it.’ Rubbish. We only got twelve thousand rupees. Damn thing cost three times that.”
Priya glared. “Isn’t your women’s dignity worth a measly thirty-six thousand rupees? Or do you not have a daughter or a wife or a mother?”
“Arre, who’s saying no but? The toilet’s in, na? Crying about dignity all the days and nights.”
“Oh, do you want a parade and a thank-you? As if my loan didn’t pay for most of it.”
“Er— I’ll show you the way, Geeta.” Saloni stood.
“Are we sure about this?” Geeta whispered when they were alone. “Do you see him? He adores her. ‘My Preity this, my Preity that.’ Love songs use ‘jaan’ less than that man.”
“Geeta!” Saloni said. “Get it together. Should I slap you?”
“What, no, why?”
“？’Cause that’s what they do in films when a woman is hysterical.”
“I am not hysterical! We can’t kill a perfectly nice man who loves his wife!”