Saloni’s brow arched. “Need I remind you that that ‘perfectly nice man’ threw acid on her? And anyway, it’s too late. The poison is in the pudding. Or curry. Whatever, you get it; he’s halfway through his plate by now. There’s the toilet, be quick. And make sure to act natural when you come back, don’t snivel like an—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Incontinent baby raccoon,” Saloni said. “I mean…kit.”
Geeta scowled, opting not to reveal her lie about having the cashewed plate. Darshan would eat her unpoisoned food and “miraculously survive,” a sure sign, she’d convince them, that Ram wanted him on this earth. Meanwhile, she’d somehow hide her now-tainted food and toss it later. She’d done that a few times as a child whenever her mother cooked gourd, which Geeta despised. She’d stopped, however, once the acuity of Saloni’s hunger dawned on her.
Geeta did not need to su-su so she ignored the cement stall’s squat toilet. Instead she loitered in the courtyard and poked her head in a bedroom. She required a cloth or handkerchief to smuggle her contaminated curry before she could return to dinner. A colorful square tapestry hung above the room’s puja corner, sequins flashing in the light she’d flicked on, but she’d have to untack it and shove it down her petticoat. Plus, it’d leave a glaring blank space on the wall.
Below the tapestry stood a marble socle bearing a statue of a flute-playing Krishna and an adoring Radha. The bedroom smelled of the incense her mother used to burn; Geeta saw the familiar sticks next to a matchbox. Beneath these prayer items lay a red tasseled cloth. Its absence, Geeta figured, would be less detectable. Still, however agnostic she was, it seemed disrespectful to shovel curry into a holy cloth. Whatever. She was saving a man’s life here; Ram or whichever deity did the karmic accounting would just have to be reasonable. Never mind that a few weeks prior she’d abetted a murder, this tally would net her even. Besides, Samir’s was anticipatory self-defense. And, she promised the universe, once this was all over, she’d prayashchit her ass off.
“Sorry, guys,” she whispered as she displaced the brass Radha-Krishna to extract the cloth. “You get it, though, right, Radha?”
“Need something?” Darshan said behind her. She jumped as she spun. “Did I scare you?” He smiled. Unlike most Indian men Geeta knew, Darshan had difficulty growing full facial hair. While his beard was hirsute enough, his mustache hairs were wispy.
“It’s fine,” she lied. “I—I was just admiring your statue, but we should get back to dinner.”
“And here I was admiring you.”
“Huh?”
“It must be lonely living all by yourself, Geetaben. Especially,” he said, standing so close she could smell the onions from his meal, “at night.”
“Uh, it’s fine,” she said, moving away until the backs of her knees hit the puja ledge. “Some people sleep better alone.”
“I wasn’t talking about sleep.”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “I didn’t think you were.” She tried to sidestep him. Instead, his arms found her waist. “Oi, gadheda! You are married, Darshan. Mind yourself!”
“Am I not merely human that I should be punished for admiring physical beauty?”
“Er—they’ll be wondering where you are.”
“I doubt it,” he murmured. “I told them I needed the toilet after eating so much curry. That seemed to make them happy. Kitty party, I guess. Which works out well for us.” He nuzzled her neck. Geeta shoved him, but he pinned her arms between their bodies. Her back thumped against the wall. “You have to admit, you’re far more attractive than my wife.” He lifted his head briefly. “Then again, most women are.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“But she’s also crazy. Is that my fault?”
Geeta tried to claw his unappealing face. “Probably.” He laughed. “Get off.”
“Now, now. Come, be a good girl.”
Geeta wriggled. “I’m not a girl.”
Darshan did not release her. “Exactly. This is a compliment for a woman your age. Are you getting many offers these days, Geeta? I know how you widows have needs.”
Geeta managed to worm her hand up to push his mouth away from hers. “The only thing I need is you away from me right now. I mean it. I swear to Ram I’ll scream.”
“That’d be embarrassing for you, Geeta, because then I’d have to tell Preity how you’re so starved for a fuck that you invited yourself into my house and snuck into my bedroom to throw yourself at me. You’re not even friends with Preity. You’re not friends with anyone.” He ground his pelvis up and against hers; though his frottage was violent, the rough fabric of his pants soughed against her sari. This close, she could see the blackheads stippling his nose. Her revulsion was as perfect as her anger. “I could be your friend, though.”
There were, of course, times in Geeta’s married life when she hadn’t wanted sex, but Ramesh did. Those times, Ramesh usually prevailed. Not by brute force, but by censure—at times silent, at other times not—as though by obstructing access, she was failing. But that was simply a part of marriage—everyone knew the law: it wasn’t rape when it was marital.
Never before in her life, however, had she experienced what Darshan was now attempting. Forget two, he had six arms, like some horny sketch of a deity. And they were everywhere, hunting for whatever flesh she left unprotected. Darshan’s initial advances were so clumsy and utterly lacking in charm that it took a long, foolish moment for Geeta to realize this was an attack. She was being attacked. His fingers dug into the space above her navel, where she’d tucked her sari’s pleats. He tried to undo them, his uneven nails scratching her skin.
Oh, she thought, the rasp of his zipper guiding her from anger to fear. This was how the Bandit Queen had felt. No, not the Bandit Queen. Not a divinity or legend. This is how Phoolan had felt when each and every one of her rapists had pushed himself past her nos.
Geeta opened her mouth to scream, but Darshan’s fingers pressed against her windpipe and she choked. Her fists shoved into his gut, but he only oomphed and persisted.
“I told you, you don’t want to do that. You want to be a good girl.” He didn’t let up, his face calm as he increased pressure. It was just uncomfortable at first, but pain soon followed. She struggled, trying to dislodge his grip, but he adjusted easily. And because his face didn’t so much as distort or reveal that he even regarded this—her—as an inconvenience, and because his practiced hands knew that it was less effort on his part to push on her throat rather than cover her mouth, Geeta realized he’d done all this before, and would again. Because fallen women like her, mixed with dirt, were asking for it, as did each Dalit girl who awoke at dawn, discomfort leading her to the field hem, checking left and right as she undid her drawstring, bared herself, squatted, made herself vulnerable.
He was going to kill her, Geeta thought as darkness bled, like a light dimming. She’d stupidly, weakly spared his life and this was to be her thanks.