EIGHTEEN
The night Ramesh broke her fingers, they’d shared a nice evening. He’d poured himself plenty of tharra, but not enough to curdle from sanguine to mean. She’d already filed it under one of their “good nights.” Dinner was, in Ramesh’s words, a huge improvement, especially considering her limited skills. He even sang along to the radio while she cleaned, clapping and rocking in an overly exaggerated dance. She giggled as she dried her hands. Part of the sound was genuine enjoyment, the other part was for his sake, contrived to show him she enjoyed him. Because she loved the moments—and strove to encourage them—when he was silly for her benefit, like her pleasure was a priority to him. Wasn’t that love? When a man was willing to be a fool for you?
His Hindi was clumsy, but who cared? He sang the wrong word. Geeta often wished she could remember which word, which error. As though context mattered.
She’d corrected him with a laugh.
“What, you think you’re smarter than me?” he snapped.
“What? No, I—”
“You finished twelfth standard, so what? It’s not like you did anything with it. You don’t work, you don’t do anything. Can’t even give me children.”
She’d thought they shared an understanding. That they’d tacitly agreed: since it just wasn’t happening, and they couldn’t afford to investigate whether it was one or both of them, that they’d turn their circumstance into a mutual choice, devoid of recriminations. Even in his deepest inebriation, when he slurred that she’d gained weight or was greying or didn’t care about him, on this point he didn’t slip and neither did she. But tonight, détente shattered, she blitzed, her diction barbed:
“Who’s to say the kharabi isn’t yours—”
And then her ring and pinky fingers were broken.
Yes, other things happened in the interim. Surely, there was the moment she’d realized what she’d said （flaw, failing, defect）， the moment he grabbed her, the moment her nerves communicated pain, the moment she’d realized safety was a false assumption, the moment she twisted one way and he another. But none of that survived the sieve of memory. She remembered being cold. Her hand was so very cold, a chill pervaded the remainder of her body.
“God, Geeta, see what you made me do? See how you go too far?”
The pain delayed, then bloomed. It eventually ceased—returning cyclically with the monsoons—but her fingers never healed properly. How could they when there were chores? “It’s a painful lesson, for us both,” he repeated while observing her struggle with the cooking and cleaning, “but we’ve learned.”
He was correct.
Because wounds from one battle prepare you for another.
In Darshan’s bedroom, his hand against her throat, Geeta’s arm flailed behind her and encountered a thin bit of salvation. More specifically, a thin bit of the cold brass statue, perhaps Krishna’s flute. She told herself to stretch, but obedience required oxygen, which Darshan was currently stealing. That left pinky finger, broken by Ramesh years ago, could reach farther than its counterpart. She strained. The statue toppled on the ledge sideways, toward her. She snatched it and struck Krishna’s headpiece against Darshan’s temple.
Darshan released her immediately, staggering. She wheezed, drank in the air too fast and coughed. He cradled his head. “You mother-cunting bitch!” He lunged toward her, fist ready, and Geeta greeted him, the statue now in her dominant hand, with another blow. She swung it as she would a cricket bat. Radha was the culprit this time, her brass elbow clipping Darshan’s chin. He didn’t curse, but he wheeled, dizzy and disoriented, toward the bed, which was decorated with four bolster pillows and a matching spread.
“Darshan,” she said to stop him, not because she cared that he was profusely bleeding, but because Preity might not want him staining her pillows.
How was it no one had come to check on either of them? How much time had passed? Hadn’t they made a ruckus?
She blindly returned the statue to the socle and took a step forward. “Hey.” Her voice was scratchy, foreign to her ears.
Though blood streamed from his forehead into his eyes, he seemed to register her approach because he scampered away sloppily, warding her off with one ringed hand. She halted, but he slipped in his haste and pitched forward, smacking his head on the dresser corner. The sound was loud and thick. He dropped, landing on his side.
“Oh shit!” Geeta cried, hands covering her mouth.
He was inert, resembling some sort of rodent that had failed to properly time its highway passage.
“Darshan. Darshan? Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
She then heard the hands pounding on the bedroom doors. Darshan had drawn the bolt when he’d entered, his intent clear and premeditated. For a moment, she was frozen. From a recessed corner of her mind, she had enough detachment to wonder at her reaction. She would’ve assumed panic, hysterics, fluttering frenzy, but she was slow and congested, any movement of her mind laborious. The knocking continued. Geeta’s unsteady hands fumbled with the long bolt. She had to pump a few times to squeak it free. The doors parted. The women nearly stampeded to gain entry.
“What—”
“Oh my God.”
“Dhat teri ki!”
Preity bent, fists hitting her thighs with each “No, no, no, no!” she tantrumed as she viewed her husband’s body, a corona of blood expanding around his head.
“I can explain,” Geeta said, her voice still hoarse. “It was an accident. He—”
“It was supposed to be a heart attack! Natural causes!” Preity seethed. She kept her voice low and Geeta realized that the children were somewhere in the house. Saloni locked the door again. “What about any of this looks natural, Geeta!”
Geeta worried her earlobe as she tried to explain. “He…I…”
“Wait, is he even dead?” Saloni asked. “He could just be…out.”
“He’d better be dead!” Priya said. “For all this trouble.”
“We should check, though, right?”
Everyone nodded. No one moved.
Preity glared at Geeta and pointed at Darshan’s body. “Well? Check, dammit!”
The prospect of touching Darshan repulsed her far more than the prospect of touching a corpse. “Why me?” she squeaked.
Priya tsked her disgust. “It’s, like, the least you can do, Geetaben. Considering how royally you’ve bungled this.”
Saloni held out her palms in peace. “I’ll do it.” To spare her sari, she climbed on the far side of the bed and leaned over in prone position to check his pulse. She closed her eyes and waited a long, long while. Their collective breathing was heavy. The room grew warmer. Geeta felt like she was drowning in her own adrenaline. Her head buzzed as though stuffed with mosquitos. How had she let this happen? “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi,” she whispered to herself, rubbing her hands up and down her opposite arms.
Saloni rolled off the bed.
“Well?” Priya asked.
“Definitely dead.”
Preity said, “We’re fucked.”
“Like, so fucked,” Priya said.
“I had to! He was—he tried to—” Geeta gestured to her body, her abused neck, Darshan’s cadaver, but the words wouldn’t leave her throat and she felt dizzy and sick.