“Well, I’m not sure how the panchayat would’ve felt about a Muslim woman on the council. That, too, a Dalit woman.”
Her head turned. “What?”
Karem cleared his throat. “Sarita’s parents converted to Islam before she was born, they thought it’d help their status. But it didn’t change a thing until they moved here from a different village and passed as upper-caste Muslims.”
She recalled Farah’s words. “Islam doesn’t have caste, though.”
Karem laughed. “Ji. But India does.”
Something else occurred to her. “Girls either marry someone local or leave town. But not only were you an outsider, you moved here for her. Did you know beforehand? About her being Dalit?”
“Yeah, I knew. And it didn’t matter to me. No, you’re looking at me like I was noble or selfless. Let me be clear. I didn’t care because I had nothing—no family left, no job, no proper home—and her parents offered me all of that in exchange for some safety and credibility. It sounds crude, but it was a deal of sorts. I guess most marriages are. After we married, our friendship happened quickly enough, then affection, and then came a time when I couldn’t remember not loving her.”
Geeta had little time to reflect on this before he continued, “She made me promise to never tell the kids. She said she regretted her parents telling her, that she was always looking over her shoulder, waiting for someone to call her an imposter. But I think I must tell them. I don’t want them to be afraid, but I also don’t want them to be ashamed, or think they’re better than others. But I don’t want to break my promise to her either.”
“That’s a hard one. But you’ll make the right decision. You’re raising pretty great kids.” After a long moment, Geeta asked, “How did Sarita feel about your business?”
“She worried. We both did. I still do. But it provided for us, plus I got to be home with her and the kids so…” He lifted his shoulders.
“Were you happy?”
“Hm, what a question.” He rubbed his stubble with his free hand as he thought. “There were far more good days than bad days. Maybe that’s what happiness is?”
“Did you fight?”
“Of course.” But he knew Geeta’s mind, he must have, because he added, “Never physical, though.”
“Don’t you all hit once in a while? It’s not beating, not really.”
Karem paused. “Yes, it is. Don’t get me wrong, Sarita and I —it wasn’t perfect, nothing is. And there were times we hurt each other plenty with words, but no, Geeta, no. I don’t hit.”
“Not even your kids?”
“No. Sometimes I wonder about that. I wasn’t beaten as a kid, but I was spanked, and I think that fear helped me turn out okay. They—those little tyrants are fearless. I think you can be a good parent and spank. But Sarita said never, so I promised and I meant it.”
“I remember my mother slapped me once or twice when I disobeyed. But my father never did. He hit her a couple times, though. But it didn’t make me love him any less. I wonder if it should’ve.”
Lately, each night a new memory landed upon Geeta. “Landed” was the wrong word. It wasn’t a sudden memory, startling her with its new presence. No. Each memory’s gentle unearthing was met with mild recognition: the one and only time she’d ever tried chicken, with Ramesh, the taste not bad but the forbidden secret tying them together better. The elusive name of the Dalit girl from school, the one with the high marks whom they’d all branded a cheater—Payal. Saloni and Geeta attempting to remove their pubic hair with expired Veet cream they’d found, and incorrectly reading the instructions to boot, nearly burning off their clitorises （plus she’d itched something awful when the hair grew back）。 Her father bringing her a chocolate on her birthday, massaging her legs when she fell ill, slapping her mother for a domestic trifle that was more about his mood than her failing. Was it really so much easier to be a decent father than a decent husband?
Geeta closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. The remainder of her adrenaline was subsiding. Karem’s voice rumbled near her, a balm: “I think when we’re kids, we just accept things. We don’t think to question until later, sometimes not even then.”
Her head rested against the wall, and she let it tip sideways until it met Karem’s shoulder. Her defenses were lowered just enough for the images of Darshan’s spite-ridden face to loom. You’re so starved for a fuck that you invited yourself into my house…to throw yourself at me. Her body jerked, her head whipping up.
“Geeta,” Karem began, squeezing her hand once, twice. He didn’t continue speaking until she looked at him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she lied.
“Okay. But you’d tell me if you needed my help, right? Like with what happened to your neck, for instance?”
Geeta’s free hand flew to span her clavicle. Across the room, in the armoire mirror, she saw the darkening skin. “If I thought you could help, yes, I’d tell you.”
“So, no, then.” His laugh was humorless.
“You’re helping me now,” she said, letting her head return to the shelter of his shoulder.
TWENTY
Farah stood, gourd in hand. Geeta stared, unsure of whether this was merely another febrile dream. After Karem had left late last night, Geeta slept fitfully, waking every ninety minutes or so, her clothes damp, cramps crawling in her belly. Sometimes she collapsed back into sleep, the scent of Karem either on her bedsheets or conjured by her hyper brain. Other times, she felt like she’d drown in bile if she remained horizontal, so she stepped over Bandit’s sleeping form into the kitchen. She drew water from her clay pot and parsed through her dreams.
They usually began with her and Karem on her bed, echoing what they’d shared before he’d left. But invariably the face she kissed would morph. Or she’d look down and it’d be Darshan’s head between her thighs. When she’d try to kick him away, he’d only laugh and tell her to be a good girl.
Her other nightmares began with the reverse: Darshan, his vile hands clawing. She’d grip the statue, cold as salve, and crash it into Karem’s unsuspecting head. She’d realize her mistake a fraction too late, and see stunned betrayal occupy his eyes before death did.
Her hands had performed an act her mind couldn’t yet accept. Geeta looked at them, distorted with fading orange henna. In the moonlight, the patterns looked like the faint breath of a dragon.
She did not regret her actions, but Darshan’s. She resented being put in a position where those were her choices: violence or violation. She didn’t want to be built to endure, a long-suffering saint tossed by the whims of men. She wanted, for once, not to be handed the short end of the stick by a system that expected gratitude in return.
As she sipped water in her moon-drenched kitchen, all quiet but the crickets, she submitted to the slow conclusion that, at least for her near future, there would be a difference between her waking and unconscious. The former had walls, mantras she could stack to protect her from her culpability; as Saloni had said: Darshan killed himself. He broke the contract first. When someone threatens your body, you have every right to protect yourself. He had hurt her, he had hurt others, and he would’ve hurt more.