Nonetheless, when she slept, her guilt roamed free, sans warden, loosed prisoners bent on havoc. They’d terrorize her, but she knew it wouldn’t be permanent. She’d survived other awful things; this, too, would pass. Morning would come and with it, the safety of her mantras, but for the time being, Geeta felt small and naked, trembling in her kitchen nook, stomach and heart roiling. She was bathed in a light she felt unfit to accept. Her traitorous lungs trapped air, she gripped the lip of a shelf and kneeled. “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi,” she exhaled until the knot unraveled. Bandit was awake, keening his concern. She couldn’t release the ledge to pet him. She looked at him as she breathed. “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi.” Her distress was his; he roamed for a way to help her, as restless and impotent as she was.
When next she awoke, it was at Bandit’s behest. He whined his need until she stumbled to the door in the early morning hours, bleary-eyed, to let him outside to su-su. The two temples played competing bhajans to rouse the villagers. The morning air was cool, untouched by the day’s inevitable wet heat. It felt delicious to her hot skin. She fell back into a kind of sleep that was more escape than rest, until Farah disturbed her by knocking, looking as fresh as Geeta did fuzzy.
From the doorstep, Farah absorbed Geeta’s tangled hair and house gown. “You’re still sleeping? It’s ten,” she said with the tacit superiority early risers felt toward night owls. “Did you hear about Darshan? The whole village is buzzing.”
“What?” Geeta’s tongue was thick, her mouth sour. Punitive sunlight stabbed her eyes and she gestured Farah inside so she could shut the door.
“Darshan’s dead! His wife killed him!”
“No,” she corrected automatically before catching herself. “That’s, uh, unbelievable.”
“The police came. Took everyone to Kohra.”
“Insane.”
“I know. Lately we’ve seen more action here than Delhi even—Arre, what happened to your throat?” Farah pointed to the necklace of bruises that had stained Geeta’s skin deeper overnight.
“What? Nothing, don’t worry about it.”
“O-kay,” Farah said, offering Geeta the gourd. “So, actually, the thing is…I can’t give you more time, unfortunately. I need the money sooner than I thought.”
As Geeta poured herself some water, she grew livid. To be oppressed by men was one matter, to allow a woman to also sit on her chest was another. Her power was meager, sure, but it was time to wield it. Matching Farah’s apologetic tone, Geeta said, “Actually the thing is…I can’t give you more money, unfortunately. You’re on your own.”
“Geeta!” It was a mixture of wheedling and shock. “Don’t make me go to the cops.”
“Go. I’ll tell them you killed him yourself.”
“It was your idea. If I’d wanted to kill him, it would’ve looked like a simple heart attack. I have access to all the pong pong in the world—only a total moron would go for a mosquito coil. Seriously, Geetaben, if I actually wanted you dead—you’d be dead. I wouldn’t have bothered with mosquito coil samosas. But, like I said, you’re of no use to me dead.”
Geeta’s heart quickened, anger thrumming in her ears. “This was your plan all along? Trick me into helping you and then blackmail me?”
“Not at first, but then you flipped on me and— It doesn’t matter.” Farah waved a dismissive hand. “You know you loved it. You loved feeling all useful and helpful.”
“You,” Geeta said, “are no bonobo.”
Farah blinked before saying slowly, “I don’t know what that means.”
“They’re primates whose females band together against male aggression. They’re allies, unlike you.”
“Am I supposed to be hurt that you don’t think I’m a monkey?”
“Ape.”
“Whatever.”
“I wouldn’t be so confident, Farah. You had Samir’s body burned. Very suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Nope. The police think the Dom fucked up.”
“Either way, there’s no evidence tying me to Samir.”
Farah’s eyes widened in faux innocence. “Except that conversation I overheard between you two.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t remember? The one where he said he’d take your money, and you said that you’d kill him.”
Geeta played along. “Then why didn’t you come forward sooner, since you suspected me after Samir died?”
“Of course I delayed. Geeta, you threatened me and my children next. I mean, what could I do?”
“Are you serious?”
Farah smiled, her teeth gleaming. She winked. “As murder.”
What, Geeta thought, would Saloni do? People like that don’t understand words, only kicks.
So Geeta asked, incredibly pleasantly, “Is it lonely, Farah?”
“Is what?”
“Not being like anyone else here.” She continued, her posture taller with defensive dignity. “I don’t just mean because you’re Muslim, that’s too obvious.”
Confusion marred Farah’s features. “It is?”
Geeta felt a brief thrill. A petty part of her now understood what had motivated Saloni all those years ago to not only be a queen bee but a bully. Did people ever completely shed playground politics?
“Sure. You know how it is, people like people who are similar to them. They trust people who look like them, talk like them, act like them. It’s just…more comfortable. But you—I mean, the women tolerate you, but they don’t really like you, do they?”
“They do. I mean, some do. I think.” The falter in Farah was like fuel.
“Nah,” Geeta said, shaking her head and smiling. “They really, really don’t. Which is why you came to me for help in the first place, correct? Because you knew they didn’t like you, and you thought they didn’t like me, so you figured I was your best shot. And there’s actually nothing wrong with that. But. But. You weren’t seeking solidarity, or a friend, you were preying on me. And that makes you just as bad as Samir.”
“What! No, I—”
“Maybe even worse. You told me the other day I’m not the Bandit Queen; you’re probably right. But neither are you.” Geeta did not wait for Farah’s response. “You’re Kusuma.”
“Who?”
Geeta’s smile turned genuine as she snapped her fingers. “Exactly. Why would you know of her? She’s not really worth remembering; didn’t make the cut in most of the books or films. Kind of a poor man’s Phoolan. Kusuma named herself dasyu sundari, ‘beautiful bandit queen.’ Isn’t that so fucking catty—she just had to one-up Phoolan, twist that knife. And of course it’d be about looks, right? Low-hanging fruit of the jealous.
“Anyway, Kusuma was also part of the gang—well, more of a shared concubine-mistress than a proper dacoit. But she was extremely jealous of Phoolan. So much so, in fact, that when the upper castes killed Phoolan’s husband—Vikram, you remember him—and began abusing Phoolan, Kusuma helped the attackers. She tore Phoolan’s clothes. She took her jewelry, helped the men tie her up, and as Phoolan was being raped, Kusuma told her she deserved it.”