“I—”
“You could never be a real friend to any woman, Farah, because you’re too fucking broken. You can try to lie to the village and the police, but I doubt anyone’s going to believe you. You lied about the Dom messing up and cremating Samir—”
Farah’s eyes flared with brief triumph. “But see? The cop did believe me.”
“Sure, over a Dalit. That’s the shitty hierarchy I’m talking about. Which is why the cop wouldn’t believe a Muslim over four Hindus.”
“F-four?”
Geeta ticked her fingers. “Saloni, Preity, Priya. Me.”
“But they’re not with you. You said so yourself, that you and Saloni were—”
“Sure they are. Saloni and I made up. I went to her party.” She presented her henna as evidence. “See, you really are removed from things around here, aren’t you? And the twins are my new best friends. We had dinner together last night. I did them a ‘small favor,’ as everyone here likes to call it, so they’ll say anything I need them to.”
“Small favor? What small favor?” Farah’s eyebrows knitted and then rose with realization even as Geeta said: “I removed her nose ring. Just like I did yours.”
“You killed Darshan?”
It was Geeta’s turn to bare her teeth in a smile. Her menace was chipper. “I have a way of making problems go away. You should know that better than anyone. Do you see why I’m not an enemy you want to make, Farah?” Geeta casually assessed the gourd, testing the skin with her thumb. “I’ve been patient with you. Too patient for your own good. It’s given you bad habits. So, I won’t be patient any longer, Farah, because unlike how you feel about me, you’re of zero use to me alive. Do you follow?”
She nodded.
“Are you sure? I know you’re a little slow at times.”
Farah’s voice was curt, each word a thread snipped. “I understand perfectly.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic. They say you’re slow, tubelight like, but I don’t think that’s true. You just count on people to underestimate you. Which is pretty smart in its own way.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re very, very welcome,” Geeta said warmly. “Now, I have a big day ahead of me, so kindly get the hell out of my house.”
She escorted a shell-shocked Farah to the door. But when Geeta opened it, there stood Arhaan, hazel eyes wide. He did not immediately inquire about snacks, which indicated that something was amiss even more than his solemn expression.
“What’s the matter?”
“The police called my house. They want you and Mummy to go to Kohra now.”
This, of course, lent further credibility to what she’d told Farah. But Geeta couldn’t appreciate Farah’s face because her own was slack with dread. Sweat blossomed on the skin between her breasts.
“Why?” she squeaked.
“So they can arrest you.”
TWENTY-ONE
The state of the Kohra police station should have eased her hummingbird heart. It was a station in name only: three men in khaki uniforms lounged in the courtyard on plastic lawn chairs, ankles crossed over knees, blowing on stout glasses of chai. Neither their beige berets nor their spirits wilted in the heat. Despite the relaxed tableau, as Geeta dismounted from the scooter’s pillion, she felt as though she were trudging toward her hanging.
Saloni parked her husband’s scooter, her sandal missing the kickstand on the first attempt. They approached together. The pathways to the entrance as well as the courtyard were lined with bricks, all angled like fallen dominoes. Geeta heard laughter. An office boy collected the officers’ empty glasses. The joke must have been his because he was beaming while the men chuckled. The eldest, the one with the most decorated sleeves and epaulettes, clapped the boy’s back in approval. Music floated in from an unseen radio, possibly from one of the neighboring businesses. Golden oldies rather than recent pop hits.
It would have been an idyllic scene, were it not for the two officers in a holding cell driving their lathis into a weeping man. Geeta winced as a stick hit the back of the man’s knees and he crumpled. The officers each took one of his elbows to right him. Once his balance was restored, the three resumed their striking and sobbing. Things could go either way, Geeta realized, absorbing the dichotomy. On one hand, if this truly was a routine formality—and Arhaan was a dramatic duffer, as Saloni had insisted—they’d soon be sipping tea. Alternatively, in fifteen minutes’ time she could replace that man making the ghastly noises. At the thought, Geeta’s fingers worried her earlobe until Saloni smacked her hand down.
“Stop that! I swear, you should never play poker.” She whispered last-minute instructions to Geeta: “Just remember: Follow my lead. Act casual. You know nothing about how he died, okay? That’s how they nab the perp on C.I.D.; he always knows some detail that he shouldn’t.” She adjusted Geeta’s scarf higher. “And keep your neck covered.”
Nab? Perp? Geeta was about to question just how many episodes Saloni had watched, but there was no time.
The senior officer did not look up when the women approached. Nor did he when Saloni said they’d been summoned regarding the recent expiration of a Mr. Darshan Varesh. He merely slurped his fresh glass of chai, mustache dampening, and angled his head toward a table manned by, well, a woman of all things. She sat just outside the yellow entrance, under the awning, her desk positioned between two open doors.
At the sight of the female officer, Geeta’s hope ballooned. After Phoolan Devi enacted her Valentine’s Day revenge massacre, she was imprisoned. As a celebrity, she was treated far better than most inmates, and she formed a friendship with the prison director, Kiran Bedi, who helped Phoolan enter that last bastion of criminals: politics. In jail, Phoolan waited for a trial that the authorities ensured would never take place. But then, all forty-eight charges were dropped and she was, suddenly, finally, abruptly, at last, free. After eleven years in prison, she was released and elected a member of parliament…until her assassination at the age of thirty-seven—but Geeta did not want to dwell on that part of the story. Instead, she focused on creating an ally, her own Kiran Bedi.
“Uh, namaskar,’’ Geeta greeted, palms together. “We were called to give a statement? We’re from the same village as Mr. Darshan…？”
“Varesh. Yes. Sit. We’ll start shortly.”
Saloni and Geeta sat on two flimsy lawn chairs, purses on their laps. The woman’s face was severe; her dark hair scrapped back into a low bun to accommodate her beret. She was young—Geeta would’ve guessed twenty-six or so—and investing great pains in hiding her beauty. She wore no eyeliner or bindi; her lips were as bereft as her fingers. Just like the men, she wore a black name tag over one breast pocket and a pin of the Indian flag on the other.
Sushma Sinha, ASP, wrote many notes into a red folder. Her assigned desk—really a foldout table, Geeta observed while they waited—was piled with many similar folders, all neatly quartered by twine. ASP Sushma Sinha’s pen was tied to her folder with identical twine. She paused her writing to drink from her purple water bottle. She did not touch her mouth to the rim, nor did she spill a single drop.