“I meant,” Geeta said, trying for a smile and failing, “a way that doesn’t ensure I reincarnate as a cockroach. I’m going to talk to Khushi.”
“Now?”
Geeta remembered her fright when Ramesh had idly moved his arm. “I—I can’t go back home right now.”
As advertised, Khushi’s house was indeed much larger than Geeta’s. Two looming stories plus a terrace with a garden. Once she’d reached the south portion of the village, following the drain water down, her way had been easy. Everyone knew where the wealthy Khushiben lived. Each person Geeta asked pointed her closer.
She knocked on the green double doors. A barefoot girl answered and when Geeta inquired after Khushi, the girl looked behind her but said nothing.
“I got it, Amali,” Khushi said. “You make more tea.”
The girl left with the same subservience she’d shown answering the door. Khushi’s frame, generous and soft, swallowed the lacunae of the open doors. She didn’t smile, per se, but her tone was light as she said by way of greeting: “I hope your dog didn’t die.”
“What? Oh.” Geeta laughed. “No, touch wood. I wanted to speak with you.” Her last sentence lingered between them, a scent souring as Khushi continued to not invite Geeta inside.
“I have company,” Khushi said.
They were of Khushi’s ilk, was the unspoken information tracking beneath her words like subtitles, and Geeta’s caste would necessitate uncomfortable adjustments. They wouldn’t be able to sit on furniture in her presence, instead standing in deference before moving to the ground.
“Oh, right, I see. Um, I can come by another time?”
“No, no, tell me.”
Translation: Make it quick.
“Right, okay. So, uh, I was thinking of how much you’ve achieved and how impressive you are—as a businesswoman and as a woman—and I thought, well, you should be on the panchayat, ’cause with that kind of platform and power, you could bring the same kind of achievement to others that you have to yourself—others meaning Dalits, definitely, but also other women. Anyway, I think you’d have a real chance at winning, especially if your running means Dalits actually vote this time around because, you know, most don’t because they think it doesn’t matter, not that they’re not justified in feeling that way, ’cause nothing ever really changes, so why bother? But if your name was on the ballot, it could mean change and they would vote, which—”
“Breathe,” Khushi instructed.
Geeta obeyed, gulping air like it was water. She smiled. “Will you run?”
“No.”
Geeta deflated. “No?”
“No, thank you,” Khushi amended.
“But—”
A voice from inside interrupted: “Khushiben? Is everything all right? I need to be home by nine and we still have to— Oh, hello, Geetaben. Welcome,” Farah said, drinking tea from Khushi’s courtyard like it was her own.
TWENTY-FOUR
Portions of Khushi’s home were erected with mud carefully lined to look like brick, but the majority was cement. The more recent additions, such as the toilet and two sitting rooms Geeta saw as she was led through the courtyard, were discernible by the brighter paint and lack of water stains. Not a little gobsmacked, she sat in a large sitting room on a divan next to Farah, who slurped her tea dregs until the girl returned with a tray of fresh glasses. Geeta was about to reach for one when Khushi spoke:
“You’ll not take tea, of course,” she said mildly from her separate divan.
“Oh, I—”
But the girl, Amali, had already heeded her mistress’s words, walking to where Khushi reclined against a bolster pillow, smoking hookah with the relaxed power of a sultan surveying a courtesan. Silver toe rings adorned each foot. Above her hung a framed black-and-white portrait of Dr. B. R. Ambedkar. Khushi selected a folded paan from Amali’s tray and tucked the entire leaf into her mouth. Amali balanced the tray with one hand while rearranging the hookah coals with a pair of tongs. As Khushi inhaled, the water gurgled.
“Ah, Amali,” Farah said warmly, relishing her fresh cup. “You always remember that I like more sugar.”
Geeta blinked at the familiarity; her tongue itched to ask about Farah’s relationship with Khushi, but Geeta refused to give Farah the satisfaction of admitting any curiosity. After a slight bow of acknowledgment, Amali opened the room’s four doors to circulate the air and then left.
“They offered it to me years ago, you know. When the quota first began.” Khushi spoke around the paan.
“Huh?” Geeta said.
“The panchayat. They even said they’d pay all the expenses for me to run. It makes sense. A woman and a scheduled caste—fills both reservations but only one seat, one vote.”
“But you said no?”
Khushi’s snort was derisive. “Why would I say yes? So I can drag my ass to the office once a year to pose for a photo while they do whatever the hell they want the other days of the year? If anything, it’d be worse, because then everyone here would think I’m actually a part of the shit they decide. I’ve worked too hard for too long to let them spoil my reputation. And all for a false crown? Ay-ya!”
“But it doesn’t have to be false! You could make real change.” She’d planned on explaining her Ramesh problem, but Farah’s presence complicated matters.
“Listen, er, what was your name again?”
“Geeta,” Farah supplied helpfully. Her glee radiated like heat from asphalt.
“Right. Geetaben.” Khushi released a generous plume of smoke. “I have very little use for your guilt.”
“No, I—”
“I don’t feel particularly honored that you ‘lowered’ yourself by coming here, entering my home. You let my kids touch your dog, so what? I’m not gonna fall over in gratitude.”
“I didn’t think you would, I just—”
“Yes, you did.” Khushi’s smile was indulgent but knowing. And now, finally, Geeta registered Khushi’s titanic anger, initially blanketed by a close-lipped smile and a livid civility that had since fallen like a veil. A little spit collected in the corner of Khushi’s mouth as her voice crescendoed.
“You thought that you’d run here to the bad part of town offering to save me so you could feel like you did something of consequence with your little life making…jewelry, was it?”
“Mangalsutras,” Farah answered before Geeta could. “But it’s still ‘art,’ right, Geetaben?”
Geeta glared at Farah, whose smile was all teeth. Not for the first time, Geeta marveled at the vast emotional gamut of women. Here sat Farah, repurposing her tenderness toward Amali and Khushi as a further foil for her savagery against Geeta. Geeta wasn’t offended so much as impressed. And it wasn’t just Farah, it was all of them: Saloni, the twins, Geeta herself. Their ranges, as women, were extreme. Men gravitated toward one side or the other and remained; Ramesh certainly had. Women splayed the far corners, their cruelty and kindness equally capacious.
“I just wanted to help,” Geeta said quietly, unable to look at either woman. She omitted that she also desperately needed help. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. He,” she continued, pointing to Ambedkar’s photograph above Khushi’s head, “wanted separate seats for Dalits in government. Because he knew you couldn’t expect the ‘touchables’ to look out for others. It didn’t happen, but I thought it could here, at least.”