Khushi’s face softened a fraction. “Dr. Ambedkar also thought it’d be better for us to live separately from caste Hindus. To him, untouchables only existed where the idea of ‘touchability’ does—it’s parasitic. But his reasoning doesn’t work. Because it follows us. Do you see her?” Khushi pointed to Amali, who was outside in the courtyard. Geeta looked as Amali tossed a bucket of water on the ground and squatted with a jhadu broom. Her scarf bisected her torso, the two loose ends tied in a knot at her hip while she worked, ambling on her haunches as she swept.
“Amali got a job cooking meals at the school, but when they found out she was Dalit, they fired her and threw out all the food she’d touched. So I offered her work here, and her parents refused. Why? Because she’s of the Dhobi caste and I’m a Dom, and working here would pollute her.
“Her parents died last year, starved to death. They would rather she die than pollute them, can you imagine? Of course you can—it’s not exactly a special story. My point is: we don’t need you caste Hindus to tell us we’re untouchable, not when we’re too busy keeping each other down.”
“But Amali’s here now.”
“Yes.” Khushi nodded. “She eats from my vessels and lives here, too. She values her belly before her karma.”
“Or maybe she just doesn’t believe in this bullshit either.”
Khushi laughed then and Geeta felt the relief like a cool breeze. She wanted Khushi’s approval with the same eager desperation that likely hindered it. Knowledge of this, however, did not equal the power to alter or mask her thirst. Though Geeta had gotten her answer, and knew she wasn’t exactly welcome, she sought to avoid being shown the door. All that awaited her was Ramesh. She procrastinated:
“So, how long have you two been friends?”
“？‘Friends’？” Khushi said the word like she was trying on an outfit she didn’t find immediately flattering. “Would we say ‘friends’？”
“Sure, friends,” Farah said. “But more business partners.”
Khushi nodded but corrected her. “Not even partners, more like we made a necessary arrangement.” Khushi inhaled from her hookah wand while Geeta tried to determine what a dressmaker and a corpse burner needed from each other. It read like the very odd premise of a riddle.
“What arrangement?”
“Khushiben here burned Samir’s body before the police could even think to ask for it. She did all the paperwork for me and paid off the cops.” At Khushi’s alarm, Farah explained. “It’s fine, Geeta already knows about Samir. She’s the one who ‘helped’ me.”
“This is mosquito coil–wali?” When Farah nodded, Khushi released a bawdy laugh at Geeta’s expense. “Don’t mind, na? It was very cute. Wouldn’t have been my first choice, but sometimes people like to take the tougher road. Builds character.”
“Forgive me.” Geeta sulked. “I wasn’t exactly experienced.”
“Untrue—what about Ramesh?”
With the idiot insisting on sticking around, there was no sense in secrecy. Not in a village where your neighbor’s sister-in-law’s second cousin knew about your hemorrhoids before you did.
“I didn’t kill him,” Geeta said through gritted teeth. “He left me. But he’s back now.”
Farah did not seem upset. “Of course,” she crowed, clapping one hand on her thigh. “Well, that makes far more sense. You’re definitely not cut out for murder.”
Which should’ve been a compliment, though it was very much not. Geeta scowled at her while addressing Khushi. “That’s why I came here; I need your help.”
“And here I thought you wanted to help me?” Khushi asked, feigning surprise.
“I figured we could help each other. If you’re on the panchayat, you could vote that my marriage to Ramesh is null and he’d have to leave.”
“Why don’t you want him back?” Khushi asked, before waving her hand. “Never mind, stupid question. Still, that’s a lot of ifs. If I run, if I win, if I vote in your favor.”
“I don’t know what other option I have. He’s not leaving willingly.”
Farah shrugged. “Kill him.”
“Why?” Geeta snapped. “So you have more dirt to blackmail me with?”
Geeta looked at Khushi for a reaction, but she seemed neither surprised nor dismayed, and Geeta belatedly realized that she’d been hoping to plummet Farah in Khushi’s esteem, like a friendless schoolgirl striving to be teacher’s pet.
Farah scoffed. “You tried to threaten me, too, okay?”
“Only after you tried to extort me for money and—oh yeah—poison my food!”
Farah rolled her eyes. “Haven’t you let that go yet? I keep telling you it wasn’t personal.”
Geeta ignored her, addressing Khushi instead. “Will you at least think about running?”
“No. Any other questions?”
She’d have to find another way to scour Ramesh from her life. Still, she could not bear going home and seeing him again. “Just one. You did Farah a huge favor. Why?”
Khushi smiled and reached for another paan. “You’re saying I don’t seem like the generous sort?”
Geeta held Khushi’s gaze. “You don’t seem like the stupid sort. You cremated a Muslim man, lied to and bribed the cops. You wouldn’t take on that kind of risk unless you benefited.”
Khushi shed her coyness. “Of course I benefited. She got rid of Samir. Which means he can’t assault my girls. I owed her a favor back.”
Geeta’s head whirred with multiple, conflicting questions. “I thought you only had sons.”
“I do, thank the One Above. Girls are impossible to protect. Any daughter is a burden, but a Dalit one? Forget it. Your upper-caste men think our shadows pollute them, but they see no problem with invading our cunts.”
At the word, the muscles in Geeta’s low abdomen tightened as she thought of Darshan.
“The one time we wouldn’t mind being untouchable.” Khushi jerked her chin toward the door, though Amali, done sweeping the courtyard, had left for another chore. “Like I said, Amali’s of a higher subcaste, but she’s also the help, so she wouldn’t use our toilet. One morning a couple of months back, she went to the fields and as soon as she undid her pants, some man started choking her. He tried to force himself on her and would have succeeded, too, if a group of other girls hadn’t passed by and scared him off. Now she uses our toilet—when she can, that is—my son hogs it day and night. Dairy doesn’t agree with him but he’d die before giving up Amul cheese, ay-ya!”
“Do you have a refrigerator?” Geeta asked.
Khushi blinked at the non sequitur. “Er—no. We were going to, but with all the power holidays, why bother?”
How, Geeta thought, had that not occurred to her?
“I’ll continue? So we complained. And what did the panchayat say?”
“Fuck all,” Geeta said fiercely. “That’s why I wanted you on it—to do things differently!”