Khushi waved away her hookah smoke and Geeta’s objections. “Well, we did it differently anyway. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Which prompted another question. “But the attacker wasn’t Samir—”
Farah interrupted, “Yes, it was. Sometimes he’d stay out all night, wouldn’t come home until after dawn. And two of those nights were when girls here had been attacked. Plus, Khushiben says there haven’t been any attacks since he died.”
Still, Geeta pressed. “What about Darshan?”
“What about him—my boys are cremating him now.” Khushi checked the time on her mobile. “They’ll be back soon.”
“Darshan was the attacker—”
Her sons entered the courtyard, and with them the odor of charred flesh and smoke from wood, tobacco and something sweeter. Drugs, though Geeta wasn’t sure which kind. The stench was so overwhelming, she breathed through her mouth as the boys greeted their mother.
“How’d it go?” Khushi palmed her son’s head when he touched her feet in deference. “Have you been drinking?”
The boy rolled his eyes. “It’s the only way to handle the smell, Mom.”
“You need all the brain cells you can get for school—and if you ever let your brother, I’ll…”
“Yeah, yeah.” He pointed to the hookah stand. “And this?”
Khushi gave him an affectionate slap. “Vices are for the old.” When they left to bathe, Khushi asked the women, “Where were we?” She pointed the wand at Geeta. “Are you sure about Darshan?”
“Fairly.” Geeta paused. She’d already bragged about killing him to Farah and, if she were honest, she wanted Khushi’s admiration, too. “Before I killed him—”
“Oh, like you ‘killed’ Ramesh?”
“Screw you, Farah. Before I killed him, he choked me.” She gestured to her wounded neck. Farah quieted, turning on the divan to give Geeta her full attention. “I figured that he’d been the one. Same M.O.”
Wonderful, she was starting to sound like Saloni mid-C.I.D. marathon. Farah’s tittering indicated she, too, found Geeta’s parlance laughable. Geeta elbowed her. Farah elbowed back.
Khushi tuned out their bickering. As she rubbed the hookah tip against her lips, she mused aloud, “It could’ve been both of them, Ram knows there’s no shortage of rapists in the world.”
“And the way I see it, I killed two of them. So you don’t owe Farah a favor so much as you owe me one.”
Khushi’s eyes sharpened on Geeta with what the latter recognized as respect. Geeta glowed. “Interesting opinion. You really killed Darshan, eh? I think I can guess, but why?”
“I doubt—” Farah started, but Geeta spoke over her.
“Because they might see no problem with ‘invading our cunts,’ but I do.”
“Amali,” Khushi called without looking away from Geeta. “Bring our guest some tea. Now, Geetaben, let’s negotiate.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Worm that he was, Ramesh quickly re-ingratiated himself with the locals and landed a few odd jobs. Equal parts charm and industry, he repaired bicycles and rewove chairs, served tea and wrapped paan for various vendors, all by feel. He accepted only single notes, but could distinguish coins easily.
Karem had not visited since word of Ramesh （He’s alive! I guess she’s not a churel, after all!） permeated through the village like a flu. Geeta wondered if Karem was upset, given the intimacy they’d enjoyed before Ramesh returned. Regardless, she was upset with Karem. She’d spent the last few nights revisiting their shared moments （to the tune of Ramesh’s snoring） and now had her own grouses: he’d twice let Ramesh’s blind state slip—how had he known? Still, she hoped he didn’t think any chakkar was going on. If he was privy to the gossip, he’d know that the worm slept outside Geeta’s door （on a donated charpoy） in hyperbolic public penance. Prodigal husband returns, humbled, to woo his estranged wife.
It was, to the village, a love song of apology.
It was, to Geeta, a bottomless well of annoyance.
She had yet to request a formal ruling from the panchayat; it wouldn’t do any good currently, not with the town regarding him as a profile in courage, a testament to resilience and adaptability. She had to wait for two things: for Khushi to find a suitable Dalit candidate to run for the council as she’d promised a few days prior, and for Ramesh’s social currency to drop. As it was now, people remarked at her good fortune; it was easy to fall in the dirt, nearly impossible to lift out of it. Ramesh was legally her husband, his name was still on the deed to their old home; he had a place in the village and it was with Geeta. She had no standing to refuse him.
At least she had an ally in Bandit, whose continued hostility toward Ramesh was satisfying, if peculiar. He wasn’t simply suspicious as he’d been with Farah or Saloni while vetting them. With Ramesh, Bandit’s antagonism was unyielding—he growled each time the man neared, and the feeling was mutual, which suited Geeta just fine. Bandit’s fixed post under her bed dissuaded Ramesh from seeking entry in it. While he hadn’t been so bold as to touch her yet—indeed Geeta ensured a wide berth between them in case a random movement triggered her anxiety again—his intentions of eventually rekindling their domesticity were clear. Geeta wasn’t swayed by his words, but with his continued sobriety, she flinched around him less and less.
Roasting papadam aside, he couldn’t cook—a defect owed to his upbringing, not his eyesight—but he prepared tea in the mornings. He stood on a chair and tightened her ceiling fan. He drew water even though it was well-established women’s work. To her alarm, she’d even once found him squatting over the sigri stove flipping papadam for her.
“How can you tell when it’s done?” she asked when he removed it from the flame. She waited for it to cool.
He grinned and tapped his nose. “I can smell as good as your dog now, I bet.”
So. Could suffering turn a rotten man good? Unlikely. But could it turn him less rotten? Evidently. While Geeta didn’t find herself liking Ramesh, she did find less to loathe about him, which, considering where they’d left off, was a minor miracle. But then: “I have to admit…the papad is not entirely free—I do have a favor to ask.”
Of course. “What?” she said flatly.
“Do you think I could start bathing inside?” He’d been washing at the circle near the well where men often lathered in their underwear and rinsed. “It’s just hard to figure out a time when no one’s around. And I keep losing the soap.”
She cracked the papadam in half and crunched loudly. Crumbs floated to her chest like ash. “Fine.”
A concession that led to him sitting on the floor cross-legged, drying his hair while he listened to the second half of her radio program with her. （Who knew killer whales were such mama’s boys? I bet they’re Indian.） Which in turn morphed into a shared meal one night when none of his bosses—one of whom usually provided food—had leftovers. （Are you sure there’s enough? I don’t want you to go hungry.） But offering food did not mean breaking bread; Geeta had him eat outside and rinse his utensils afterward. （Barely need to wash anything, Geeta. That was so delicious, I licked the thali clean.） The following afternoon Ramesh bought vegetables from the market. （A tiny thank-you for your feast last night.） Geeta found chopping a bit extra took little time, cooking a bit extra took none, and company afterward wasn’t painful, even if it was Ramesh’s. （Wanna know a secret? I actually don’t think I lost much. I was drunk, which is its own form of blindness. I’m sober now, which is its own form of sight.） Thus, they found themselves knee-deep in ersatz domesticity: Ramesh pleased with each minor victory, Geeta reassuring herself that she was not losing ground because she was in control of the privileges she’d extended and could withdraw them at any time. As she could with Karem, whose store she walked to one morning under the guise of due diligence.