“And now that chut has the balls to come back for more,” Saloni said.
“I want my money back.”
“We’ll get it back.”
As the ramifications of what Saloni had confessed landed, Geeta’s mien of rage crumbled. She buried her face into Bandit and wept. “What’s the point? My parents gave up everything for me, just to die with nothing. And it’s all my fault.” When a man had a baby girl put in his arms, he saw his name and legacy disappear, to be swallowed by another man. His grandchildren would have to strain to recall his family name, a name that his great-grandchildren would never know. And she had cost her father much more than that in agreeing to marry Ramesh.
Geeta looked up, her damp face bleak. “This is why people want sons.”
Farah angled away. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? Is it any different than what Khushi told us about daughters?” She didn’t await a reply. “All we are are liabilities. After everything my parents did for me, they died poor and hungry.”
Bandit whined his concern, lapped Geeta’s tears like they were sustenance.
“Geeta, it wasn’t that bad,” Saloni said. “I promise you. As soon as I married Saurabh, we helped them. By that time, they’d already taken on too much debt—like Runi—but they didn’t go hungry. I swear.” She pinched the skin of her throat.
“So you…？”
“Of course. I ate their salt for two decades. It was an honor to help them.”
“How did I not notice, though?”
“They didn’t want you to worry about them. That’s why they took on all those loans in the first place, to keep up appearances. And they didn’t want to come between you and Ramesh. They begged me not to tell you. I shouldn’t have listened. I’m so sorry.”
Geeta dismissed the apology. “Thank you,” she said, “for taking care of them. God, I’m such a fool. How the hell did I end up here again?”
Saloni’s exhale was sympathetic. “It’s not your fault. You believe the best in people. That’s not a bad thing. But sometimes we go back to who we used to be around someone. We don’t even realize it, it just…happens. He had a hold over you.”
“Can I ask…why?” Farah said. When Saloni shushed her, Farah grew defensive. “What? Like you’ve never wondered the same thing? He’s no Akshay Kumar.” Under her breath, she added, “Kishore Kumar, maybe.”
Saloni said, “I’ll talk to my father-in-law. I think we have enough evidence to banish Ramesh, maybe even get it in writing that you’re no longer married and he has no right—”
Geeta interrupted, abruptly announcing with the same dull frankness of requiring a toilet, “I want to kill him.”
“Of course you do.”
“No. I mean, I am going to kill him.”
“Oh.” Farah coughed. “Er, that’s a little more—”
Saloni bent, hands on knees until Geeta met her eyes. “Okay,” she said, nodding.
Farah leapt to her feet. “Excuse me?”
“She helped you remove your nose ring, time to return the favor.”
Farah sputtered. “Samir was a drunk and a predator. Darshan, too. Ramesh is a total maggot, agreed, but that’s not, like, a killable offense. We can’t just knock off everyone we don’t like. This isn’t Indian Idol.”
“The rationale for all of them is the same: he’s going to keep ruining her life until we end his, so why not?”
“Because,” Farah said, agitated. “There are rules to these types of things.” She floated one hand level with her forehead and the other near her chin. “Alcoholic child molester definitely trumps alcoholic blind thief.”
“So you want us to wait for him to molest a child?”
“Bey yaar! That’s not what I’m saying and you know it. You and the panchayat can boot him from town, but we can’t kill him. You think the police are going to be okay with yet another dead guy in one village?”
“Weren’t you the one who said that they don’t get to make all the choices,” Geeta told Farah, “that we get to make some, too?”
“We’ll be smart about it,” Saloni said, resuming her pacing. “He’s blind, he’s drunk. An accident waiting to happen. Maybe he ‘falls’ off the water tower.”
Farah’s head plummeted into her hands. “Ya’Allah,” she groaned. “This always happens. Killers get cocky and then they get caught.”
Saloni swung around, her face blooming into a smile. “You watch C.I.D.?”
“Religiously.”
“Did you see the ‘Cursed Haveli’ episode?”
“Ooh, that was a good one. I love it when he says, ‘Daya,—’？”
Saloni chimed in: “？‘Darwaza tod do!’？” She laughed with Farah. “So, you in?”
Farah scoffed. “No! I have, like, seventy dresses to make; I don’t have time to kill another man. But, if you want my advice, you should wait until after Diwali. That’ll give everyone time to cool their brains and, you know, reevaluate.” Over Geeta’s bent head, Farah gave Saloni a pointed look, her eyebrows soaring to her hairline.
“I won’t change my mind,” Geeta said into Bandit’s fur.
Saloni cleared her throat. “After Diwali is better for me, too. All this party planning is killing me.”
“Ooh, ooh! Are you gonna have those little cutlet things again? With the cute teeny chutney boats? Those were first-class.”
Saloni nodded. “Yeah, they’re paneer, you know.”
“Paneer? Wow. I’d love that recipe.”
“I’ll give it to you…if you help us.”
“Absolutely not.”
Saloni sighed. “Worth a shot. Geeta? Are you going to be okay?”
“Not until he’s dead.”
“You can do this. You just have to play along for a few days, pretend nothing’s changed. Then we’ll figure something out. But we can’t tip him off. Do you think you can do that?”
“I don’t know.” Geeta rubbed her face, felt her nose ring and growled. She stood to study her reflection in the armoire’s mirror. Her nostril stretched as she undid the pin inside. “I forgot how much I hated this thing.” After it was removed, she sneezed once, twice, then said to the waiting women, “I’ll manage.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Winter caught hold and while the village’s denizens, aglow with Diwali celebrations, didn’t much notice, the cattle did. The November days still offered warmth, but the nights bore a desert chill. The nomadic herders came from Rajasthan, as they did every winter, sheep and goats in slow tow, and negotiated their annual contract with the panchayat to use the grounds on the village outskirts.
Geeta walked to their camp, dispatched by Ramesh to buy milk for the busy tea stand. He was working alone over the holiday while the owner celebrated with relatives in Ahmedabad. At the camp, the Rabari men had taken the cattle grazing, but the women remained, tending a fire and organizing the manure they’d collected that morning into cow pies for sale. When they saw Geeta approach, one stood from her squatting position and wiped her hands on her skirt. Stacks of thick white bangles decorated her upper arms, forming a funnel: the top bangles wider, tapering smaller and smaller as they neared her slim elbows. Her neck and hands were tattooed with neat rows of tiny, repeated symbols: a circle, a “Y,” a star, an arrow, a diamond. At the base of her throat, a dark green ? was nestled between her clavicles. Rabari women began godna—burying the needle—at a young age, starting with their hands and feet. Geeta idly wondered when Lakha had begun, and whether her tattoos now were a source of happy memories, or just an unwelcome reminder of what she’d lost.