Geeta had not spoken to Khushi since that evening at her home over two weeks ago. Saloni had reported that she was making progress on convincing the council to give a seat to a member of the Dalit community, which pleased Geeta, even if she no longer required the panchayat’s vote, as Ramesh would be dead soon enough.
“Milk,” Geeta told him. She guided the handle into his grasp.
“Geeta! Just in time!” He announced to the stall, “I tell you, not since Ram’s Sita has such a wife existed!”
Geeta looked around the vacant area. The two men were laughing at a shared joke, their attention unwavering. “Yeah, there’s no one here.”
“Oh.”
“I should return the pail.”
“Okay, I’ll see you at home? Our own choti-Diwali celebration?”
A gaggle of older men with thick ear hair and thin calves arrived for tea, sparing Geeta from having to answer with any affection. Something was amiss, itching her brain like an old name buried under new information. She concentrated but no epiphany struck, just the lingering gnaw of a missed opportunity. Frustrated, she tried to release the question as she began the return journey to the Rabari camp. Lately, all of Ramesh’s words irritated her like cheap polyester. Yes, describing Sita as belonging to Ram was irksome, but Geeta’s objection there was more academic than personal.
Really, comparing her to Sita was pink salt in the wounds Ramesh had reopened. Before the first domino of this entire mess tipped, before she’d helped Farah kill her husband, Karem had jokingly referred to Geeta as adarsh nari. The Ideal Indian Woman was, everyone from politicians to cowherds knew, Sita. But Karem’s jest hadn’t driven up her hackles, not like Ramesh’s saccharine praise now did.
The story of Ramayana was especially popular during Diwali, when children dressed up as its various characters. Geeta recalled one classmate who’d refused to change out of his pungent Hanuman costume for the entire two-week school holiday. Boys had their choice of heroes: Ram, Lakshman, Hanuman, even Ravana and his ten heads. Their list was ample, but the only option for girls—lecherous vamps and old crones aside—was Sita. Beautiful, patient, silent, long-suffering Sita. A stick used to beat other women, their heads hanging in shame when they dared express unideal emotions, like indignance or self-respect.
On paper, the holiday marked the end of the battle between Ram and Ravana, the triumph of good over evil. The Festival of Lights, some dubbed it, because when Ram and Sita returned to their kingdom, villagers lit diya lamps to welcome home their prince. But that fire was not the only fire, just as Diwali was not a happy ending, merely a happy pause. The stories we tell ourselves, Geeta realized, empty pail clanging, the stories we tell each other, are dangerous.
The Ramayana began when Ram was about to be crowned king but was instead banished from his kingdom for fourteen years at his stepmother’s behest. His faithful wife, Sita, chose to accompany him, trading her plush palace life for an ascetic one in the forest. While the couple was ostracized, Ravana （king of Lanka） kidnapped Sita to avenge his sister, whom, Geeta thought it was worth noting, Ram had bullied and maimed. Ravana then fell deeply in love with Sita but wanted her love in kind （meaning he did not rape her）。 Geeta supposed it was a dark day in this world when a man received kudos for not raping, but Ravana acted with honor. Though Diwali celebrated light banishing darkness, Ravana was not a flat villain. And Ram was not an infallible hero.
Ram （with a lot of simian help from Hanuman） ultimately rescued Sita, but to her chagrin, he rebuffed her affection with icy apathy. Apparently, Ram had some trouble believing his wife had remained “pure,” what with her “living” with another man for so long. The roots of slut-shaming, Geeta surmised, ran deep. Only, back in 7292 BCE, it’d been called “dharma.”
While Sita was displeased at such inimical treatment, she loved Ram and wished to go home. Though she was a mere woman, she had the benefit of being privileged and wellborn, which Geeta likened to being the best player on a losing team （akin to how Khushi was the richest of the poor Dalits）。 Sita proved her purity by surviving a sacrificial fire. And lo! Ram’s pesky, chauvinistic doubts were assuaged! Their lauded homecoming in Ayodhya then gave rise to Diwali. But evil wasn’t vanquished in the battle. Evil came home with them. And the fairy tale soured.
Ram’s subjects considered him a cuckold. His authority severely compromised, he exiled the by-then heavily pregnant Sita back into the woods. To his credit, he was pretty crestfallen over his own decision, didactically babbling about how he’d suffer too, pampered and forlorn, ruling the people from his giant, lonely palace.
Meanwhile, destitute in a hut, Sita delivered and reared twin boys. When they matured, they reunited with Ram, who then extended Sita a mealy-mouthed invitation to return, so long as she could once again prove her purity by surviving fire. Sita, for some silly, hysterical reason （probably dignity）， declined Ram’s magnanimous offer and instead asked Mother Earth to swallow her. The goddess Bhumi, aware of her daughter’s unhappy lot in life and her son-in-law’s trifling love, promptly obliged. Behold Sita! The Adarsh Bhartiya Nari: the Ideal Indian Woman. Truly, Geeta thought, Sita had every reason to come back as a churel.
What odd damage, Geeta wondered with sudden alarm as she watched costumed children play throughout the village, were they perpetuating with these stories? Sita was admittedly a top-notch lady: levelheaded, bright, kind and loyal. But in idealizing her suffering, people justified Ram’s punitiveness. An apology, for fuck’s sake, would have gone a long way. But from the get-go, they trained boys not to apologize and women to not expect it of them, to instead mutate pain into an art form. It was—
“Geeta!”
She started with a yawp, nearly dropping the steel pail.
Saloni stood, fanning the heat on her cheeks. “I’ve been calling you. Didn’t you hear me?”
“No, I was just thinking— Hey, is Aparna dressing up as Sita this year?”
Saloni looked puzzled. “That’s what you were—never mind. Yeah, in the school play. She grew, though, so we had to stitch a whole other outfit. And Farah wasn’t lying. She has no time to die, she’s so slammed.”
“Yeah, but should she?”
“Why not? It’s good money.”
“No, I mean Aparna. Why glorify the sexism in—”
Saloni groaned and clapped her palms over her ears. “Are you kidding me with this? For weeks, I’ve been chewing my own brains trying to not only convince my father-in-law to give a council seat to Khushiben, but also to convince him that it’s his idea. Then I chewed the sad leftovers of my brains to figure out how to do you-know-what to you-know-who. And now you wanna boycott Sita mid-Diwali? I swear, Geeta, you have more causes than I have pubic hairs.”
Geeta was too excited to remind her that Khushi wanted no part of the council. “You figured it out?” She gripped Saloni’s hand in gratitude. “That’s incredible! What’s your plan?”
“Oh no,” Saloni said, shaking her head. “I remember you at the police station; you’re a terrible liar. The less you know, the better.”