She wanted to oblige; he was a reprieve from the exhausting social rounds. She’d talked to more people tonight than she had in the last five years. But Geeta had already chatted with Karem earlier, asked after his kids. Then he’d tried to settle in for a more serious discussion, she could tell by the way his voice lowered with gravitas and his head bent toward hers. Like most of the other guests, a red tilak with a few grains of stuck rice decorated his forehead from when he’d been greeted.
Far more palavering was in order; Geeta had to showcase her attendance. “Umm…” she hedged, looking up at him. The rice had fallen from his now-dried vermillion.
Past Karem’s shoulder, she saw Preity and Priya approaching, their plates empty. Priya’s laughter abruptly died when she saw who was standing near the pani puri, and she elbowed her sister twice with urgency, whispering something. Preity’s eyes widened and they executed neat, identical hairpin turns. Geeta was too confused to be offended. She’d already spoken to them, made the necessary eye contact, and checked them off her list, but she’d been hoping to parlay them into a reason to dodge Karem.
“It’s important,” he stressed.
Geeta laughed far too loudly, purposefully drawing attention from those nearby. She explained, dividing a millisecond of fixed eye contact between all those who looked her way: “He’s just too funny! Talk about making memories, am I right? Happy New Year! Saal Mubarak!” she barked at bewildered guests as he led her outside.
A puzzled Karem waited until they were on the porch before saying, “Listen, it’s about Bada-Bhai. I’ve been trying to talk to you all night, but you’ve been…busy.”
“Busy making memories!”
“Right,” he said doubtfully. “Are you feeling okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“You keep staring everyone down, demanding that they remember you.” He widened his eyes and looked at her, unblinking, following her whenever she twisted her head away in discomfort. “Happy New Year!” he cawed with manic merriment. “Saal Mubarak!”
“I’m not that bad!”
“Then why is everyone talking about the crazy lady with the bug eyes?”
“Okay,” she said, still laughing. “Maybe I’m more nervous about returning to the social scene than I realized.”
“Well, it’s just a party. Try to have a good time. You know, eat, drink. Maybe blink once in a while.”
“I think I forgot that I miss talking to you.”
He smiled. “Me, too. You look nice, by the way.”
She wore a silk sari in red and green that Ramesh had presented as another gift, the funds undoubtedly coming from her dwindling jewelry box savings. Thanking him had nearly given her an ulcer, but she’d managed by imagining him dead. She’d begun to regret allowing Saloni to handle the matter alone; Ramesh would never know that Geeta had conspired in his demise. But hubris tripped lesser murderesses, Geeta reminded herself. The Bandit Queen had pride, surely, but she also had brains.
Karem’s compliment left her more embarrassed than flattered. She gave her bun a self-conscious pat. Before leaving her home with Ramesh, she’d speared in an old costume pin, the two sharp prongs buried in the coil. Most women tonight, however, had lined their buns with fresh jasmine.
“You do, too. What were you saying about Bada-Bhai?”
Karem sobered. “I was in Kohra, trying to see if I could drum up some new business, and I overheard one of his goons at a chaat stand. He was on the phone, saying something about clearing someone’s chit.”
“Okay,” Geeta said, frowning. “What does that—”
“Have to do with you? Well, he also said it was in exchange for getting revenge on the ‘bitch who took the dogs.’？”
A hot fist of dread squeezed her chest. “What?”
Karem nodded. “Exactly.” It was clear he’d connected the pieces just as she was doing now: a forgiven debt for revenge on Geeta, mixed with Ramesh’s sudden and inconvenient arrival. “Geeta, I’m not trying to overstep here. And I know your relationship with Ramesh is between you and Ramesh, but…”
“You think Ramesh came back because Bada-Bhai wants revenge on me in exchange for Ramesh’s debt.”
“I’m sure it sounds farfetched because Ramesh has been dry, but—”
“No,” she said, chewing the dry skin off her lip. “It’s not farfetched. Ramesh is still drinking. On the sly.”
“Oh.” Karem took a step back. “That’s…”
“Not at all surprising?” she supplied. “I know.”
Her mind chirred. If Bada-Bhai came looking for her, perhaps she could reason with him, offer him what little money she had remaining. Geeta was not too keen on the idea of having a confrontation with an aspiring don, but somehow she felt more equipped to handle him now than she would have three weeks prior. Should she get a gun? No, no, that was lunacy. Well, maybe a little one with—
Beyond Saloni’s porch, a lassi station had been set up next to a jalebi maker’s huge caldron. The confectioner wielded a cone of batter that he swirled in tight concentric circles. Once fried, they were dipped in sugar syrup. The result was bright orange, shiny wheels. Shaped, Geeta thought idly, like mosquito coils. Her mouth watered, which was odd as she didn’t care for sweets the way Saloni did.
“Okay, okay,” Geeta said, convincing herself. “It’ll be fine, I’ll be fine. I’ll figure something out.”
“Geeta,” Karem said, her name a warning.
“What? You said so yourself that he’s not an actual don, how dangerous can Chintu be?”
“Listen, if I had to guess, I’d say he’s more upset about being bested by a ‘housewife’ than your freeing the dogs. But I’m worried that he’ll use you as an example to, I don’t know, make a name for himself.”
For if you kill twenty, your fame will spread; if you kill only one, they will hang you as a murderess.
“Maybe we could use the police to scare him.”
Karem sighed. “The same ones he bribes?”
“There’s one who isn’t in his pocket. ASP Sinha.”
“Should we call him?”
Geeta was too aghast to correct him. “God no! She won’t believe anything I say. But Bada-Bhai doesn’t know that.”
The lassi maker poured milk from a steel cup into a glass. Then back into the steel. Back into the cup. The distance between the two vessels grew and grew as he created a long foaming fountain, but he never spilled. He kept pouring, fomenting, and his dance was oddly hypnotizing. She felt soothed in a strange way, relaxed but awake, as though someone was scratching her head with long fingernails. A stressed slice of her mind clicked off, allowing a dormant portion to wake and suddenly she knew what had been itching her brain two days ago when she’d delivered milk to Ramesh.
“Fuck,” she whispered, her voice nearly reverent as she set down her disposable plate.
“What’s wrong?”
“Fuck, fuck.”
“Arre, what?” Karem’s forehead pleated.
“I have to go. I…forgot to feed Bandit. Poor guy. I’ll be back.”