Geeta nodded in earnest. “Exactly. No one’s gonna believe we’re murderers. But you know we are. You’ve seen what I’m capable of.” Men like him would always look at her and see the things they were glad they weren’t: weak, small, timid, powerless. Let them. She’d expended so much energy vying for a broken seat at an uneven table. Fuck it, she’d make her own damn table. “But don’t look so stressed. You’re going to get your number one tharra supplier back. Because you’re not going to test on dogs anymore. Not now that you have a very willing human subject.”
BB glanced at Ramesh’s slack form with doubt. “He doesn’t look like he’ll be testing anything anytime soon.”
“You’d be surprised. Monsters don’t die so easily.” Geeta pulled in a shaky breath. “But in exchange, you take him and make sure he never comes back here. You get our silence, your freedom, your reputation and your tharra business. But Ramesh never bothers me again. Have your men threaten him or cage him or whatever it takes, I don’t care, but you keep him away from me. Forever. Understood?”
BB evaluated her and, for an agonizing moment, Geeta thought he’d dismiss her. That he’d leave and all their leverage would disappear with him. But then he nodded. “All right, Geeta of Geeta’s Designs. I’m in so long as Sinha stays out.” He stuck out his hand. “We’re even?”
Geeta squinted, remembering the impotent degradation of being tied to the chair as he’d smacked the back of her head. Quick as thought, one hand darted out to dope-slap him with the humbling censure she’d seen the women use on their children. He was so surprised, his hand remained extended, frozen. She pumped it twice before he could renege on their deal. “Now we’re even.”
EPILOGUE
Geeta stood in front of the refrigerator. It was old. It would have to be; seventeen years had passed. Her in-laws could surely afford a newer model but, as it still functioned, there was little point. So it seemed her parents had chosen well all those years ago for the dowry she’d never known they paid. Geeta extended a hand to touch it and then changed her mind. Such sentimentality was, while not outright absurd, not particularly useful today.
“He’s ready for you,” her motherin-law said. “Well, as ready as he’ll ever be, I guess.”
Geeta turned away from the refrigerator. “I won’t be long,” she said, hiking her purse strap higher. In it, she carried an envelope of papers as well as the day’s purchases thus far: treats for Bandit, sequins Farah needed and Raees’s requested uninflated balloons, which she’d give him when he and his father joined her for dinner that night.
“Of course not,” her motherin-law said snidely. “Why should such a thing take longer than a minute?”
“It’s taken six years,” Geeta corrected. “He left me six years ago.” Her motherin-law had aged, but then again, so had Geeta. Rancor furrowed the woman’s mouth more than wrinkles. It must be difficult, Geeta thought. To birth a son with a sigh of relief because now you had someone to carry you in your dotage, only to have that son collapse on your stooped back instead.
“You made a vow. You never gave him children, the least you could do is look after him.”
A fizzle of quick anger flared in Geeta. “What, and deny you the joys of motherhood? It’s a privilege, I hear.”
Her expression further soured. “？‘Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.’？”
“I have forgiven him. In that I expect and want nothing from him,” Geeta said. It was true; Phoolan Devi had spent her truncated life vacillating between terror and rage, understandably, but Geeta now knew she didn’t want to live that way. “But forgiveness doesn’t mean I’m right back where I started.”
Geeta walked down the hall without waiting for a reply. She knocked lightly and listened for a grunt of permission. She then entered, closing the door behind her. Angled toward the bed was a wooden chair, its back ornately carved. She sat, purse on lap, and pulled out the manila envelope so as not to crumple its papers. “You’re looking better,” she lied.
The onus was, naturally, on her to speak first. Her bullet had shattered Ramesh’s jaw and drilled a hole in his tongue, leaving him unable to speak or chew properly. The veterinarian Bada-Bhai initially took him to may have done more harm than good, but subsequent doctors predicted that, after a few years, Ramesh’s range of motion might increase. The imposed liquid diet, Geeta noted as she observed the glass bottle and cup near his bedside, did not seem to inconvenience him. He’d lost teeth; she’d seen them on her floor, but the gaps were not apparent because he couldn’t part his lips more than an inch.
“Bada-Bhai says hi.” When he glared in her direction, she amended, “Okay, not ‘hi’ exactly, but he sent you a new batch. He finally dropped the ‘BB,’ you know, said it was too confusing.” She set a few baggies on the table near the bottle. “By the way, we got approved for higher loans. Plus, Chintu introduced Farah and me to a whole new clientele. I don’t love that they’re mostly goons, but Farah says money is money, and I guess she’s right. And at least no one’s going blind from his tharra anymore. You did that. Something to feel good about, na?
“Oh, don’t pout. Let’s see, what else? Hey! You remember Bandit, my dog? He’s a she! This whole time, well, I never checked. I still call him—her—‘good boy.’ It’ll take some getting used to. But look at me, going on.” She coughed. “How’re you?”
He smacked the bedsheets for his paper pad. He was more jaundiced than the last time she’d seen him. “？‘Still blind,’？” she read aloud from his pad.
“It could be temporary, you know,” she said, shaking the bottle so he could hear her meaning. “If you tried to stop.”
She read: “？‘Not worth it.’？” She sighed. “Chintu says he tweaks the formula based upon when you can see again, but you just keep drinking it. You know it’s killing you.”
“？‘Not fast enough.’ Okay then, your choice. I wouldn’t mind being a widow, as you know. But you’re wearing out your mother. She looks exhausted. I assume she still thinks some goons shot you because you were behind on your tab?”
He remained immobile. A puckered scar on his cheek marked where her bullet had exited, and his jaw and chin did not align properly, like a shirt buttoned incorrectly. There were, of course, times when Geeta wondered if she regretted shooting him, if she felt remorse at causing another human being such pain, especially one she’d once loved. She loved him no longer, it was true, but often the memory of love was more powerful than the love itself. For a short while that had felt like a long while, he’d been her world. But her world was bigger now. So the ruing, she decided, should be his alone. For her, regret was like sifting water; besides, she had plenty of other regrets higher on her list, such as the time she and Saloni had lost.
Perhaps there was a version of her who had the grace not to shoot, but Geeta had been forged in fire and fire shaped her mettle. This was the version of her who had survived and there was no sense in apologizing for being a survivor.