She pulled the papers from the envelope. “I do appreciate this. The advocate says that mutual consent divorces take half as long as contested ones.”
He pointed at her and then brushed his thumb near his hairline.
She laughed. “No, I’m not getting remarried.”
Palm up, he spread his fingers in a fan. Then why?
“Because our lives aren’t tied together anymore, Ramesh. I’ve been living as a single woman for years, and I want that to be official. For me. I don’t want your name.”
He was motionless, and Geeta feared he’d changed his mind. If he did, she had avenues, options, but didn’t relish resorting to them. They’d leave her feeling as exhausted as his mother looked. Finally, he jerked his hand in a writing motion.
“Yes.” She guided his hand over the page. “Little to the left, lower, yes, now. Perfect.”
Ramesh thrust one taut word through his immobile jaw. “Done?”
“Not quite. This is just the first motion for our joint petition. Later, we’ll have to appear in court. Will you be up for that?”
He shrugged, but it was petulant, a child wielding his silence like a sword. She knew he could, and likely would, turn on her during the multistep process. He’d forget her capabilities and she’d have to remind him: she could always remove her own nose ring for free, rather than pay for a cumbersome divorce. The latter was a gift to him, prolonging his minor existence, allowing him to reach for the drink a bit longer, before the cirrhosis finally prevailed.
“You know,” she said, stretching out her legs and wiggling her toes. “When you think about it, you got everything you ever wanted.”
His brow lifted.
“You get to drink like it’s your job, which it is. Your family won’t buy you any, but Chintu gives it to you for free. I don’t expect thanks, but wasn’t that your dream?”
His eyes scowled when his jaw wouldn’t cooperate.
“You never did understand irony.”
He dismissed her with a flick of his wrist. Go.
“Before I do,” Geeta said with cheer, “I’ll tell you what I suspect you’ve already figured out: you’re a rotten person, Ramesh, and nearly dying didn’t change that. You were rotten for marrying me, for lying about Saloni, for letting those girls be abused, for letting your parents rob mine. Leaving me was bad, but not worse than staying. Thank you for that. I know you did it to hurt me, but I still thank you.
“I think if I were you, I wouldn’t want to be sober either. It’s a lot easier to tolerate yourself if you’re just perpetually a few drinks in, right? Speaking of…” Geeta poured a peg and a half into the glass and wrapped his fingers around it.
“I know why you tried to ruin me and Saloni, by the way.”
“Oh?” he slurred, more from his defective tongue than the drink. He took a draught. Liquid dribbled down one corner of his mouth, his finger caught it and brought it to his lips.
“It was the weakest I’d ever be, without her. With her around, you didn’t stand a chance at making me feel small. Your failures are not my fault, but all you did was blame me for them.
“You know, everyone told me I had to work at marriage. They all said, ‘You’ve attached your life to his, you’re together now, there’s no alternative, you must forgive and make it work.’ An argument or a fight—or a fist—isn’t the end because it can’t be, not in marriage.”
At Ramesh’s “so what” expression, Geeta smiled.
“But I should’ve had the same rule with Saloni. Why didn’t anyone say, ‘You’ve attached your life to hers, you must forgive and make it work,’ and all that? I’d known you for a minute and her my whole life. But still, it didn’t occur to me that it was just as important to not let a fight with her ruin our friendship. Why was I so busy protecting the copper I had with you, that I destroyed the gold I had with her?
“I know, I know. ‘Why are you dumping all this on me and not her?’ Don’t worry. I’ve told her, too.” She dusted her hands as though having just completed a chore. “Well, I’ll take your leave, then. And, Ramesh?”
When he angled his head toward where she stood near the door, she said: “You’re wrong, I’m right, and I’m definitely not sorry.”
Her motherin-law was not in the common room, and Geeta let herself out without any further goodbyes. Saloni would be waiting with her scooter at the end of the alley; they’d decided to do some shopping while in the city, maybe see a film or finally track down some wine, and Geeta had kept her long enough. As she shut the door behind her, she caught another glimpse of the old, mint-green refrigerator.
Hers was much nicer.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Though Phoolan Devi （born Phoolan Mallah） was a real person, she lived a life flooded with extremes beyond credulity, such that her legend adopts a cinematic, fictional patina. This aura of epic mythos is certainly furthered by the various adaptions of her life, some made with her consent and cooperation, others not.
Phoolan began life with a myriad of disadvantages: born poor, born low caste, born a woman. Nonetheless, at a young age, it was exasperatingly clear to her parents that Phoolan would neither be silenced nor quelled. This is likely why they married a very young, headstrong Phoolan to a man thrice her age, with disastrous results. After joining a gang of dacoits, she both committed and was subjected to a series of crimes. She eventually surrendered to the police and was imprisoned for eleven years. Upon her release, she became a member of Parliament and an activist until 2001 when she was assassinated at the age of thirty-seven.
As with any flesh and blood person, there are inconsistencies and contradictions in what was seen, what was heard, what was done. I’ve attempted to adhere to her autobiography and researched accounts, but there are some events that Phoolan was understandably reticent to discuss. In fact, I’m grateful she shared as much as she did with us in her autobiography, I, Phoolan Devi: The Autobiography of India’s Bandit Queen. I was also fortunate to access sources such as India’s Bandit Queen: The True Story of Phoolan Devi by Mala Sen and the beautifully rendered graphic novel Phoolan Devi Rebel Queen by Claire Fauvel. That said, any mistakes made are mine alone.
I invoke Phoolan’s name and story many times throughout this novel, and while writing and rewriting those passages, I asked myself: Is this honoring Phoolan or exploiting her? The former was my intent, the latter my nightmare. I strove to draw readers’ curiosity to the remarkable person Phoolan was, not use her as a one-dimensional tool to further my agency while robbing hers. She’s lionized by the novel’s protagonists; however, in paying homage, I was cognizant of the fact that none of us are inspired by a person’s entire story. Phoolan is an example of an unlikely alternative, an inspiration to any woman seeking to make her own choices in a world where she is told—and her circumstances consistently confirm—that men will make her choices for her. In this way, she is a source of inspiration to this novel’s characters, a group of women making their own choices.
The characters of Geeta and Farah bloomed in my mind a decade ago, when I was visiting my father and brother in India and we drove to Samadra, Gujarat, to attend a meeting of a microloan group my father was involved in financing. The women’s stories of empowerment and financial agency were, of course, heartening. But I kept wondering what, in a rural area of a patriarchal country, could stop any of their husbands should they choose to exert their dominance? Loans alone did not, could not eradicate female vulnerability. Which led me to an uncomfortable observation: These women were mobile, but only within ambits delineated by men. Thus, this book began, but as a short story with no murder, no mayhem, and minimal mystery.