The Bandit Queens (3)
“No, please,” Farah repeated. “He’d be so angry. And anyway, I doubt you could convince the other women—I’m not exactly their favorite.”
This bit of news surprised Geeta, who’d assumed she was the only outsider in their loan group. She sighed. “Can you hide some of your money away from home? Or just lie about what you’re making?”
“I thought of that last week, after I missed those other payments.” Farah swallowed and Geeta watched the walnut of her throat retreat and return. She pointed to her split lip. “But he found out.” She shuffled forward. “May I come in?”
Geeta asked, “Why?” even as she stepped aside. Farah removed her sandals, and Geeta noticed her shoulder blades protruding from her thin blouse like nascent wings.
Geeta did not offer her a place to sit, or a glass of water. A guest was to be treated like God, but Farah was not her guest; and while Geeta went to the temple about three times a year, she wasn’t the serial supplicant her mother had been.
The two women stood barefoot in the middle of Geeta’s single-roomed home. Farah moved closer and Geeta, alarmed, took a step back. It upset her, that intimate liberty, as though she were this woman’s confidante. They were not friends—covering the payment had been a necessity, not a kindness. And yet Farah had latched on to the gesture with the desperation of a neglected dog.
Geeta suddenly wanted to tell her to retain some pride. To withhold parts of herself because there were plenty of people like her husband waiting to pilfer what they could. It was unlike Geeta, not only to intrude in others’ affairs, but also to offer advice. Advice was a cousin of caring; apathy was Geeta’s mantra.
But then Farah said: “Y-you must remember how hard it is. Rameshbhai went to Karem all the time before…” and any desire to counsel the woman vanished. Farah trailed off due to some sense of belated tact, but the damage was already done, and stopping short was just lazy. Various endings to her abandoned sentence whipped around the room like detached lizard tails, all echoes of the gossip that had consumed their village on the heels of Ramesh’s disappearance. Before she’d sprinkled crushed glass in his food, before she’d used her fangs to desiccate him into a husk, before she’d chopped up his body and fed it to the dogs.
“Yes,” Geeta finally said. “Before.” It was past time for Farah to leave, and Geeta itched to shut the door on Farah’s swollen, judgmental eye and her presumptuous camaraderie.
But she pressed on. “I need your help—a favor.”
It was a bold move, enough to surprise Geeta, which in turn cadged a bit of begrudging respect from her as well. “Piling on, are we? Well, I don’t have any more money for you.”
“No, I mean, I think I know how to stop him.”
“Good,” Geeta said. “You do that. Then you can pay me back.” She herded her unwanted guest toward the door as she had the lizard earlier, all but thumping a broom at Farah’s chapped heels.
“No, wait.” Farah sidestepped deeper into the room. Geeta sighed. “You stopped Ramesh. He drank and he hit you, I know he did. I saw. We all did.”
“You all did,” Geeta repeated. “But nobody did anything about it.”
Farah’s head lowered, diffident once more. “It was a family matter.”
Geeta nodded her agreement. “Yes, and so is this. Good luck, Farahben.” The respectful suffix of “sister” was not required as Geeta was elder. However, she took comfort in the distance it created. She reached for her door handle.
“Just teach me!” Farah burst out, more hyper than Geeta had ever seen her. Her good eye was manic with possibility. “I can stop Samir, too. I just need to know how you did it, how you got away with it.”
“And by stop him, you mean you want to—”
“Kill him!” Farah said, her voice far too loud. She chopped one hand on the opposite’s palm with a meaty thunk. “Get rid of him. Take him out. Give him a dog’s death.” She clicked her tongue as her thumb sliced across her throat.
Geeta gaped at her. “Have you been buying from Karem?”
“Of course not!” Farah took deep umbrage, as though that prospect was morally repugnant. She was breathing heavily, too fast and nearly hiccuping. She fanned her face.
“Calm down,” Geeta instructed.
Farah nodded while hyperventilating, and began muttering with one long breath. “Kabaddi, kabaddi, kabaddi…”
Geeta stared. “The fuck’re you doing?”
Farah’s breathing steadied. “It helps me breathe deeper. You know? Like the game?” She shrugged. “Whenever I get stressed or scared, it soothes me. It’s, like, my mantra.”
“Your mantra is ‘kabaddi.’?”
“I know it’s a little odd, but—”
“No, you’re a little odd. That’s super weird.”
Geeta inhaled. This meeting—which should’ve been a brief ThankyouGeetaben–WhateverFarah one-off—had derailed into insanity. That Geeta had even allowed it to get this far spoke of an unusual loss of control—was she really so starved for company that she’d indulged Farah’s madness? She smoothed wayward strands of hair against her crown and spoke calmly, “You have no idea what you’re saying, Farah. You’re not the Bandit Queen that you can run around killing men as you please. Go home and think of something else.”