Bhima nods. “What about the funeral arrangements?” she asks.
The sobbing begins anew. “I cannot. I cannot let my Ram go,” Bibi says.
Bhima puts her arm around the woman. “Bibi,” she says. “You know the cremation must take place before sunrise. You know that is our custom. Otherwise, the soul . . .”
“I know. I know all that. But my Ram . . .” Bibi lifts her bloodshot eyes to Bhima. “You come with me, mausi. I have no one else in this godforsaken city.”
Bhima stares at her, aghast. Don’t ask me for this, she thinks. I’ll share my last grain of rice with you and your son, but don’t ask me to watch another body burn on the funeral pyre. It has been years since I witnessed my own daughter’s body eaten by the orange flames, and the smell is still in my nostrils. I will be strong for you, but not this, beti. Don’t ask me for this. “I cannot,” she gasps. “Maaf karo, Bibi, forgive me. I’m an old lady.” She turns helplessly to Shyam, whose face is impassive.
But her refusal has unleashed a panicked wildness in Bibi, who looks around the room in agitation. “What do I do?” she says. “Arre, Bhagwan, what is this darkness that has entered my life?”
Before any of them can reply, Bibi fidgets with the red glass bangles on her arm, then raises the arm and strikes the mud floor repeatedly, until the bangles shatter. Maya lets out a cry at the violence of the gesture, and even though Bhima knows that it is customary for a widow to do this, she is upset at Bibi for choosing to perform this ritual in her home, afraid of her depositing a residue of bad luck into their already hard lives. “Get up, child,” she says firmly, gathering up the weeping woman. “I will go with you to the cremation grounds. Now, go home and prepare the body.”
When they emerge from the hut, the crowd is still gathered outside. Bibi looks as if she is about to faint, so Bhima enlists the help of two strong-looking women to escort her home. The little boy trails along behind his mother, and Bhima’s heart breaks at the sight. Something about his timid posture reminds her of the newly orphaned Maya when she had first brought her with her to Mumbai. She sighs heavily and then reenters her hovel, wanting to catch her breath.
“Ma-ma,” Maya says as soon as she enters. “I’ll go with Bibi. You stay here.”
Bhima growls. “Shut your mouth, you stupid girl,” she says. “The only pyre you will ever witness is your old grandmother’s.”
“Don’t say that, Ma-ma,” Maya cries, and for a moment, she is that little girl at her mother’s sickbed who refused to leave her grandmother’s side in the days that followed.
Bhima’s outrage softens. “I’m not going anywhere,” she says. “My flesh is too bitter and tough for even the fire to enjoy.”
“Why did Bibi come to you, Ma-ma?”
“I don’t know. Maybe grief attracts grief.” Bhima falls silent, struck by a thought. She has never left Maya alone in the slum at night. “Where I’m going to leave you if I go with her for the cremation tonight?” she says. Immediately, she thinks of Serabai, and almost as immediately she is forced to banish that thought.
“I can stay alone one night,” Maya says. “I’m not a child, Ma-ma.”
“Chup re. This place is a jungle, full of drunken wild beasts.” Bhima lowers her voice. “You made a mistake one time, girl. Don’t ever repeat it again.”
Maya flushes. She opens her mouth to reply and then closes it, and stares at the floor.
Bhima looks at her granddaughter for a minute, then asks, “What time is it?”
“It’s getting on eight-thirty, Ma-ma. And we haven’t even had dinner yet.” Maya’s voice is shaking, teary.
Bhima comes to a resolution. “Come on,” she says. “Wear your chappals and let’s go.”
“At this hour? Where to?”
“To the Ashoka. You can eat something there. And I will use their phone to call Sunitabai. If she agrees, you are spending the night there. You can sleep on the floor of her kitchen, then come home in the morning before going to college.”
“Ma-ma. Have you gone mad? Why will this Sunitabai say yes? I’ve never even met her.”
Bhima smiles grimly. She is not sure herself. But ever since Chitra baby—yes, she has begun to call her that—has moved in, there is a softening in Sunitabai. Now, when she talks to Bhima she looks at her, instead of like in the old days when Bhima felt like she was writing her newspaper stories even while she was talking to her. Chitra baby almost always works alongside her in the kitchen, asking question after question about her life, and Bhima can tell that she carries some morsel of her answers back to Sunitabai each evening. And so she is willing to risk Sunitabai’s refusal rather than leave Maya alone in the slum at night.
Maya grumbles all the way to the restaurant, but once there, she settles into eating a plate of biryani while Bhima uses the phone. It is her good luck that Chitra baby answers and actually seems happy to have been asked. “Do you want us to come pick her up, Bhima?” she asks, as if it is a natural thing for someone like her to walk into the slum at night.
“No, baby,” Bhima says bashfully. “We will walk.”
“At this hour?” The worry in Chitra’s voice makes Bhima flush with pride. “Listen, do one thing. Catch a cab. Tell the driver to honk when you get here and I’ll come down and pay him.”
If the cab ride isn’t enough to impress Maya, Bhima can tell that the girl is taken by the casual friendliness with which the two women greet them. Also, Maya looks comfortable in this modest apartment in a way that she never did in Serabai’s much larger and more expensive home. Watching Maya talk to Sunitabai and Chitra, chatting about things Bhima knows nothing about, fills the older woman with awe. So this is what she has bought for her granddaughter. She had thought that her education was merely buying Maya a future job, where she would hold a pen instead of a broom. But it turns out that she had also bought Maya this ease of conversation, this friendly banter, this lapsing into English like rich people do. For the first time since Pooja’s death Bhima does not think of her dead daughter with sadness. Instead, she thinks: Look what we made together, Pooja. You, by giving her birth. Me, by giving her a life. From my bare hands and dim wits, I have given your daughter this.
They must’ve been talking about the circumstances of why Bhima has called them with this unusual request, because Sunitabai is asking her, with that small frown on her face, “Do they know for sure they were targeting Northerners, Bhima? Because if they were, that’s a news story.”
Bhima folds her hands. “Please forgive me, bai,” she says. “I know nothing. We are only repeating what we were told.”
There is a short silence, and then Maya says unexpectedly, “I was born in Delhi. So I guess that makes me a foreigner, too.”
Chitra lets out a squeal. “You were? Me, too. My whole family is from Delhi.” She grins and points to Sunita. “I only moved to this dreadful city because of this one here.”
There is a short, awkward silence before Sunita says, “Oh yeah. Because Delhi’s such a great city. The rape capital of the world and all.”
“Damn. You Mumbaikars are such chauvinists,” Chitra responds, as Maya looks from one to the other, as if she is unsure of where her loyalties should lie.
It is late and Bhima stifles a yawn. “If you have some newspaper, bai, please to set it on the floor for my granddaughter,” she says politely. “And I have packed a bedsheet for her. I am so grateful to you for this kindness.”
Sunita looks pained. “There’s no reason for her to sleep on the floor,” she mumbles. “We have a second bedroom.” She digs into her jeans and pulls out two twenty-rupee notes. “Take a taxi back, Bhima. It’s too late for you to be walking home.”
Three times during the ceremony Bhima thinks she will pass out. It is all too horrifyingly familiar—the sound of the skull exploding in the flames, the smell of burning flesh and burning wood, the embers of the fire flickering like stars against the black sky, the ritualized chanting of the priests, Bibi’s heart-tearing sobs. Does human suf
fering sound all the same to the ears of the Gods, she wonders? Does that explain their indifference to our misery, this indifference that allows for the murder of a man as good as Ram? If this is so, she thinks, it is correct that a broken woman like herself should be the one holding up the shattered woman standing beside her. If poor Bibi is now entering her own Age of Darkness, who better than Bhima to coach her on how to survive that journey? She feels a moment’s anger at the thought. She is still not sure what has brought her to this point, where all she can offer someone like Bibi is a guided tour through misery. She had been a devoted wife but had still ended up letting down her husband; she had been a good mother but had lost both her children; she had been a strict grandmother but still had to preside over the murder of her great-grandchild; she had been a devoted servant and still she had been thrown out from Serabai’s house in dishonor. There is a key that would solve these riddles, she thinks, but she can only see it out of the corner of her eyes, hovering near, but out of reach.
Beside her, Bibi moans and the sound is so elemental, so truly an expression of what Bhima’s own heart sounds like, that the older woman instinctively puts her arm around the younger. Bibi leans in sideways and Bhima has to dig her feet into the solid earth in order to prop both of them up, the young widow and the old—? But what is she? How to describe a woman whose husband is still alive but dead to her? What do you call a woman who is no longer a wife or a mother, despite the fact that, as far as she knows, both her husband and son are walking the earth a mere five-hour train journey away? Sometimes Bhima catches a glimpse of herself in the full-sized mirror in Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s old armoire, and she stops dead in her tracks, not recognizing the bone-thin, slightly stooped woman with the scanty hair and severe face that looks back at her. Even her large brown eyes have begun to turn a milky gray, giving her a ghostly appearance. The plump, no-nonsense girl that Gopal had wooed and married, the hardworking young mother whose hands moved at the speed of lightning, that woman has disappeared. She glances down at Bibi’s tearstained face and wishes there was something she could teach this young woman, some morsel of experience she could feed her to sustain her during the dark days ahead. The only thing she knows without a doubt is that education is what may have saved them, herself and Gopal and Amit, and that even if it means scrubbing pots and pans until the skin comes off her hands, she will make sure that Maya finishes college.
As the priest ends his chanting, the wailing of the mourners begins. Bhima does not join them in this ritual. She barely knew Ram, and what Bibi needs now is not encouragement toward weakness but strength. Being a poor woman, she knows, is the toughest job in the world. So she waits for the wailing to stop and then she mutters, “Strength, beti. Be strong.”
Bibi turns tearfully toward her. “How, mausi?” she asks. “How? He was my rock. How do I learn to see the world through my own eyes?”
Bhima falls silent, feeling acutely her own inadequacy. By breathing one breath at a time, she wants to say. By waking up one morning after another. By putting one foot ahead of the next, until your feet recall how to walk again. She remembers again the morning after Gopal had left, how she’d woken up in her new condition—breathing while dead—wishing that the whole world had ended while she slept, because to ask her to step into the still-alive world was a greater insult than the one held in the farewell note that Gopal had left for her.
Now, Bhima ponders Bibi’s plaintive question, until the answer comes to her. “Not through your own eyes,” she says. “But through his.” She points to the little boy hovering beside Bibi. “Your son has lost his father. Is it your wish that he loses his mother too?”
She knows she has said the right thing by how Bibi’s weight shifts away from her. “That’s right,” Bhima says, nodding her head. “You will learn to stand, beti, so that your son doesn’t fall.”
“We will go back,” Bibi says in a loud, fierce voice to all the mourners. “I will not raise my son in this city, where a man can be killed simply for being from the wrong place.”
The other neighbors flock around Bibi and Bhima turns away thankfully. She is tired and she has to be at Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s apartment in a few hours. She takes a few steps away from the crowd and notices a well-dressed man in a white safari suit staring at her. Had he been here all along? She is sure she has never seen him before and he is most certainly not someone from the basti. “Namaste,” the man says to her in a low voice. “Are you Bibi’s mother?”
Bhima gives a short laugh. “No,” she says. “No relations. I am just her neighbor.”
“Ah.” The man smiles. He looks over her shoulder and then addresses her again. “I’m here on an urgent business matter, mother,” he says. “Can you arrange it so that I can speak to the young widow for a minute?”
Bhima eyes the man suspiciously. Her mind flashes back to the foreman at Gopal’s factory. Like this stranger, that man had spoken to her with respect. He, too, had a soft voice. Suddenly, she is sure this man wants Bibi to sign a paper that will alter the course of her life. “Wait here,” she says in a harsh voice, ignoring the look of surprise on the man’s face. “I will bring her.”
Bibi is in the middle of the crowd of weeping women. “Beti,” Bhima says. “There’s a man waiting for you here. Says he has some business for you.” She takes in Bibi’s tangled hair and sweaty face and knows that in her present condition, Bibi would sign her son over to any stranger who said a kind word to her. “I will come with you,” she adds, grabbing Bibi by the wrist and pulling her along.
The man tells Bibi how sorry he is to hear of what has happened to Ram, that he will be filing a police report on their behalf first thing this morning because a grave injustice has been done. He tells her that Ram was a good man, then looks distressed when Bibi begins to cry anew. He pauses, takes a deep breath, then says, “Sister. I have come to talk to you about a time-bound matter.”
Bhima tenses, waiting for the stranger to produce a piece of paper and a pen. She will pounce at once, beg Bibi to not sign anything until they have consulted with someone who is not illiterate like them.
Instead, the man says, “I need to talk to you about custard apples.”
6
Custard apples.
The godown is filled with the fruit, the air thick with its cloying, sweet smell. Without warning, Bhima’s mouth waters at the scent, which she remembers from her childhood. A smile plays on her face as she remembers breaking open the green exterior to reveal the white fruit, then tonguing the sweet, coarse white pulp that clung to each large, polished black seed. She used to spread the seeds on a newspaper, pretending they were pieces of polished gems from which she would make earrings and pendants. Bhima has never been able to afford more than one of these fruits at a time. Never in her life has she seen them in such a vast quantity, stacked on top of each other in a pyramid, the ripe fruit stacked in a separate pile from the unripe ones. To Bhima, this sight is as wondrous as if she were visiting the Taj Mahal for the first time.
Now, Jafferbhai points to one of the piles. “I was telling you about these ones, only,” he says to Bibi. “Your husband has paid for these. So, technically, they are belonging to you. You send someone to take them away. You can sell, give away, eat—it’s your business.”
Bibi swallows and looks at Bhima, her eyes beseeching the older woman to make her case. Bhima nods imperceptibly, then turns toward the fruit merchant. “Jafferbhai,” she says. “Many thanks for thinking about Bibi and her son during their time of hardship. But she is a lone woman. What does she know of her husband’s business? Very good of you to come and explain.” She steals a quick look at the man’s impassive face and decides to speak the obvious. “But Jafferbhai. What is poor Bibi going to do with custard apples? As you may be knowing, she works all day at the Kohinoor hotel. What does she know about selling fruit? Please, sahib. Please, you just return the money that Ram gave you and you keep the fruit yourself. This young widow will remain in your debt, sir.”
Jafferbhai sighs impatiently. “You’re not understanding, mausi,” he says through gritted teeth. “That’s not the way my business works.” His voice turns plaintive. “No other fruit seller would’ve taken time to come to the funeral to give you a chance to own this fruit. My own employees are saying I’m too softhearted.” His eyes harden. “I can give you until tomorrow to come claim the fruit. If you don’t want, you don’t want. I will sell it to some other vendor at discount price. Case finish.” He bows his head and folds in hands before Bibi. “Namaste-ji,” he says. “My condolences about your husband. He was a very good man. In his memory, only, I try to help you.”
As they exit through the tall iron gates of Jafferbhai’s warehouses, the two women walk beside each other in an embarrassed silence, feeling the sting of failure. They are both aware that they have compounded their mistake by taking the day off from their jobs to run this foolhardy errand. Bibi at least has a good excuse—the Kohinoor’s hotel manager, who is himself from the North, has sent word that he is sorry for her loss. Bhima knows she has no comparable excuse to offer Mrs. Motorcyclewalla and that the old lady will be relentless in her haranguing tomorrow. She sighs heavily, and immediately Bibi takes her hand in hers. “Forgive me, mausi,” she says. “I have cost you a day’s wages for no good reason. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You did not,” Bhima says shortly, in no mood to explain her reason for accompanying a neighbor who is more of an acquaintance than a friend. Except that, out of all the mourners Jafferbhai could have approached at the funeral, he had sought her out. And who better than she to know how the entire scale of life can be upset by one mistake, born out of illiteracy and ignorance? She had not wished that fate on Bibi, not realizing that Jafferbhai was that most unusual species—an honest man.
They have come to the main road and are about to turn right to walk toward the slum when Bhima stops. She looks around for a minute, wanting to get her bearings. “Bibi,” she says, as the idea forms in her head. “You go on home. I am needing to be somewhere.”
The Secrets Between Us Page 6