The Secrets Between Us

by Thrity Umrigar

  She waits at the corner until she can no longer distinguish Bibi in the crowd, then turns to cross the street. The sun is particularly vile today, and the heat and the smell of exhaust from the vehicles idling at the traffic light make her light-headed for a moment. She steps gingerly down from the curb onto the street, as if dipping her toe in the ocean, but just then a bicyclist going the wrong way almost knocks her down and she mutters a curse and hurries back onto the sidewalk. “Junglees,” says the elderly Parsi woman standing beside her. “Savages. No discipline they are having.” She peers up at Bhima through her thick glasses. “What I would pay to bring the British back. They’d discipline these idiots in one-two-three.” She snaps her fingers for emphasis.

  Finally, Bhima manages to cross the intersection, darting between cars that barely slow down for pedestrians, stepping around a legless beggar lying down on a skateboard that he pushes with his hands. Viraf baba used to dread the cripples on skateboards when he drove, she remembers, because it was almost impossible to see them from the car. She shudders at the memory of the gratitude she used to feel anytime he offered her a ride in his air-conditioned car to the marketplace where she is now headed.

  She has not been back to this market in over a year, not since the last time she shopped here for Serabai, but it is instantly familiar to her. There is a throng of midmorning shoppers, but she is only looking for one person: Rajeev, the tall, lanky eager-to-please fellow who used to carry the groceries to Serabai’s home. If she can persuade Rajeev to give up his regular job for a day tomorrow, they can pick up the custard apples from the godown in the morning, then sell them out of his large wicker basket. Beyond this, Bhima has no plan, not even where they would find a spot for his basket in this busy place where every inch of pavement has been claimed. But Rajeev might know. Then again, Rajeev is dumb—or did she think that only because as the trusted servant of a wealthy Parsi woman, she used to look down upon him? Bhima smiles grimly to herself. Well, look how far she has fallen.

  Unable to spot him, Bhima heads to Birla and Sons, the shop where she used to find Rajeev crouched on the sidewalk, smoking a bidi in between his errands. Birlabhai, a portly man who used to chastise her for bargaining with him as if she were spending her own money and not her mistress’s, recognizes her immediately. “Bhima behen,” he shouts. “How are you? Where have you been?”

  Bhima nods her head in greeting but avoids the question. “I’m looking for Rajeev,” she says.

  “Rajeev? He was here a minute back, only.” Birla smacks a young boy who is sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Go find that good-for-nothing Rajeev,” he says. “Tell him someone is looking for him.”

  There are no other customers at Birla’s shop, and after the boy has left, Birla looks curiously at her. “So why did you leave us, sister?” he says. “Find better prices elsewhere?”

  Bhima utters the first lie that pops into her head. “I work for another mistress now,” she says curtly. “Very rich woman. She has her fruits and vegetables delivered from Breach Candy.”

  “Breach Candy, hah?” The shopkeeper shakes his head. “My son taught me a saying.” He says something in English and when Bhima stares at him blankly, he translates: “It means, if a man is a fool, he and his money are quickly separated.”

  “I work for a woman,” Bhima says, not understanding, and Birlabhai clucks his tongue. “Man, woman, a fool is a fool, hai na?” he says impatiently, and Bhima is compelled to nod her assent.

  “How is your son?” she asks politely.

  “Vikram? He is good, thank God. He got married last February. Girl is from very good family from the California in America. So Vikram is now living there, only.” Birla looks at Bhima shifty-eyed. “I looked for you to distribute wedding invitation to, Bhima bhen,” he says. “But what to do? You just disappear one day and not come back.”

  Bhima resists the urge to laugh at this naked lie. She remembers how dismissively he used to talk to her in the old days, when, unlike the other servants, she used to drive a hard bargain, out of a misguided notion that she must handle Serabai’s money as frugally as her own. “Your son’s good fortune has changed you,” she says boldly. “Your happiness shows on your face.” Her words are both compliment and insult, and she can see the confusion in Birlabhai’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” he says, and just then a customer appears and he turns away from Bhima to tend to his business. She leans her upper back against the whitewashed wall outside his shop, careful not to let her sari touch the lower half, which is covered with the red streaks of paan juice spat out by passersby. She looks out on the crowded market, anxious to find Rajeev. A second later she spots him, towering over most of the shoppers, hurrying toward her, a big smile on his face. “Mausi,” he exclaims as he draws near. “Which God do I thank for this miracle? How are you? Where did you disappear to?”

  Bhima smiles thinly, not willing to let Rajeev know how glad she is to see him. “Theek hu,” she answers. I am fine. “And you?”

  “I’m fightum-fit,” he says. “With God’s grace.”

  But when Bhima looks closely, she can see new worry lines on Rajeev’s gaunt face. And she notices that his back is more stooped than before. He is a young man—Bhima imagines he is no older than forty-two, but there is a sadness in his eyes that takes her by surprise. “Listen, Rajeev,” she says urgently. “I have some work for you . . .”

  “Let’s go, mausi,” he interrupts. “You need delivery to Serabai’s?”

  She shakes her head impatiently. “No. I am no longer in her employ.” She ignores his start of surprise. “This is a different kind of job.”

  Rajeev smokes a bidi quietly as Bhima explains the situation. When she is done, he looks at her for a long moment and then pulls at his ear. “How many custard apples are there to sell, mausi? How many trips I must make?”

  It is a reasonable question, and Bhima is upset at herself for not knowing the answer. “I don’t know,” she says shortly. “But whatever it is, I will pay you for it.”

  He swallows. “You are like my mother, mausi,” he says. “I don’t wish to offend. But what to do? If I earn less money than I do at this job, my wife will not forgive me. We are trying to put a new roof on our home, mausi. Plus I am having a son in college.”

  Bhima looks away, not wanting him to see the disappointment in her face. “I understand,” she mumbles. It is better this way, she thinks. She doesn’t want to get too entangled in Bibi’s life because she knows how it will be for Bibi from now on—one misfortune after another, like ants following each other in a row. She tells herself that she is indifferent to this realization. But the hollow feeling in her chest at the thought of failing Bibi tells her otherwise.

  “Mausi,” Rajeev says timidly. “I have an idea. What if I help you for a few hours tomorrow morning? Let’s see what we can do to help the unfortunate widow.”

  Bhima folds her hands in gratitude. “Shukriya, beta. That would be very good.”

  “But mausi,” Rajeev continues. “If his cart has been destroyed, where are we going to sell the fruit?” He looks around, a worried expression on his face. “No one will allow us to sell near their shop.”

  “I was thinking we just sell from your basket,” Bhima says.

  Rajeev laughs. “How we do that, mausi? If I carry the basket on my head, will customer climb on the ladder to inspect the fruit?”

  Bhima’s eyes fill with tears of frustration. She has not slept much since Bibi had come to her door two evenings ago. “I don’t know,” she cries. “All I know is there’s a man who was killed like a dog in the streets and there’s fruit that will rot that he paid for with his blood and sweat.” Her vehemence scares her because it belies what she has just told herself about not getting too involved in Bibi’s sad story. But Bibi had come to her. To her.

  “I understand,” Rajeev says in a soft voice. “That’s why only I agree to help tomorrow morning. But to find the space to sell it, there I cannot help. Forgive me.”
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br />   Bhima eyes Birlabhai’s narrow strip of a shop with envy. Even though the shop is packed with mounds of potatoes and onions, she wonders if there’s enough space for her to sell the custard apples. But she knows better than to ask. Birla will ask for so much rent that they will end up owing him money.

  And then she remembers her. An ugly woman, with a face as shriveled as the cauliflowers she used to sell. With something evil growing from below her jaw. In the old days, Bhima used to hurry past her, because the sight of her, her abject helplessness, the desperate pretense of being able to subsist on the sale of her pathetic wares, used to offend Bhima. And the growth on her neck, which the crazy woman fondled all the time, as if it was prasad from the temple rather than the curse that it was, used to make her furious. She turns toward Rajeev. “There used to be a woman here. Sat at the corner. Had this thing . . .” She expands her fingers, as if she’s carrying a cricket ball, and touches her neck.

  “Parvati,” Rajeev says, nodding vigorously. “She’s still there. Same-to-same corner.”

  “You know her? You can ask her . . . ?”

  Rajeev looks bashful. “How I can ask, mausi? This is your business. You ask.”

  She looks at the man, too embarrassed to tell him she has no idea how much to ask for the fruit, how to calculate its value. How will she know how much to offer Parvati for renting her space?

  As if he’s read her mind Rajeev says, “She’s very poor woman, mausi. You can please offer her forty or fifty rupees.”

  She considers for a moment and comes to a decision. “Come,” she says. “You take me to her.”

  Bhima scowls.

  She had expected the stupid woman to be limp with gratitude at her offer. Instead, this Parvati is behaving as if she owns all of Mumbai and they’ve offered her fifty rupees for it. Bhima looks sharply at Rajeev, as if this has been his idea, expecting him to reason with this crazy woman.

  Parvati has followed the turn of her head and now, she, too, is glaring at Rajeev. “When you got me the ointment, then only I knew you were trying to trick me,” she says. “Working with this woman who thinks she is better than everybody. All these years she was coming and going in this market, ask her if she even take a look at my vegetables.”

  “My mistress would have killed me if I came home with these rotting vegetables,” Bhima hisses. “That’s why I never stop before you.”

  Rajeev looks from one woman to the other. “Arre, arre, so much gussa,” he exclaims. “Why for you ladies talking like this? You’re both trying to help the other, na?”

  They both turn on him at the same time. “Talking to this one here is like talking to someone at a mental hospital,” Bhima says, not hiding the disgust in her voice.

  “Take your ointment and go,” Parvati says. “Trying to steal from an old woman. Did I ever eat your salt that my little space came to poke you in your eye?”

  “Mausi, mausi,” Rajeev says in a placating voice. “Please. Don’t rent your space to her. But keep the ointment. I swear on my father’s head, I have no bad intention toward you.” He gets up from the ground and looks at Bhima. “Chalo, mausi,” he says. “Please come with me.”

  Bhima glares at Parvati one more time and then walks away. After they’ve gone a few meters, Rajeev stops. “What time you wanting to go to the godown tomorrow?”

  She shrugs. “What for? How we going to sell without a place to display the fruit?”

  Rajeev scratches his head. “I don’t know. But if the fruit is going to rot anyway, let’s see how much we can sell.”

  Bhima hesitates. “There’s one more thing,” she says. “How much we should ask for the fruit?”

  Rajeev grins in relief. “That’s easy, mausi. Today I find out how much others are charging for the custard apples. Whatever price they’re asking, we ask for a few rupees less. That way, we get the customer.”

  Bhima smiles her approval. This Rajeev is smarter than he looks. She looks up at the sky to judge the time. It is much too late to go to Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s house now. She will kill a few hours and then go directly to Sunitabai’s house. Yesterday, she had gone to her first job soon after getting home from the cremation grounds and had been so tired by the time she got home in the evening that she and Maya had barely exchanged a few words before she went to bed. Tonight, she would like to go home at a good hour. She turns to look at Rajeev, who is peering anxiously at her. “Is that tea shop still there?” she asks. “The one that serves the vada pav?” The potato patties, served inside buns slathered with green chutney, are Rajeev’s favorite snack, she remembers. “Okay, let’s go there for a quick lunch. My treat.”

  Watching Rajeev wolf down the sandwich makes Bhima’s heart sting with pity. Once again, she takes in the gauntness of his face, the sinewy leanness of his body. She wishes she had enough money to let this poor man eat to his heart’s content, but as it is, she is aware of every rupee that she spends. Last year, there were riots all over the city when the government raised the price of onions. Every year, it seems, the price of food doubles and triples. And even with two jobs, her salary is less than what she was earning at Serabai’s. It is only now, now that she is no longer in Serabai’s employ, that Bhima realizes how much of her household expenses Sera used to bear: A new sari for her and a new shalwar kameez for Maya at Diwali time. A huge sack of rice and daal gifted for Parsi New Year, along with a box of sweets. Leftovers routinely sent home for her and Maya. And Serabai used to pay for Maya’s college tuition and the cost of her books. Bhima can do without new saris and slippers for herself, she can eat a fistful of rice less each week, all to make sure that Maya finishes college. And yet, there is no denying the satisfaction that Bhima feels in watching Rajeev eat that humble sandwich.

  “Many thanks, mausi,” he now says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. And then, the cursory, “Next time, I pay.”

  She lets him salvage his pride by nodding yes. Her mind is already on other things. “So, I come here at seven tomorrow morning,” she says. “You will be here?”

  “Yes.” Rajeev turns to leave, then swings around again. “Mausi?”

  “Hah?”

  “The widow is very lucky to be having a friend like you.” Rajeev smiles shyly. “You try to hide it. But I see it. You having a good heart.”

  She stands there, unsure of whether to thank him or scold him for his impudence. But his face is open and guileless, like a schoolboy’s. Hard to believe that Rajeev is old enough to be the father of a college student.

  “Salaam, Rajeev,” she says. “I will take your leave now. I have a second housecleaning job to go to.”

  “Till tomorrow, then, mausi.”

  “Till tomorrow.”

  7

  Parvati is still muttering to herself as she enters her building that evening, insulted by the impudence of that stuck-up woman, Bhima, and the treachery of that Rajeev, with his big, sad eyes and his pretense of caring. Her cheeks burn with anger as she wonders how long they’ve been eyeing that little patch of pavement that is the only thing in the world that still belongs to her. It was Malik, a client from the Old Place, who had secured this space for her, Malik with his hard fists and police connections, a tough, muscular guy who had scowled and offered to beat up Rajesh’s son in the dark days that had followed her husband’s death. When she had refused, he had come up with this idea. In those days, Malik was the underworld king of the neighborhood and he had simply turned out the hawker who used to occupy the spot and given it to her. She had felt sorry for the evicted man, but her desperation did not allow for sympathy. Word had spread that she was under Malik’s protection and that, along with the lump, had kept all potential rivals away. Now Malik is long dead, shot to death in a mysterious “police encounter,” but word is that his nephew has taken over his business. Unlike Malik, the nephew doesn’t walk the neighborhood himself. He has diversified his holdings and Parvati has seen a picture of him in the newspaper, wearing a suit and tie and inaugurating one of his factories. But still,
she knows that she is under his protection because she is the only vendor the police don’t harass for bribes.

  Since the vomiting incident, Parvati has been afraid to eat the leftovers that the restaurant owner saves for her. Unwilling to insult his ego by blaming his food for her accident, she had faked stomach problems earlier today and begged him for a cup of yogurt in exchange for a one-rupee coin. She is weak with hunger but wants to give rest to her stomach even though she has only had a cup of tea and a small loaf of bread all day. She cannot risk any more accidents. Muttering under his breath, the man had pushed the yogurt across the counter, but when she handed him the coin, he pushed it back. “Forget it,” he had grumbled. “Consider it an act of charity.”

  It is dusk by the time Parvati enters the building and rings Praful’s doorbell to hand him the night’s rent. She prays that he will answer the door, and smiles when her prayer is answered. But just then the door across the hall flies open and there is Meena Swami thundering toward Praful. “Have you told her, ji?” she demands, and Parvati’s heart stops beating when she sees the look on Praful’s face—guilty, flustered, and, finally, angry.

  “Arre, Meena, just wait, na,” he says plaintively. “Just now only she rang my bell and bas—you immediately show up. Were you hiding behind closed doors or what, waiting for her come?”

  Meena’s voice is aggressive. “Meaning what? She’s the guilty party and you’re blaming me? We are respectable people living here, not . . .”

  Now Praful raises his voice. A vein throbs in his forehead. “Go, go,” he says, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “We are all knowing who’s respectable in this building. You please keep—”

  Meena lets out a shriek. She turns toward her apartment and calls out to her husband. “Oi, ji. Are you hearing this? Your wife’s virtue is being insulted and your nose is still buried in your videos?”