Parvati never did find out what Anand Pandit, the businessman who finally bought her virginity, paid for her. A few times, Principal alluded to the fact that her asking price had been about twenty-four times the price she had paid for Parvati. Despite the two years she had spent being demystified about the mysteries of sex, of being around men who were still zippering up when they left the room and women who slept with their breasts hanging out of their blouses, nothing had prepared her for Anand Pandit’s brutal use of her during the six hours he had rented her. She had emerged from the room bleeding, glassy-eyed, and shell-shocked, oblivious to the catcalls and whistles of the other women, who had resented having to ply their trade while Parvati had lived like a china doll for two whole years. Now she was one of them, and they celebrated her fall.
What none of them had anticipated was the fact that Anand Pandit would fancy himself in love with her, a girl thirty years younger than himself. He lost all interest in patronizing the nachwalis, the dancing girls, who were a large part of Principal’s income. He barely looked at the other, more experienced prostitutes. Instead, he “booked” Parvati for himself all day on Saturdays and on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Once, when one of the other girls let slip that Principal was entertaining the prospect of showing Parvati to some other rich patrons, he flew into a mad rage, berating Principal for violating her word that he had exclusive use of the girl. Parvati watched in numb wonder as Principal talked to him in an appeasing tone she seldom used with anyone else. After he had left, Principal shook her head. “A mad kutta,” she said. “He has gone lost his head with you, the poor fellow. Only one thing to be done when a dog goes mad.”
“You’re going to kill him?” Parvati asked, half hoping that the answer would be yes.
Principal frowned absently. “Kill him? Girl, what rubbish you speak. Why would I kill my golden goose? No. I just have to direct his dick someplace else. Just long enough for him to forget your scent.”
She was true to her word. Six months later, another girl from the hinterlands arrived. This one was not beautiful, but what she lacked in beauty, she made up in age. She was ten years old. Within a week, Anand Pandit had attached himself to her like a tick.
After all these decades, Parvati still remembers the screams from the room when Anand had had his way with the child for the first time. She had almost rushed into the room, wanting to offer herself instead to the debauched man, but Principal had gripped her arm tightly. “You crazy girl,” she had hissed. “I kept my word to you. This is what you wanted, na? Now why are you lusting after him?”
She had stared at the woman, aghast at being so misunderstood, unable to speak because her ears were being assaulted by the child’s whimpering, transfixed by the knowledge that the little girl’s fate was her fault. “Come now,” Principal continued. “Jealousy doesn’t become you. I will get you someone better, who will pay ten times more for you than that fucker.”
Above the drone of the sarod and the thum-thum of the ankle bracelets from the dancer in the next room, Parvati hears that long-ago screaming, again. She shifts in her bed to escape the sound, but it is inside her head now, and that terrible brew of relief and responsibility that she felt more than a half century ago is choking her again tonight. It was guilt that had made her befriend that ten-year-old child, Nandini. Nandini, who years later would give birth to Praful, the boy she raised like a nephew, especially as Nandini receded more and more from their blighted world, fading like the smoke that she emitted from her hashish pipe.
O stupid woman, go to sleep, Parvati scolds herself. What use remembering all this old stuff? Principal was dead, as was Nandini. What had happened to the Old Place, she has no idea, although she wishes it has burnt to the ground. That much she will always be grateful to Rajesh for, for getting her out of there.
But look where I have ended up, she thinks. Despite my efforts, I am resting my head in a room that’s a paper-thin wall away from the life I thought I was leaving behind. Other people have lives that appear to unfold in straight lines, delineations of past, present, and future. What paap did I commit in my past lives to deserve this?
Parvati sighs. She has earned enough money the last two days to ensure a few more nights in this place. And Mohan has given her a cot to sleep on and a bucket of warm water for indoor bathing—luxuries, compared to how she has lived for the last several years. But even as she feels a swell of gratitude, fear follows on its heels. Where does a lone woman in a city of eighteen million go when the money runs out?
13
The cursing and berating begins as soon as Bhima enters Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s apartment. And the body odor tells Bhima the woman has not bathed in at least two days.
“Stupid ghadheri,” the woman screams. “Not showing up for work just like that. You eat my salt and this is how you repay me? Shameless.”
“Sorry, bai,” Bhima lies. “I had a funeral to go to.”
“Whose funeral? Your own? I will create your funeral if you do this no-show business again. Next time, I will pour kerosene on you and light you up like Guy Fawkes.”
You know she’s mad, Bhima says to herself. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Let her run on, like a steam engine. She will soon deplete herself. But despite herself, she feels a pinch of fear. This woman is mad enough to carry out her threats.
“Sorry, bai,” she says again. “I give you extra time today, accha?”
But Mrs. Motorcyclewalla is not appeased. “I want you to clean the whole house today, top to bottom,” she orders. “Wash the walls, clean the tops of the ceiling fans.”
Bhima eyes her carefully. “You know that’s not my work, bai,” she says. “If you like, I can contact Balraj for you. But he did full house cleaning for you last month, only.”
The woman emits a scream so piercing, it makes Bhima’s eardrums thrum. “Bas. I’ve had enough of your laziness. You do what I’m asking you to do. Understand? Otherwise, I will burn this flat down.” With a sudden movement, she rushes to the front door and bolts it. “You are not leaving until all the work is done. You are not leaving until I say you can go.”
Mrs. Motorcyclewalla has one daughter, but she lives in Pune. The woman is busy with her own family, and Bhima has always tried to spare the woman from hearing about her mother’s shenanigans. But now Bhima wonders if it is time for the daughter to visit Mumbai. She has never seen the old lady so out of control. “Okay, bai,” she says. “Don’t take so much tension. You go sit and watch TV. I will do all the cleaning.”
Mrs. Motorcyclewalla gets a triumphant look on her face. “Good. You are the servant. You must listen to me,” she says, and then marches into the living room.
Relieved, Bhima enters the kitchen. And gasps. All the pots and pans are out of their drawers and on the floor. The entire silverware drawer has been emptied out. A huge stack of dirty dishes awaits her in the sink. Bhima wants to go into the living room and slap the stupid woman. Is her life not hard enough that the spiteful, thoughtless kook has created more work for her? It would serve her right if she just put all the pots and silverware back in place without washing them first. But tempting as the thought is, Bhima knows she won’t do that, which means everything has to be rinsed and washed.
She groans as she hears footsteps coming into the kitchen. The next second Mrs. Motorcyclewalla enters the kitchen and lets out a shriek. “Ahura Mazda Khodai,” she says, putting a hand on each cheek. “Bhima, what have you done? Why this badmashi? You eat my salt . . .”
“Bai,” Bhima yells. “The kitchen was in this condition when I walk in. Why you khali-pilli blaming me for what you do?”
“You stand in my kitchen and lie to my face?” Mrs. Motorcyclewalla has a look in her eyes that scares Bhima. Spittle gathers at the corners of her mouth. She looks around the room wildly. “You stand a few feet away from the portrait of our Lord Zoroaster and you lie in His presence? Come. Put your hands on His picture and beg His forgiveness.”
What do I care about your God,
Bhima thinks to herself. She herself is a Hindu, believing in her own Gods. Every day she swallows her distaste and pretends to bow her head before the large portrait in the kitchen, in an attempt to placate her mistress. But today, something in her rebels at the charade. “Please, you go watch TV, bai,” she says. “I will straighten everything out.”
Mrs. Motorcyclewalla bellows, making Bhima drop the fork she has just picked up from the floor. “Besharam. I gave you an order.” Her voice is thick with rage, speckled with madness. “Bow your head and beg His forgiveness for your sin.”
Bhima takes two steps toward the portrait and then stops. “No, bai,” she says quietly. “That I will not do.”
Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s pale cheeks are blotched red. “Then get out. Get out of my house and don’t let me see your shadow again.”
Bhima looks at her, unsure of how to handle the situation. “Why you are starting all this nonsense, bai?” she implores.
The woman lets out an ear-piercing scream. “I told you. Get out. Otherwise I’m calling the police.” In another minute, Bhima knows, a neighbor will bang on the door. And if it is her word against the hysterical woman’s, she has no illusions about whom they will believe. “What about my pay?” she begins, but the look on Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s face is her answer. She walks past the woman, careful not to accidentally brush against her for fear of triggering another round of false accusations. She unlocks the bolt at the front door and then looks back, willing her mistress back into sanity. But as she hears Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s agitated breathing, she knows the woman is too far gone, and in the moment before she pulls the front door shut after her, Bhima feels as if she is abandoning a wild animal in its cage. Her absence seems to have precipitated Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s descent into madness.
Even before Bhima crosses the foyer of the building and emerges onto the street, the memory of the last time she had been ignobly cast out from a job is upon her. It is not an identical situation, she knows: this time, there is a feeling of relief, as if she is escaping with her life, whereas leaving Serabai’s home was akin to leaving one of her arms behind. But the shock at this abrupt turn of fortune, the horror of a false accusation, the lack of control over her own fate, is achingly familiar. As are the tears pooling in her eyes, and the sense of exile, the terror of sudden unemployment. This time, there will be no Dinaz appearing at her doorstep with an unexpected check; this time she will forego the salary she has earned. Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s daughter will soon have bigger concerns to deal with than whether her mother has paid the wages due to Bhima. Maya is back in college, and without this second income, expenses will have to be cut even further. Even with two jobs she has had to dip into the savings that Dinaz had delivered to her. Without the extra money Serabai used to slip into her hands, Bhima can barely make ends meet, and just last week she had seen Maya darn the same tear in her blouse a second time. The girl is frugal, but sometimes Maya talks about the girls from college asking her to join them for a movie and how she always declines. Shame, sour as vinegar, rises in Bhima then, and her mind casts about for ways to spend even less money on herself—no sugar in her tea, one less chapati to eat at dinner.
Now, her mind sifts through the names of other servants she could approach to find out if someone is looking for a housecleaner. Her stomach turns at the thought of interrogations, the speculative looks, the outright caustic remarks she will have to face. Why had she lost a second job in less than two years? they will want to know. And what will she say? She herself is in a state of shock over how this morning has unfolded. She had thought of asking for leave for the days she had spent at the marketplace, but she knew the old witch never would have granted it. Still, it was wrong to stay away without any explanations. But that is not exactly why she has lost this job. Some screw that was holding Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s sanity in place had come loose during her absence.
It had all been a mistake. Bhima curses her extravagance at having treated Parvati and Rajeev to lunch yesterday and the distribution of the custard apples. Perhaps she should not have returned all of Ram’s money to Bibi? She chastises herself as she avoids the potholes on Mumbai’s broken streets, shutting her ears to the noise of construction that seems to be going on in every inch of this city. Charity, compassion, and generosity are not luxuries people like her can afford. How had she forgotten this?
But then, a wave of resistance rises within her. If she has truly been brought so low that she has to second-guess the simple act of sharing a fruit with a woman even more destitute than she, then why not relinquish all claims to human society? She may as well join the pack of stray dogs that lives just outside the slum, who snarl and wrestle each other over a bone. Bhima remembers what her father, a humble mail carrier, used to say: “Beti, a grain of rice will double in your stomach if you share it with another.” How mortified he would be to read her uncharitable thoughts.
Bhima comes to an abrupt halt. A woman runs into her, knocking her shoulder and glaring at her as she makes her way around. Bhima barely notices, focused as she is on the idea that’s forming in her head. Just thinking about it makes her heart race. Then, she begins to walk toward the bus that she will take to Maya’s college.
As she enters the campus, Bhima remembers the last time she was here. That mission—when she had falsely accused one of Maya’s classmates of being the father of Maya’s child—had turned out to be a fool’s errand, and perhaps this one will, too. Bhima prays that she will not humiliate herself with what she is planning to do.
From the time she was seven years old, Bhima has held a broom or a mop or a scouring pad every day of her life. Her hands are as rough as that pad, her arms as thin and hard as those mop handles. She is tired of working as a domestic, having to learn the tempo and rhythms of a new home, the quirks and eccentricities of another mistress. Instead, she wishes to spend the rest of her days in the dumb, easy companionship of fruit and vegetables. And yes, she wants to feel again that exhilarating feeling of making a sale, of driving a hard bargain with a customer, of being able to treat a destitute woman and a hardworking man to lunch. Of knowing that she is worth more than simply the speed of her hands, the sinewy muscles of her legs, the bend of her back. Of employing other parts of herself—her intellect, her ability to size up a customer, her deftness at closing a sale. Already, she knows the rudimentary concept of making a profit—without Bibi to pay, surely there will be more?
There is a throng of students outside the college, some sitting on the marble steps, others milling around the turbaned man selling bowls of pyali, the mouthwatering mix of spicy chickpeas and potatoes. Amid the shrieking laughter of the girls and the loud, boisterous voices of the boys, Bhima feels intimidated, out of her element. She marvels at how Maya navigates the distance between this joyful cacophony of youthful exuberance and the grim, dark solitude of their home life together. She feels a renewed appreciation for how stoically Maya bears her burdens, how few demands she makes on her grandmother.
She has failed Maya. How passively she has accepted her worth; how dumbly she had believed that the only thing she was good for was housework. But all this time, this ever-changing city had shouted out a different truth to her—from the skyscrapers that rose from the rubble of the old, demolished buildings, to the new prosperity of erstwhile bank clerks and postal workers who were now millionaires. Even in the slum, there is a rumbling of discontent to which Bhima had shut her ears. Now, eyeing the well-dressed students who are Maya’s classmates, Bhima knows: Maya deserves better.
She is about to approach one of these young people when she spots her granddaughter. There she is, in the middle of a group of giggling girls, a bowl of pyali in her hands. Maya’s head is tossed back as she laughs; she has released her long black hair from the demure braid in which she ties it when she leaves home each morning. Bhima’s breath catches. Maya looks—Bhima gropes around for the right word—modern. Educated. Confident. Not at all like the sullen, awkward girl who sits across from her in their
hut each evening. This Maya is ready to take her place in the new Mumbai.
Now that she has seen her, Bhima is hesitant to approach her, for fear of embarrassing her granddaughter. She is aware of what an anomaly she is among these bright, cheerful students; she, with her severe face and brown, broken teeth. She stands at a distance, willing Maya to look in her direction, content to allow her granddaughter to not acknowledge her presence. After a few moments, Maya looks her way, blinks her eyes as if she’s seen a phantom, and then gasps. She sets down her half-eaten bowl and hurries up to her grandmother. “What happened, Ma-ma?” she breathes. “What is wrong?”
Bhima smiles. “No. Be at ease, beti. Nothing bad.”
“Then why are you here?” Already Maya has begun to walk away from the knot of students, and Bhima follows.
“I’m sorry. I should have waited until evening. I just had this foolish thought—”
“Ma-ma. What is it?”
Bhima swallows. “I need to go to the bank. To take some money out. I came here because the bank will close before you come home.”
“What for?” Ever since Maya has helped Bhima open the account, she has made herself responsible for every withdrawal. “And why are you not at your job?”
Bhima searches Maya’s face. “Beti,” she says. “I have an idea. But is there some way you can miss your afternoon class and go with me to the bank? I will explain on the way.”
The Secrets Between Us Page 11