After he leaves, Bhima turns to look at Parvati in wonder. If the old woman had turned into the goddess Kali before her eyes, she wouldn’t have been more surprised. “You are a jadoogar,” she says. How else to explain the inexplicable fact that a perfect stranger had handed them a few hundred rupees in exchange for a mere promise?
Parvati’s mouth twists into a smile. “Yes. Only one last trick left for me to do. To make myself disappear.” But despite the bitterness in her voice, Bhima can tell she is pleased with herself. “Thank you for your help,” Bhima says humbly. “I am in your debt.”
“Debt-febt, nothing,” Parvati says. “On your sale to this customer, I charge you one percent.” And when Bhima looks worried, she adds, “Don’t worry. There’s still a good-proper profit for you.”
Bhima feels as if she’s been tossed onto unchartered waters with a single, broken-down raft. That raft is Parvati, and she is reluctant to climb aboard, suspicious and distrusting, but there is no other option. And so, she nods her assent. “Okay,” she says. And then, “You please do today’s hisab-kitab. We will settle up and then I must leave for my next job.” She pulls out a little notebook and pencil she had purchased on her way to the wholesale market this morning. “Here. You write in here.” If Maya is not busy with schoolwork tonight, she will ask her to look over Parvati’s figures.
When Parvati is done, she looks up, an astonished expression on her face. She leans in, to prevent Reshma from overhearing her words. “Wah, bhenji,” she says. “If you sell in this manner, you will not have to work the second job soon.”
Bhima looks at her wordlessly. Is this woman telling the truth? Or is she setting a trap in which to catch her? But the bundle of notes tucked under the spread tablecloth is proof of the day’s earnings. She looks down the street for Rajeev to appear before she leaves, debating whether to give him a few extra rupees for running this last delivery.
“Have you been hearing a word I’m saying?” Parvati’s plaintive voice reaches her ears.
“Maaf karo, sister,” she says. “I was lost in my thoughts.”
“I was saying that if you keep selling at this rate, God willing, you must ask that distributor of yours to give you on credit. Why for you paying cash?”
“I don’t follow . . .”
“Oi, you head of sawdust. Your money is in the bank, na? So why you must pay that man every time you buy? If he is extending you credit, you pay him once a month or once a week. In the meantime, your money in the bank is collecting interest. Understand?”
Bhima nods. “Yes,” she says.
Parvati exhales sharply. “You go home and talk to that granddaughter of yours,” she says. “She is as bright as her grandmother is dim. She will tell you what I’m advising is one hundred percent correct.”
Involuntarily, Bhima’s eyes wander to the six unsold cauliflowers. Parvati seems to read the unspoken question in those eyes. “Don’t worry about me,” she says. “Same people will come and buy. They are just late today.”
“And for this you sit all day baking in the sun, sister?”
Parvati shrugs. “At least the sky provides a roof over my head.”
How many layers of hell are there? Bhima wonders. Each evening when she enters the slum, she feels as if she’s in the jaws of hell. But suddenly she is thankful for her hut, with its tin roof, for the shelter it provides. For the first time, she thinks of the basti as home. “Are you . . . where do you live, sister?” she asks, wanting to know, not wanting to know.
The older woman averts her eyes. “I used to stay in my nephew’s building until recently only,” she says. Bhima waits, expecting Parvati to finish her sentence, but after a few minutes, understands that there will be no more information. She has come to realize something about Parvati—harsh words will not hurt her, but pity will singe her. And so, Bhima sighs and stands up, and as always, her hip pops.
“What does the doctor sahib say about that?” Parvati asks, pointing, but now it’s Bhima’s turn to be secretive. She shrugs noncommittally. “Accha. I’ll take your leave,” she says. “God willing, I see you tomorrow.”
“Bye-bye,” Parvati says in English and turns away.
15
As she rings the doorbell, Bhima braces herself for a flood of recriminations for having stayed away from the job. But Chitra flings the door open on the first ring, beams at her in the usual way, and exclaims, “Ah, Bhima. I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you. I need your help today.”
Even Serabai was tight-lipped if she missed a few days of work. Bhima looks curiously at this crazy chokri as she enters. What kind of a mistress is this? Someone who doesn’t complain or chastise a servant for tardiness or absence? “You take it out from my salary, bai,” she says, but Chitra just blinks at her. “What?”
“For missing work. What to do, bai, I . . .”
Chitra makes a dismissive sound. “Forget it. It’s no big deal.”
They walk into the living room, and Bhima gasps. The room is covered with streamers and balloons. A large silver banner runs the length of one wall. She turns to Chitra with wondrous eyes. “It’s Su’s birthday,” the younger woman says. “I just wanted to surprise her. Do you like it?”
Bhima is unsure what touches her more—the fact that this girl has gone through all this trouble for her friend or the fact that she is asking her opinion. She smiles. “Sunitabai will be very happy,” she says.
“Good, good.” Chitra rubs her hands together, a gesture that suddenly reminds Bhima of Amit, when he’d come home to find that his mother had made carrot halva, his favorite dessert.
She laughs out loud at the memory, and also at this silly, sweet child’s obvious glee. Chitra is looking at her closely, a strange expression on her face, and Bhima covers her laughing mouth with her hand. “What is it, Chitra baby?” she says.
“Nothing. It’s just that . . . I’ve never seen you laugh before. You should do it more often. It suits your face.”
“My granddaughter always saying same-same words to me.”
“She’s a bright girl, your Maya. How is she? How are her studies?”
“Good, thank God.”
“If she ever needs a quiet place to study, tell her she’s always welcome here. I know Sunita won’t mind. I’ll fix her dinner or whatever. Okay? You tell her it’s an open invitation.”
Bhima smiles shyly. “It’s not your duty to serve her, baby. It is our duty to serve you. We are eating your salt.”
To her astonishment, Chitra laughs. “Oh, Bhima. Surely you don’t believe this mumbo-jumbo.” She scratches the tip of her nose. “What salt? What duty? We pay you, yes, but you work in return, no? So we are as much in your obligation as you are to us. In fact, we eat your salt, you could say.”
Bhima is scandalized. What is this Australia place, that has built a girl like this? “How you talk, Chitra baby. If your neighbors hear you, they will kill both you and me.”
Chitra’s lips twist with bitterness. “Oh they want to kill me, all right,” she says under her breath. Then, she brightens. “But Bhima, come on. We have to go shopping.”
Bhima looks at her, confused. “Bai, I got work to do,” she says. “The house hasn’t been cleaned in two days, plus I need to cook, no?”
“No, no. I’ve done everything,” Chitra says briskly. “And I’ve made dinner for tonight. But I still have to go pick up the cake and wine. Parking is so difficult at Kookies, I need you to run in and pick up the stuff while I wait in the car, okay? So can we go? Su’s promised me she’ll come home early, so we don’t have much time.”
As soon as Bhima enters Chitra’s air-conditioned car, it comes back to her, that last car ride with Viraf. How had she borne it, riding next to the devil with an angel’s face, the man who had plotted the murder of his own child? Bhima sits up with a jerk as a thought strikes her—could it all have turned out differently if she had told Serabai his scandalous secret, told it calmly, and made her understand the great injustice that h
ad been done to her family? Could they have defanged him together? But . . . but Dinaz had been pregnant. Dinaz, who was the first child she had loved outside of her own. Dinaz, who looked at Viraf as if he were a piece of the moon. Was there any way to destroy him without destroying her? There wasn’t. In those awful days, when life and death had entered their lives almost simultaneously, she had felt even more dumb and helpless than she normally does.
Dimly, Bhima registers something warm on her arm and realizes that Chitra is patting it. “Everything okay?” the girl asks gently. “Shall I stop and get you a lime water? Or something else to drink?”
She shakes her head, letting the past click back into place before answering. “I’m okay, bai. I just was thinking of something.”
“Well, that thought must come with nails attached to it. Because you looked like you’d swallowed a fistful of them.”
Bhima does not reply but looks out the window instead. They drive in silence, until Chitra pulls up in front of Kookies. The younger woman points out the bakery and the adjacent wine store to Bhima, then lets her out. She has already paid for the cake; now she hands the older woman a piece of paper with the brand of the wine she wants and a wad of notes. “The cake is under Agarwal,” she says, and this is how Bhima learns Chitra’s surname. “I’ll go and come quickly-quickly,” she says, and hurries out of the car because already there is someone furiously blowing his horn behind them. “If I have to circle around and come back, don’t worry,” Chitra calls after her. “Just wait here.”
Bhima goes into the wine shop first, such a contrast to the dark, dirty bar where Gopal had drunk away their future. This store is well lit, the bottles beautifully displayed, and a well-dressed man is behind the counter, instead of the hairy bootlegger in his white undershirt and lungi. “Yes?” the man says in English. “Can I help you?”
Suddenly tongue-tied, Bhima hands him the note. “Ah,” the man says, nodding in understanding. “Your master told you to pick up?”
Confused, Bhima stares at the man, who turns away from the counter, then whirls around again to ask, “You want it warm or chilled?”
Chitra baby hadn’t said. “I’m not sure,” Bhima starts to say. Viraf baba used to bring beer home that he would set in the fridge to chill. But he bought it how? Thanda or garam? She doesn’t know. And is this wine the same as beer? The only time Bhima had ever tasted beer was at a wedding and it was warm. She had hated it.
“Well?”
“Thanda,” Bhima says, making up her mind. Cold.
“Okay,” the man shrugs. “That will be ten rupees extra.” And now Bhima is sure that the man is cheating her, but it is too late to argue.
She falls in love with the cake store. There are white and pink and chocolate-colored cakes there, some of them shaped like cars and houses and fairies. Maya, with her sweet tooth, would love this store. After the cake has been put into a pretty pink box, she lingers, then points to the smallest round cake and asks, “How much?” and blanches when the salesman tells her. He laughs openly at her reaction, and then points to a single pastry. “You buy this, madam. Only twenty-five rupees.”
Even that is an astronomical price, but the laughter that lingers in the man’s eyes makes her flush and say, “Accha. Give me one piece.” And then she is disappointed to find that he drops the pastry into a small bag instead of a pretty cake box.
She pays, then steps out into the street. She spots Chitra’s car immediately, and when she reaches it, Chitra leans over and opens the door for her. “Just place these in the back seat,” she says and Bhima does, before getting into the passenger seat. Almost immediately she hands over the change to Chitra, but the woman is focused on merging with traffic and waves her off. “Later, Bhima,” she says. “Or, you can set it down here in the cup holder, if you like.”
“You please count, baby,” Bhima says.
“Why? I’m sure it’s correct.”
“No. Please. You count.” Bhima’s voice is stronger than she’d intended, and Chitra gives her a curious look. “Okay. If you insist, I will later. But I trust you, you know.”
There once was a time when such words would’ve warmed her heart. Now, they make her apprehensive. “Trust-fust is okay, Chitra baby,” she says. “But later on, I want no problems.”
Chitra stiffens. “Why should there be a problem?” she says coldly. For the first time since she’s met this young woman, Bhima feels as though Chitra is annoyed at her. “I’m sorry, memsahib,” she says. “If I say something wrong, please forgive me.”
Chitra pats her lightly on her knee. “Relax,” she says. “You’re fine.”
No mistress she’s ever worked for has touched her as casually as Chitra does. Does this young girl not realize that she lives in a slum, where dirty water flows right past her home? Bhima remembers that Chitra had once told her that when she was a college student she used to volunteer at a slum to teach little children how to read and write. Could it be that Chitra is so free with her because she is an unnatural woman? Maybe women like her have different customs? Maybe they don’t believe in the superiority of their caste? But then, Sunitabai is not like this. She is always polite and pays her on time each month, but Sunitabai keeps a proper distance from her. With Sunitabai, Bhima does not have to doubt who is mistress and who is servant. But this impulsive girl next to her treats her as if they are equals.
Chitra glances at her. “What’s that?” she asks, pointing toward the pastry bag that Bhima is clutching. Bhima opens it to show her. “Something I purchased for Maya,” she says. “I pay for it from my own money,” she adds.
Chitra smacks her forehead. “I am so thoughtless,” she says. “I should’ve given you money to buy a cake for yourself. Shall we go back?”
“Baby.” Bhima’s voice is loud, as if she is tutoring a particularly slow student. “Why for you should buy me anything? You pay my salary, no? That is enough.”
Chitra grins at her. “You’re a strange one, Bhima.”
No, Bhima thinks. It is you that is strange. Even Serabai, who used to always give Bhima chocolates and sweets for Maya, never offered to buy a full cake for her.
Miraculously, there is a parking spot in front of the apartment building, and Chitra grabs it. Together, the two women climb the flight of stairs to the flat, Chitra insisting on grabbing the heavier bag from Bhima. They are at the second-floor landing when they run into Vimal Das coming down the stairs. Chitra stands aside to make room for her next-door neighbor, who does not acknowledge her presence. If Chitra notices, she doesn’t react. “Hi, Vimal,” she says as the woman brushes past her. In response, the woman looks at her, her face exhibiting a fury that takes Bhima’s breath away. And then, deliberately, slowly, she spits. The wad misses Chitra’s feet only because she jerks back. Bhima looks at the younger woman, who seems transfixed in place, her eyes wide with incomprehension. “What the hell? Oh my God. Did you really just . . . ?”
“You dare use God’s name? After you come into this respectable building and soil it with your presence?” Vimal hisses. “Don’t you dare say hi to me again. We are respectable people living here. You want to live your filthy life, you go live in the slum with this one here.” She looks at the cake box that Bhima is carrying and her upper lip curls. “There you can have a hundred girlfriends and sit and eat cake all day long.”
Now, Chitra’s eyes are blazing. “‘This one here’ has a name. And you’re right. I’d rather spend time with someone like Bhima than all you so-called respectable people.”
“Then, go. Go. Get out. Take your vileness elsewhere.”
“I will remind you that Sunita owns her apartment, Vimal,” Chitra says. “We have as much right to be here as anyone else.”
“At the next building association meeting, I will ask for a resolution,” the older woman says. “Then we’ll see.”
Chitra laughs, a wild, bitter sound. “A resolution saying what? Listen, Su’s best friend is a real estate lawyer. We know our rights. We’re not g
oing anywhere. Just get that into your head.”
“Yes, yes, we all know that whore of yours is a big-shot journalist,” Vimal yells. “We are looking into sending a letter to the editor . . .”
Chitra’s face grows pale. “What did you call her?” She takes one step closer to Vimal, who shrieks dramatically. An apartment door flies opens and a head pokes out. It is Mehroo Sethna. Years ago, Bhima had worked for the woman for a week when her own servant had gone to her village for a holiday. “Vimal? What’s happening?”
“This degenerate is attacking me.”
“Bai,” Bhima’s voice rings out. “Why khali-pilli you telling lies? Chitra baby has done nothing. You please, just continue with where you’re going.”
“Do you see?” Vimal says to Mehroo. “What things have come to? Where a slum dweller can order around a homeowner in her own building? How this woman—or man, or whatever she is—has corrupted even the servants?”
Mehroo Sethna wrinkles her nose. “Just live and let live, Vimal,” she says. “Why do you have to make everything that happens in the building your business?”
Vimal looks indignant. “This only is why this country is going to the dogs,” she mutters. “Jao. All of you can go to hell,” she says, waving her hand dismissively as she begins to descend the stairs. Bhima breathes a sigh of relief. They wait until the woman is gone, and then Chitra turns toward Mehroo. “Thank you,” she whispers. But Mehroo simply shakes her head and shuts the door.
They walk up the flight of stairs in silence, and when they enter the apartment, Chitra wordlessly opens the fridge and sets the bottle of wine in it. “What shall I do with the cake, baby?” Bhima asks, but Chitra doesn’t answer. When Bhima looks at her, she sees that Chitra’s eyes and nose are red. “I’m going to take a short nap, Bhima,” she manages to say, and then she goes into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
In order to organize her own emotions, Bhima looks around for something to do. Chitra baby has already cooked dinner and the dirty dishes have all been washed and put away. Bhima picks up the broom and begins to sweep the living room, her mind whirling. Nothing that Vimalbai said is different from what she herself has thought about Chitra and Sunitabai. And yet, the hurt on Chitra baby’s face is a scar on her own heart. How is it that she could hear the ugliness in Vimal’s words but not in her own uncharitable thoughts? She had even considered giving up the job until Maya had talked her out of it. Bhima knows that it is not common, this women loving women, but it is also not common to have an educated, rich woman like Chitra treat a servant as kindly as she does. Why does she like one kind of uncommon and not the other? And suddenly Bhima understands, what Maya had said about feeling more comfortable with the two young women than she ever did at Serabai’s home. She remembers the years of physical abuse that Serabai’s husband had inflicted on her and how she had told no one, not her parents nor her friends. Only, she, Bhima, knew why Serabai wore long sleeves in the summer. Only she managed to get her mistress up when Serabai took to bed for days after a beating. And yet, the world had considered Feroz seth to be an important and respectable man. All of Serabai’s friends used to talk about how lucky she was and what a good husband she had. Bhima would hear their chatter when they came over for a party and could scarcely control herself from rushing in to expose the man and his violence. To unmask him, the way Serabai could never do. And then the bile rises in her throat as she has another thought: Those same people probably tell Dinaz baby the same thing now; how lucky she is to have married a handsome, decent man like Viraf. Vimal would’ve loved having Viraf for a neighbor. And yet, how could she blame them? Even in the Ramayana it was so: Demons never looked like demons, but came to earth disguised as humans. But Bhima knows: Every shiny object has a dark underside. Chitra baby and Sunitabai are not being blamed for the fact that they are two women sharing a love; it is for the fact that they are not hiding it.
The Secrets Between Us Page 13