20
Parvati was right. The new location has attracted new customers. Rich people, servants, everyone is grateful to be out of the rain for a minute, to be able to hold a mango or custard apple in their hand, weighing it or smelling it without getting soaking wet. For the last two weeks Bhima has made it a point to continue buying lunch for Parvati, but if she is grateful, she doesn’t say. Sometimes, if the rains are heavy, Parvati seeks shelter under the overhang where Rajeev and Bhima squat and eat their lunch, her mouth moving dully as a cow’s as she munches on her sandwich. Bhima forces herself to ignore how often the woman’s hand moves involuntarily to her backside, how, in between bites, she sets her sandwich down and rubs the spot in a rapid, circular motion. Once or twice, Rajeev has made a sympathetic sound, asked if the ointment he had given her was effective, but Parvati has silenced him with a curt, “Everything’s fine.” And every morning, as Bhima passes the spot where Parvati sits huddled under the tarp, she fights the pang of guilt that she feels at having left her former partner behind.
But for the most part, Bhima is content. Her days have fallen into their own rhythm. Rajeev is a reliable and affable assistant, and she thrills each time she has a repeat customer. Vishnu, too, has proven to be a good landlord. Each afternoon before she leaves for Chitra’s home, she cleans the space she is occupying, careful to give him no reason to be unhappy with her. At home, too, things are better—she has started looking around their tiny hut and wondering if they could afford a few new things. The kerosene stove she cooks on, for instance, is twenty-two years old. Surely she can afford a new one. And perhaps, after a decent interval, she could approach Bibi and find out the cost of putting down a tiled floor, as she and Ram had done. Even fantasizing about these things makes Bhima feel better. All her life she has earned just enough to put one foot in front of the other. Just yesterday, she had slipped a ten-rupee note into Maya’s hand, and the girl’s start of surprise had warmed Bhima’s heart. Always, she had believed that it was enough, the getting by. But it turns out that her heart is no different from Serabai’s or Chitra’s—she remembers how pleased Serabai would look when they went shopping together and Serabai found a blouse or scarf she thought Dinaz would like. Or Chitra baby’s delight when she surprised Sunita with a book or a bracelet. She had thought it belonged only to the rich, this pleasure in giving. But she had needed that same satisfaction also.
The displaced fishmongers do not show up at the grand opening of the mall, as everyone had feared. That day goes off without incident, although, thanks to the presence of a movie star Bhima has never heard of at the ribbon-cutting ceremony, the traffic is even more hellacious than usual. Loud film music blares onto the street from makeshift speakers and a string of long, black cars follow one another to the entrance, garlanded in roses, as if this were a wedding party. Bhima turns away in disgust, having no interest in the antics of the rich. Today, security is so tight that the police will not allow her to cross the street to begin her trek to Sunitabai’s house. She mutters curses at all of them as she walks the extra distance—at the no-name movie star, the Chief Minister who is rumored to attend the opening, the stupid traffic policeman who has redirected her, the anonymous builders of the mall, whose marbled exterior and pristine glass windows are a taunt, and only reflect back to her the smallness of her life.
The trouble comes a week later. Bhima has just completed a sale when she hears it—the roar of the mob, followed by shattering of glass. She looks across the street and blinks. Where did they all come from, this group of men and women who are pelting the mall with rocks, prying at the marble with their hands? She knows at once that this is the anticipated protest by the fish vendors. On her side of the street, people have stopped to stare at the protesters, their mouths agape. For a few minutes the tableaux remains the same—the rioters working at demonic speed to destroy the mall and the bystanders across the street standing motionless, transfixed. And then a new sound enters, the ominous wails of police sirens as the Jeeps arrive and dozens of policemen descend upon the fishmongers. From across the street Bhima can hear the whisk-whisk of the policemen’s bamboo lathis as they shiver in the air for a second before landing indiscriminately on the heads and limbs of the rioters. Like rats chased out of their nests, the vendors run helter-skelter away from the lathis and across the street, running toward the vegetable and fruit market. The police follow, and now there is no getting away. Bhima watches as a policeman trips over a stack of limes. Furious, the man spins around and indiscriminately beats the vendor who is in a crouch. Bhima cries out as blood spouts from the man’s head, watches as the policeman kicks him before turning his baton on someone else. She herself is only a few feet away from it all, but Vishnu’s shop and the adjacent wall act as a kind of protection, and she hugs against the wall, as if to render herself invisible. But the next second she remembers that Parvati is out there, sitting miserably under her tarp, Parvati, old, frail but tenacious, not one to back away from a fight. “Auntie, get in here,” Vishnu screams, holding out his hand at the entrance of his shop, but instead of grabbing his hand, she turns around and runs into the street toward her old spot. People are rushing by her, screaming, and the sound they make is like the high-pitched whistle of the wind during a storm. But still she runs the other way, and then she sees her—Parvati, standing in the middle of the melee, with her hands on her hips, leaning forward just a little bit, as if she is about to lecture someone. Parvati, the only still point in a turbulent sea, and despite the danger, despite the chaos, Bhima notices the expression on Parvati’s face. It is bemusement. And the absolute absence of fear. And maybe it is the anger that Bhima feels at such arrogance that makes her grab the older woman’s hand more roughly than she should and give it a yank. “Come,” she yells, and Parvati follows, without struggle or protest, matching her pace with Bhima’s, and Bhima has the strangest feeling that Parvati was simply waiting for her to come find her.
Vishnu is in the process of lowering the metal shutters when they reach the shop. “Come on, hurry up,” he screams, bending low to help them climb the three stone steps that lead them inside. “My fruit,” Bhima begins to say, but is silenced by the look that Vishnu gives her. “Your brains will look like mango pulp if one of those officers lands a lathi on your head,” he mutters as he lowers the shutter, locking them in.
“For no good reason you dragged me here,” Parvati says. “I was fine in my spot. No one was bothering me.”
Before Bhima can react, Vishnu lets out a disbelieving guffaw. “Kamaal hai,” he says. “Unbelievable. Most people would be kissing this woman’s feet,” he scolds. “What a risk she took, going out there. Instead, you are complaining.”
For once, Parvati looks chastised. “Thank you,” she says, but Bhima knows it is for Vishnu’s benefit and turns pointedly away. She herself doesn’t know what made her go out in search of this dour woman with the face of a jackfruit. And then her heart clenches with fear. Rajeev. Where is he? He’s the one she should’ve gone looking for, not this ungrateful heap of dung.
“Don’t worry about Rajeev,” Parvati says just then. “He hasn’t returned from the delivery you sent him on. So he should be fine.” And then she smiles, a thin, triumphant smile, as if she knows that Bhima is unnerved by her ability to read her mind.
Despite the ceiling fan, it is hot in the shop. All four of them look at each other when they hear a series of piercing whistles, followed by a fresh round of screaming. “The kuttas are beating those poor people good-proper,” the assistant mutters.
Vishnu frowns. “What business those fishermen are having destroying private property?” he says. “That mall is the pride and joy of this neighborhood.”
“You can’t feed pride and joy to a hungry baby,” Parvati says. “What are those fish vendors supposed to do now? This is the only life they are knowing.”
“Good point, auntie,” Vishnu says. “But what to do? This is the new India. People will sell their grandmothers if the price is right
.”
Parvati’s head jerks up, a look on her face that chills Bhima’s heart. “If that’s so, then the new India is no different from the old India. Money was king then, and it is king now.”
“Sahi bat hai.” Vishnu nods vigorously. “You speak the truth, auntie.”
They all fall silent, and Bhima sneaks a look at Parvati. What accounts for this bitterness? Parvati can read and write. Why then is she so powerless? Who has hurt her so? The tendril of a thought drifts through Bhima’s mind—something the woman had recently let slip about a police raid, something about hating her own father—but it is driven out by a fresh, urgent one. “What time is it?” she gasps. “I have to go to my next job. My bai will be waiting.”
“Arre, auntie, have you gone mad? Are you not hearing the commotion outside? You better just stay here chup-chap.”
She feels teary at the thought of missing another day’s work. Chitra baby is so good to her—she doesn’t want to abuse her goodness. But Vishnu is correct. “Do you have a phone?” she asks. “I will call her and tell her I’ll be late.”
“Auntie, in what jamana do you live? Don’t you have a mobile?”
Bhima remains silent, and after a minute, Vishnu pulls out his phone. “Here. Use this.”
“I can pay—”
“Forget it. Just make it quick.”
Chitra doesn’t sound a bit angry, just worried. “Are you sure you’re safe, Bhima?” she says. “Do you want me to try and get down there?”
“Baby,” she says sharply. “You please don’t come here. It is not safe. I will try to come later and cook dinner.”
After she returns the phone to Vishnu, he says, “You’re a businesswoman now. You need to have a mobile.” He stares at her for a second and adds, “Give one to that deliveryman of yours, also. That way, you will do more business.”
“What I need a phone for at my age?”
Vishnu shrugs. “You think about it. My nephew sells Vodafone. I can get you a good discount.”
“That way you can talk to your Maya, also,” Parvati pipes up, and Bhima feels a rush of irritation. Who told this old woman to defile Maya’s name by using it?
“Why she needs a phone?”
Parvati lets out a cackle. “You go home and ask her. All young people these days are having a mobile.”
Can she afford to buy Maya a phone? Bhima’s mind is awhirl. Will it be possible with this new location, she wonders, to have a little extra? What would that feel like, to not worry over every single purchase?
It is then that she notices, for the first time, the white cloth bag at the foot of Parvati’s chair: the leftover cauliflowers. In the midst of a riot, the older woman had the presence of mind to save her inventory. Whereas she, dumb cow that she is, had abandoned her business to rush to the aid of a woman whom the Gods themselves probably couldn’t strike down. Bhima feels a grudging admiration for Parvati. Even as there is much to despise in Parvati, there is much to admire.
When the thought first crosses Bhima’s mind, it is so unpleasant that she flicks it off, like a spider on her skin. But it crawls back: If she wishes to be successful, she will need the help of this irritating, querulous woman sitting across from her. She must humble herself and ask Parvati to join her in her new business.
21
As she leaves the market and trudges home, Parvati is smiling to herself despite the fact that she is carrying two unsold cauliflowers. She remembers the feel of Bhima’s trembling, sweaty hand in hers as the woman had pulled her to safety. She had not realized it, how much she missed the touch of another’s hand. And the woman had run through a riot to come find her. Which meant there was still some decency left in this sad world. She has been wrong about this woman, Bhima. All these years she had thought she was gamandi, a snob. But now she understands—what she had thought of as unjustified pride was simply self-defense.
The police had cleared the street after today’s riot, sent all of the vendors packing. It is much too early to return to that awful room, and the rains have held off today. Surely there is someplace for her to pass the time. She briefly contemplates going to the cinema hall, but she knows better. A single woman going to a film, even a woman as old as she, will attract unwanted attention from the young men who fill the seats of the darkened theater. In the old days, she and Rajesh used to go to the movies often. Even after he had retired, her husband still retained enough influence that he never had to purchase those tickets, the managers grateful for his years of turning a blind eye to the black marketeers who scalped tickets before every movie show.
The sun is out for the first time in days, and Parvati feels it following her as she walks aimlessly, unsure of where to go to kill the hours. Then she has an idea—ever since she’s arrived at Tejpal Mahal, she has been curious about the Old Place, wondering who runs it now and how the dilapidated building has withstood the storms of time. Never before has she had the inclination to find out, but today, she feels an intense desire to know. She has no idea what she will do when she gets there, but she hopes to find proof that her stay at Tejpal Mahal is a trick of fate and not a defect of character.
After all this time, she knows exactly which bus will take her there. She stands at the bus stop along with a throng of people—she can still recall a Mumbai where people used to stand in line, but those days are long gone—and when the bus arrives, allows herself to be swept inside by the current of the crowd. Her heart pounds hard for a few seconds; it has been years since she’s ridden the bus, years since she’s interrupted the circuit of marketplace to home and home to marketplace to travel anywhere else, and the fear of being pushed aside by the mob, or of falling from the ledge of the open-door BEST bus, is intense. But then she is in and digging into her white bag for the small purse in which she keeps her money. The conductor looks at her as if she is insane when she offers him a few rupees for her ticket—it turns out that the fares have gone up considerably since the last time she rode the bus.
She knows she has a ten-minute walk from the stop where she disembarks to the Old Place, and she takes her time, knowing that the longer this journey takes, the more she can delay her return to the despised Tejpal Mahal. She smiles mirthlessly at the irony—the longer she spends on this visit to the old brothel, the less time she will have to spend at the present one. As she walks, she remembers the days when she used to take these same streets with Rajesh, back when his ardor for her allowed her to mask her indifference toward him. They would walk down this street after a movie or dinner, and even though she hated the weight of his hand on her slender shoulder, she was grateful for breathing fresh air, for getting out of the stifling, stale atmosphere of the brothel, for escaping for a few hours the petty jealousies, the cheap perfume, the same-same jokes, the snide remarks of the other girls, that mostly marked her days. Even though Parvati knew she had simply traded Principal’s domination for Rajesh’s possessiveness, it still felt good to escape the narrowness of her life for a few hours—to lose herself in the love triangles and melodramas of the giant figures on the cinema screen, to walk down these free streets and hear the peals of laughter of the college girls, the enticements of the shopkeepers, and the ringing of the temple bells. And for this she was grateful to Rajesh, and if that gratitude sometimes felt like love, well, that benefited both her and the older, married man who had claimed her as his girlfriend. In the darkened movie theaters, in the packed trains and buses, he used to finger her, aroused by the anonymity of public places, emboldened by his own audacity. And she bore it, unable to move his prying fingers away, unable to make the claims of virtue or even ordinary decency that any other woman could.
Parvati stumbles, then rights herself. For a moment she hesitates, wonders if she has the strength to face that building that still haunts her dreams. Principal is dead, she knows, killed in a train derailment. Most of the other girls are probably dead as well, some undoubtedly victims to tuberculosis or typhoid or the STDs that ran unchecked through the place. Even during her time
there, several of the Old Place girls had hung themselves or ingested rat poison or had gone missing and were later found stabbed to death or drowned. Neither was it unheard of for a girl to simply disappear, along with her regular client. Principal would swear for days, complaining about the ungrateful girl and the loss of income, swearing that the dead or missing girls were a conspiracy to bankrupt her. After everything that she’d done for them.
Rajesh had spared her any such fate by taking her out of there. And that too, taking her out not as his mistress but as his wife. Parvati had heard of other men, of course, who had lost their hearts to the women they fucked, and married them. But such men were usually low-class themselves—truck drivers and ragpickers, men used to living a lonely, nomadic existence with not too many prying family members. It was practically unheard of for someone of Rajesh’s stature to marry a whore, to bestow his good name upon her, to enshrine her in his ownership flat, located in a modest but good building. It helped that Rajesh was recently retired—there would be no superior officer who would raise his eyebrows or require an explanation. Other than a son and daughter-in-law who lived in Pune, he had no family. His dead wife’s family, aghast that he was remarrying within a year of having lit his wife’s funeral pyre, denounced him and broke off all ties. In his own way, for the first time in his life, Rajesh was also free. And the first thing he did with that freedom was to ask Parvati to marry him.
Parvati pinches at the orange at the base of her chin as she walks. If only she had understood his reasons for asking her, she thinks, she would not have wasted one moment being flattered by his proposal, would’ve turned him down. But then another thought hits her—could she have refused? Or would Principal, still intimidated by Rajesh’s ability to shut her down, have sold her to him? Already, her value to Principal had declined. As for doing the books, some of the newer girls knew how to read and write. How difficult would it have been for one of them to take over?
The Secrets Between Us Page 16