The Secrets Between Us

by Thrity Umrigar

  Binny groans. “Share a few with us, Bhima. We are both such awful cooks.”

  “You tell me what you want,” Bhima says at once. “I will cook for you. You both are Parsi, no?” And when they nod, “You are liking dhansak? Sali boti? I know all Parsi dishes.”

  “No kidding. How?”

  Bhima gives Maya a quick look. “I used to work for a Parsi lady,” she mumbles, wishing she hadn’t brought up the issue, dreading the question she knows is coming.

  “Really? Who?”

  “Sera Dubash,” she says dully.

  “Oh, my God. You know Dinaz?”

  “Yes, of course. I saw her grow up before my eyes.” All the time aware of Maya’s eyes boring into her.

  “So you quit to start your own business?”

  Bhima hesitates, unsure of what to tell. But before she can respond, Maya says, “My grandma is so happy with her new life. Better pay, you know?” and the others nod. But Chitra is looking at Bhima curiously. After a moment she says, “Okay. Let me clear the table and then we’ll have dessert.” And Bhima is grateful that she allows her to help with taking the dirty dishes into the kitchen.

  “Everything all right?” Chitra asks, and Bhima nods, even though she can tell that Chitra is not fooled.

  The strawberry cake is like nothing she has ever tasted. It is light as a cloud, sweet as rain. Her thoughts go to Rajeev and Parvati. Have they ever tasted anything this good? She swallows and then turns to Binny. “I come cook for you, bai. In exchange for you helping my Maya.”

  Binny gives an embarrassed laugh. “Oh, you don’t have to do that, Bhima. If Maya decides to study law, we’ll help in any way we can.”

  Bhima smacks her granddaughter’s hand. “You hear this? For the next six months, you are to keep your nose in your books. Don’t look up once. You need to get the best marks.”

  “Ow, Ma-ma. What you hitting me for? I’m already the best student in my class.” Maya addresses her, but Bhima can see her eyes wandering toward the other women and knows that she wants to impress them.

  “Look to your feet,” she instructs. “Otherwise you’ll give yourself the evil eye.”

  Maya grins. “My grandmother is superstitious,” she says. The others chuckle, and even though Bhima knows the joke is at her expense, she doesn’t mind. She remembers what Parvati had said to her earlier today about introducing Maya to important people. How is it that every piece of advice that Parvati has given her has improved her life when the woman has flopped at bettering her own? But then, she thinks, surely Parvati’s life has improved a great deal, too, in this past year. Just last week the woman had come to work wearing a new blue sari. And she has replaced her old chappals. By the grace of God, their business is doing well enough to provide for both of them. Rajeev, too.

  Perhaps, she thinks, it is finally their time. Now, at long last, it is their time.

  25

  It happens so suddenly that there is no time to prepare. One minute Parvati is laughing at something Bhima says, whereas in the next second she covers her mouth, moves a few meters away from the folding table they have recently purchased, and throws up. The first projectile misses their customer by inches, and the woman squeals, pinches her nose dramatically, and then scuttles away. Somehow, Parvati manages to turn toward the wall, and the next round of vomit hits the wall so hard, it flies back onto her sari. Bhima gags at the sight, but then she blinks rapidly because nestled within the yellow-green vomit, right across the picture of one of the saints, is an unmistakable streak of red. Blood. She hurries over to where Parvati is weakly lowering herself onto the ground, holds her up from the waist, and half drags her away from sitting in her own mess. The woman’s thin hands are clammy to touch. Bhima is dimly aware of the fact that Vishnu is shouting at them, but all she can think is one incessant thought: Parvati is sick. Parvati is very sick.

  Bhima looks around frantically. “Get her a cold drink,” she yells. “And pull up the chair for her.”

  Vishnu looks annoyed but slaps his assistant on the thigh. “Move. Go next door and get a Limca,” he orders. And he himself hurries down the stone steps with the folding chair.

  “Maaf karo, maaf karo,” Parvati is whimpering. “This is so bad for our business.”

  “Forget the business,” Bhima says. “You tell me. What is wrong?”

  Parvati wipes her mouth with the side of her sari. “God only knows. Must be something I ate yesterday.”

  Bhima looks at her in disbelief. “And that is making you sick today? All these hours later?” She knows that Parvati never eats breakfast. “Tell me the truth, sister. What is wrong with you?”

  Parvati struggles to retain her authority. “Arre, Bhagwan. A woman cannot simply be sick without getting the third degree?” But her voice is weak, and Bhima sees through the posturing. She stares silently at the older woman, cold with anger, shaking with disappointment. More than a year of working side-by-side and still Parvati is as secretive as ever.

  She sees Vishnu’s assistant hurrying toward them, an open bottle of Limca in his hand. She takes it from him and says, “Go get me a bucket of soap water, beta. I need to wash this wall.”

  The boy frowns. “Didi, such work is beneath you.” He chews on an extra drinking straw. “That sweeper woman was still in the market. I saw her cleaning out the latrines. She will stop by here when she is done.”

  Bhima heaves a sigh of relief. “I will give you a tip later. Many thanks.”

  “No problem, didi,” he says in English as he heads back into the store.

  “Here,” Bhima says, holding out the bottle to Parvati. “Drink this. It will settle your stomach.”

  Parvati takes a small sip, then stops. “I can’t,” she says. “My mouth is still tasting of vomit.”

  A slight breeze blows and the smell almost makes Bhima gag again. Parvati’s sari is speckled with vomit. There is no way she can spend all day beside her. “Sister,” she ventures. “Why not go home today? Get washed. Get some rest.”

  Parvati looks at a point just past Bhima’s shoulder. “I cannot,” she says at last. “The place where I stay only allows me to go there to sleep. Otherwise, the room is occupied.”

  Bhima frowns and is about to ask what kind of a place wouldn’t allow a sick woman to return to her own room, when the answer comes to her. Soon after she had met Parvati, the woman had made some reference to a police raid. Now she understands what she had meant. She stares at the frail, elderly woman before her as her brain formulates the unthinkable: Is it possible that Parvati rents a room in a brothel? All this time, even as their business has grown, even as she has taken pride in her growing ability to provide for others, this woman who has weathered both sun and rain alongside her, who is the brains behind their success, has been going home each and every day to . . . to . . . ? Bhima feels the bile rise to her mouth, and for a moment she thinks it’s her turn to be sick. How can it be? she asks herself. Can there be so many levels of hell? All these years she had thought that she was on the bottom rung—a wife who wasn’t a wife, a widow who wasn’t a widow, a mother who had no children, a woman whose home was not much better than a bird’s nest haphazardly strung together. But now she feels positively blessed. To have a home. And to have someone to share that home with.

  She feels a sudden, indiscriminate anger, although she’s unsure of its target—the Gods who toy with women like her and Parvati for their own amusement, this cruel city that begets so many poor people that it cannot take care of them, or at her own obtuseness. “Come on,” she snaps, coming to a decision. “Get up. We will get you washed up.”

  “The latrine is too dirty . . .” Parvati begins.

  “Who said anything about the latrine?”

  They cross the street hand in hand, Parvati meekly following Bhima, who smiles grimly. If she needed proof that Parvati is not well, here it is, in this meek acquiescence. Parvati walks with her head down, does not look up until they are at the entrance of the mall. They have barely taken two s
teps toward the spotless glass doors when they hear a whistle. “Ae, ae, ae,” says the chowkidar as he races toward them. “Where do you two madams think you are going?”

  “We are needing to use the bathroom,” Bhima says shortly.

  “As is half of Mumbai.” The man sneers at them. “Go use the public latrines. This place is not meant for you.”

  Bhima flushes. “This mall is a public facility, correct?”

  “Correct. But not for women like you.”

  “Shameless boy. Show respect for your elders.”

  The man smacks his thigh in frustration. “Arre, why you’re making trouble? Is this your father’s house that you can foul up the bathroom and then leave without buying anything?”

  Parvati groans. “Ask him how much he needs to let us in,” she says in a whisper loud enough for the man to hear. But instead of being insulted, he merely smiles. “The old lady is smarter than you.”

  “How much?” Bhima says.

  The watchman scratches his beard. “One hundred rupees and you can stay in all day for all I care.”

  “Give him fifty,” Parvati says. “He can take it or leave it.”

  The man glares at her, but when Bhima offers him the money, he quickly grabs and pockets it. “Have a nice day,” he says in English.

  Bhima mutters under her breath as the glass doors slide open for them to enter. It is nearing the end of the month, and she has to settle with the baker, the doodhwalla, and the grocer. Maya had told her just yesterday that she needed a new textbook. She needs to watch her money, not spend her days offering bribes to corrupt watchmen.

  A blast of sweet, cool air hits them, and both women shiver and lean into each other. They feel the air dry the sweat on their bodies, and in another moment they are seduced, by the exquisite beauty of the marbled floor they are afraid to walk on, by the jeweled twinkle of the shops they pass. Several of the shopkeepers stand at the entrances of their stores, ready to welcome customers with promises of discounts on luxury goods, but not one of them makes eye contact with the two women who obviously have no business being here.

  “Arre, Ram,” Bhima breathes, gazing up at a huge chandelier. “I had no idea this building was so big. How we going to find the bathroom?”

  “I’ll look for the signs,” Parvati says. Her voice is hoarse, strained, and Bhima looks at her with concern. “Can you walk?” she asks.

  “I’m walking, no? So why ask a stupid question?”

  At one time, she would’ve been insulted. Now, Bhima simply shrugs it off as Parvati being Parvati. Is it because the woman has no one to care for her that she has become so gruff? Or is it because she is so gruff that she has no one to take care of her? Bhima shakes her head, not knowing the answer. But whereas once she felt nothing but exasperation for her business partner, now affection has taken root between them. Now, she has learned to look past Parvati’s rude demeanor and words and appreciate the fine mind and good heart that lie beneath.

  It is tempting to stop at the windows of all the stores they pass—Bhima is particularly struck by a red embroidered kurta that Maya would love—but Parvati’s sari needs to be washed. As they look for the bathroom, Bhima asks hesitantly, “What happened, sister? And has this happened before?”

  “No,” Parvati says. “It was just heatstroke.”

  Bhima remembers the scarlet streak. “But . . . I think there was blood on the wall along with . . .”

  “Don’t talk nonsense. It was probably a streak of paan that someone had spat out. In fact, I think I saw that yesterday.”

  Bhima nods. After a minute she asks, “And, how is that spot on your back? The one that is always paining you?”

  Parvati stops walking. “Did you get your doctor’s license in between selling brinjals and spinach? Or is there another reason you’re being so nosy?”

  This time, Bhima doesn’t bother to hide her irritation. “No wonder you don’t have anyone,” she says. “Always pushing everyone away.”

  For a split second, Parvati looks stricken. Then she smiles a slow, strange smile and puts her arm around Bhima. “Why, sister,” she says softly. “I have you, na?”

  Bhima’s throat burns. “Maaf karo,” she says. “I didn’t mean what I said.”

  Parvati chuckles. “Let me teach you something. Never seek forgiveness for speaking the truth. And here—left turn for the bathrooms.”

  Bhima wets paper towels and wipes down the front of Parvati’s sari. As she bends to clean the border of her sari, she feels the older woman’s hand lightly stroke the top of her head. “I wish you had been my blood sister,” Parvati says. “Perhaps my life would’ve turned out differently.”

  The compliment is so unexpected that it is hard for Bhima to talk. “Do you have sisters of your own?” she asks at last.

  “Nahi. Just three brothers. I was the oldest.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “In hell, I hope. Along with the old boodha. Their father.”

  Bhima blanches, remembering her own beloved father. “Wasn’t he also your father?”

  “Yes. My misfortune.”

  Bhima throws away the dirty towels. “Why do you always talk about your pitaji so disrespectful?”

  “Because I cannot kill him. So I have to content myself with cursing him.” She looks around. “Shall we leave? God knows how many errors that stupid boy has already made while we were away.”

  They use the toilets before they exit, grateful that even in this fancy place, there are two stalls with Indian-style toilets and not seats that they must sit on. As they make their way back out, trying to find the entrance, they make a wrong turn and the smell of food assails them. In response, Bhima’s stomach lets out a long, loud rumble. She remembers how the watchman had sneered at them and tried to stop them from entering because he knew they couldn’t afford any of the shiny, beautiful things sold at the mall. But . . . surely they can afford a cup of tea? Maybe some hot-pot vegetable fritters to accompany the tea? Visions of the fifty rupees she has wasted paying off that corrupt watchman dance before her, but she turns away from them. She may never be inside such a fancy building again. And maybe food in such a good place will restore Parvati and settle her stomach? It will be hard to justify such an unforgivable expense, and she knows she will regret it later. But. To sit a little longer in this blessed air, which smells like perfume and feels like ice on her flesh. To rest on the cushioned chairs and eat at a table, instead of sitting on their haunches in the open marketplace. To not be pestered by flies and beggars as they eat lunch.

  Bhima comes to a decision. “We will take lunch here today,” she says.

  Parvati frowns. “Have you gone mad or what? You having any idea how much they’re charging? For one cup of tea here we can drink for a whole week.”

  She almost allows herself be persuaded by Parvati’s argument. But she also knows that she needs this indulgence. That she needs to feel that she’s more than a beast of burden. And so she tugs at Parvati. “It’s okay. I will pay. Let us enjoy this cool for a little longer.”

  “What about the stall?”

  Bhima fights down the apprehension she feels. “We will work harder when we return. Just a cup of tea and something to eat.”

  And so they sit. Instead of tea, they get lassis, the cold yogurt drink trickling thick and sweet down their throats. Instead of fritters they get potato chips, long, fingerlike strips of deep-fried potato. And they split a masala dosa, the thin crepe crispy and browned. The cost is astonishing, and they can barely look at each other as Bhima pays. As they sit down with the meal, they glance at each other, like nervous children who have done something daring, but once they begin to eat, the price seems worth it.

  Watching Parvati slurp the last of the white, frothy drink, Bhima registers a deep pleasure, feels something being knit in her chest. Without warning, her mind flashes to Gopal in the days after the industrial accident—bitter, unemployed Gopal, sitting at home all day, stripped of his role as the family breadwin
ner. Bhima knows she is not responsible for Parvati; the woman sitting across from her is not blood. Yet she is astonished at the pleasure it gives her to treat her to this expensive lunch. In the old days, when she, Gopal, and their young daughter, Pooja, were all working, she remembers how she used to buy sweets for neighbors in their old building at Diwali time, how she would drop a coin in the hands of the beggars she would pass on her way to work, how she would buy Amit a small top when he did well in school.

  “Lost in your thoughts, sister?” Parvati comments, and Bhima shakes her head. “Just remembering my son,” she says.

  “He must be a grown man now. What news do you get of him? Is he married? A father?”

  In her mind, Amit is still nine, the age he was when Gopal stole him away from her. But Bhima knows that time is a devious adversary. “Hah,” she nods. “He is married. I got a notice from them after the wedding took place. But we were not invited. And if he has children, I do not know.”

  “Arre wah.” Parvati’s voice is indignant. “How can that be? You may be a grandmother five times over, for all you know.”

  “I don’t know,” Bhima repeats. “Though life in the village is a hard one, sister. My husband’s plot of land is small. And he is missing three fingers. So feeding many extra mouths would be hard.”

  “I know.” Parvati falls quiet, lost in her own thoughts. “What about when your chokri finishes college? You will not inform her grandfather?”

  Bhima feels the heat rise in her cheeks. “What for? What kind of grandfather doesn’t know of his granddaughter’s existence? Or his own daughter’s death?”

  Shock cracks Parvati’s usual impassive face. “Hai, Ram. He doesn’t know?”

  “My Pooja was a proud girl. No, it was me alone with her and her husband in that Delhi hospital. They died within a week of each other.”