“How could I? Because I had to. I had no choice.” Sera’s eyes flash with anger. “My daughter was pregnant. Remember?” A vein throbs on the side of her right eye. “What would you do? If someone told you something that would destroy Maya? If they handed you a grenade that you knew would blow up her life? Would you use it? Or would you throw yourself on it in order to save her?”
“But bai . . .”
“No, Bhima. I did the only thing I could. And I don’t expect you to understand.” She points to her grandson. “I did it for his sake. And for Dinaz’s. And don’t think you’re the only one who has suffered. I have suffered, too. I have sacrificed, also.”
“What have you sacrificed, bai?” Bhima asks dully, remembering those dreadful days of working at Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s home.
“What have I sacrificed, Bhima? You dare to ask me this? I have sacrificed you. You. I have lost you. You knew me better than any of my friends. You knew what went on within those four walls better than my own parents. Even now, every afternoon when I have tea alone, I think of you. How we used to talk. That’s what I gave up. For my daughter’s sake.”
And suddenly, Bhima can see it, the price that Serabai has paid for keeping Viraf baba’s dark secret. It is in her eyes, the twist of her mouth, the bend of her head. “You never . . . Dinaz baby never . . . they are happy?”
Sera glances quickly at Darius, but the boy is clearly distracted by the noise and lights of the mall. “They have their ups and downs. Sometimes I think that Dinaz suspects something. In any case, she’s not blind. She can see that I’m . . . reserved around him. In the beginning I’m sure she thought it was because I was angry at him for falsely accusing you of stealing the cash. But Dinaz is not a fool. She . . .” Sera breaks off abruptly. “I don’t know. The atmosphere at home is not right. You took all the brightness out of my house when you left, Bhima.”
Bhima pulls the pallov of her sari around her. She is shivering again. “Dinaz baby must never know,” she says abruptly. “You are one hundred percent correct about this, Serabai.”
Sera speaks in such a low monotone that Bhima is not sure if her former mistress has even heard her. “One time, only one time I came close to threatening him.” She raises her head at the memory. “You remember you sent a rattle for Darius with Dinaz? Viraf was all upset about it. Refused to have his son play with it. So I pulled him aside. I didn’t even have to say much. I just said that this was a gift from you. And that I wanted my grandson to value it. Bas, he got all thanda after that. Must have seen something in my eyes.”
Bhima has a startling thought: Nothing she has endured in the dark days following her unceremonious dismissal from Serabai’s employ can match the hell that her mistress has undergone. A lump forms in her throat. “Jaane do, bai,” she says. “Let it go. He’s your family relations. My Maya is safe. Nothing good to be gained from remembering what he did.”
“He destroyed us,” Sera whispers. “And he destroyed his own child. Every time I look at my Darius, I think . . .” Her eyes dart from side to side and for a second there is a look in them that chills Bhima’s blood.
“Serabai,” she says sternly. “You have a beautiful grandson. It is your duty to remain healthy for his sake.”
Sera laughs. “Life is strange,” she says. “Everything is topsy-turvy.” She makes a visible effort and pulls herself together. She reaches into her purse and removes her wallet. But even before she can take out the notes, Bhima is shaking her head. “No, no, no, bai,” she says. “There’s no need. We are doing well, by the grace of God.”
Sera looks taken aback. Her hand hovers uselessly for a moment. Then, she recovers and says, “Buy something from me for Maya for her graduation. I will have no way of finding out.”
Bhima hesitates, loath to offend the woman who has been so good to her over the years, but unwilling to accept her charity. She is not even sure if she will mention this unexpected encounter to Maya. Already, Serabai’s confession from a few moments ago is beginning to feel like a dream. “I will let you know when she finishes college, bai,” she says. “I will send word to you with Mrs. Sethna’s servant. Accha?”
As the insult behind her refusal becomes obvious to Sera, she flushes, nods, and places her wallet back into her purse. After a second, her head tilts back, and she is once again the proud, dignified woman Bhima has always known. “Well. Please give Maya our best wishes,” she says stiffly.
Bhima feels a wave of self-chastisement. Why did she have to go and hurt poor Serabai, after she had just exposed her raw heart to her? “Thank you, bai,” she says. “God has heard my prayers and put you in my path today.”
She can tell that Sera is now in a rush to get away. “Stay well, Bhima. I may come visit your stall one of these days.”
Bhima bows her head. “It would be my pleasure.” She bends to pat Darius’s head. “And may God bless your little one. Exactly like you, he is looking.”
They walk out the mall doors together, and just as they are about to part, Bhima turns around. “Bai. From my end, there is no more bitterness. I . . . I understand now why you behave the way you do. We—Maya and I—bear you no ill will. So, please, you also forgive yourself, bai.”
She hears Sera’s sharp intake of breath and fears that she has offended her. But then, the woman smiles. “You are a natural-born healer, Bhima. You always have been. I am lucky to have known you.”
And then, with a little wave of her hand, Sera walks away, little Darius trotting beside her. And Bhima stands still, watching them, feeling like the luckiest and most unlucky woman in the world.
27
“Who was she?” Parvati asks when she returns to the stall, and when she answers, nods. “Hah. I thought so. I could tell from how stuck-up she looked that this was your Serabai.”
“She’s not stuck-up. Not at all,” Bhima says reflexively before realizing that Parvati is being kind and showing her solidarity. She forces a smile. “She has her own problems, sister. Just like the rest of us.”
Parvati snorts. “When you don’t have to worry about where you will rest your head at night, other problems become easier.”
Her words jolt Bhima out of the fog she’s been in ever since she had said goodbye to Sera. “How are you feeling?” she asks sharply. “Still feeling the nausea?”
Parvati waves her away. “Didn’t you see me eat like an ox? Can a sick woman eat like that?”
No, but a hungry woman can, Bhima thinks, and the thought is a burn to her skin. “You come to our house after you finish here tonight,” she says. “Whatever food we eat, you share with us.”
“No. I told you, I’m fine.”
Bhima waits on a customer, who buys two cabbages and a pomegranate from her. Before leaving the woman says, “That recipe you gave for the saag aloo, the other day? My husband ate so much, he was fully fed-up. And he ate the leftovers for breakfast the next morning. Too good, yaar.”
“Shukriya,” Bhima says. “I can tell you how to prepare the cabbage, if you like.”
The woman smiles. “Arre, you forgot. Already you’ve given the recipe. That’s why only I’m buying the cabbage today. I’m preparing it tonight.”
“You know what they say,” Parvati says. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” There is something so lewd in the way she says it that the customer gives a startled laugh, exchanging a look with Bhima, who only rolls her eyes.
“Yes, yes. Well, bye-bye.”
As soon as the woman leaves, Bhima faces Parvati again. “Nobody said you’re not fine. I’m just inviting you to my home. If we are too lowly for you to accept, that’s understandable.”
Parvati narrows her eyes. “Don’t talk rubbish.” She plays with the lump on her throat as she thinks. “You don’t need to feel sorry for me. This road that I’m on, I’ve chosen for myself. I prefer to be alone. I can move faster that way. No one to tie me down.”
“Sister. All you do is go from the market to that . . . that place where you slee
p. You are moving faster to go where, exactly?”
Parvati falls silent, and Bhima is sorry for her cruel words. Why is she hurting this old woman who has already been so hurt by the world? But before she can apologize, Parvati speaks over her. “What time I should come? When will you get home from your other job?”
Bhima smiles. “You come by seven. I will rush home as soon as I’m done.” She tears a piece of paper from her notebook. “Here. I give you exact directions. You please take down.”
As Parvati writes, she grumbles, “Why you still working the second job? You making enough money here, no, to do some aaram when you get home?”
“I like my bais,” Bhima says simply. “They are both good to me. Chitra baby, especially, she never treats me like a servant. And she is helping my Maya in her studies.”
“What’s the other’s name?”
“Sunita.”
Parvati nods. “And they are funny, correct?” she says knowingly.
Bhima shakes her head in confusion. “Funny?”
“One is a male?”
She understands immediately what Parvati is insinuating. It is no different from what Vimal had said to her on the first day she’d met Chitra. A strong protectiveness rises in her. “No one is a male,” she hisses. “They are both women, like us. And they are kind to each other like no menfolk was ever kind to us.”
To her surprise, Parvati nods. “Agree. I meant no insult. In my time, I’ve seen many like them. Some of the women in the Old Place were like that. It was the only comfort in their lives.”
Bhima doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath. Now, she exhales. “They suffer,” she says. “This one neighbor called Sunitabai a—a very bad name.” She stops, silenced by a thought. “Parvati. Do all human beings keep secrets from one another? Today you tell me about your life. And then, ten minutes later, I run into Serabai. And she—she is being killed by the secret she is keeping. And Chitra baby says her own father and mother don’t know that she moved to Mumbai for Sunitabai. Why do we all walk around like this, hiding from one another?”
Parvati’s thumb circles the lump in a fast motion as she ponders the question. “It isn’t the words we speak that make us who we are. Or even the deeds we do. It is the secrets buried in our hearts.” She looks sharply at Bhima. “People think that the ocean is made up of waves and things that float on top. But they forget—the ocean is also what lies at the bottom, all the broken things stuck in the sand. That, too, is the ocean.”
“I don’t follow,” Bhima says, not understanding how they’ve gotten from Chitra to the ocean.
Parvati clicks her tongue impatiently. “It doesn’t matter, sister. Too much thinking is bad for health. Now come on, let us sell a few more carrots and brinjals. This is who we are, not poets or philosophers.”
When Chitra opens the door to let Bhima in, she can tell that the younger woman is working. It is not Chitra’s paint-stained T-shirt that gives it away; it is that faraway look on the woman’s face that Bhima has come to recognize. Also, the strained manner in which she speaks, as if doing anything other than painting is an effort.
“Hi,” she now says. “I’m working in the bedroom. If possible, don’t disturb. Okay?”
“You go do your painting, baby,” Bhima says. “I will take care of everything.” Chitra nods and without another word disappears.
Fifteen minutes later there is a yell, the slamming of the bedroom door, and then Chitra is in the kitchen. “It’s no use. I can’t paint today to save my life. Just one of those days, you know?” And Bhima nods, although she has no idea what she’s agreeing to. She still doesn’t understand how a grown woman, one as filled with life and energy as Chitra, can stay home day after day, doing nothing but painting pictures, as if she were five years old. And yet, every so often, Chitra talks about selling one of her pictures. Bhima imagines her squatting on a sidewalk selling her wares, like the hawkers at Flora Fountain sell their plastic soap dishes and combs.
“Why you always painting such sad-dark things, baby?” she now says, trying to be helpful. “You paint something pretty, na, like a parrot or a flower.” For the past three weeks, Chitra has been painting the same picture, of a skinny beggar woman sheltering an infant. Who will buy such a picture? Bhima thinks. All you have to do is go down the street to see a hundred such unfortunate women. Why she needs to make a picture of them?
Chitra stares at Bhima as if she hasn’t heard a word. Then, she takes the spoon out of Bhima’s hands and sets it down, while also turning off the stove. Bhima yelps. “What you doing, Chitra baby? Rice needs to cook, na?”
“Come,” Chitra says. She drags Bhima out of the kitchen and into the living room, where she pushes Bhima onto a chair and leans her forward until her hands rest on the coffee table. “Can you stay like this?” she says, arranging Bhima’s hands. “Just a minute, I’ll be right back with my notebook.”
For the next two hours, she sketches Bhima’s hands. Often, just as they are beginning to cramp, Chitra rearranges them. Spreads the fingers. Rests them flat. Has Bhima make a fist. Bhima feels a growing impatience. Is this why this crazy girl is in love with another woman? Because she is a little mad? As much as she loves Chitra, there is so much she doesn’t understand. Who is going to cook their dinner if she’s sitting here wasting both their time?
As if she’s read her mind, Chitra laughs. “Bhima, relax, yaar. I’ll get you out of here on time. Are your hands hurting? You need a break?”
“Baby. I’m still having to cook and clean. So if you’re done with this, I need to start on the housework.”
“Don’t worry about the cooking. Su’s at a work party tonight, so it’s just me. I’ll eat leftovers.” She thinks for a moment, then asks, “Or, do you want to eat with me tonight? We can go get Maya?”
She is no longer taken aback by Chitra’s impulsiveness. “Forgive me, Chitra baby,” she says. “I am actually having a guest of my own tonight. I will need to go home and cook.”
“Oh? Who?”
“The woman who helps me in my business. Parvati is her good name.” Bhima hesitates, unsure of how much more to say. “She is having no relations of her own. And she was sick today. So I ask her to come eat with us tonight.”
“That’s great. Can I come too?”
Bhima gives an embarrassed laugh and covers her mouth at the outrageousness of the request. “Baby. My house is at Gharib slum colony. How can someone like you come?”
Chitra gives her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“My house is not fit for you.” Bhima’s face burns with shame. “We . . . we are not even having . . . it is one room, only. And no AC.”
Chitra is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “If you don’t mind having me, Bhima, I’d love to see where you live.”
Bhima feels a moment’s dread at the thought of walking down the narrow, filthy alley with Chitra. She sees the murky water in the open drains, hears the buzz of the flies and mosquitoes, pictures the openly curious stares that will follow them home. But then, another picture comes into her head—the four of them sitting perched on the two mattresses, eating together in companionable silence. Or better yet, she making sure Parvati gets enough to eat, while Chitra talks to Maya about schoolwork and other important things with which she cannot help her grandchild. They are lonely, she and Maya, in that little dimly lit hut. Night after night, they follow the same routine—cooking, a little conversation while eating, and then Maya opening her books while Bhima sweeps the little room and gets ready for bed. Surely it will be good to have this bright-eyed girl in their home. “If you are sure?” she asks, and Chitra squeals. “Let me go change,” she says. “We’ll ride together.”
In the car, Bhima continues to fret. “Where are we going to leave your car?” she says. “Those slum children are animals—they will scratch the paint or steal your wipers. Just out of spite.”
But Chitra waves off her concerns. “Don’t worry so much. That can happen anywhere in the ci
ty.” She thinks for a moment. “You know the Marriott? Big hotel not too far from your area? I’ll valet park. We can walk it up from there.”
“Good idea.” But now something else troubles Bhima. There are only two metal plates at home and no forks and spoons because she and Maya eat with their hands. And then the idea comes to her, and it is as if a weight has dropped off her shoulders: They will order food from Mughal Kitchen, the Grade 1 restaurant outside the basti. She will pay for all of it. That way, she doesn’t have to rush to cook. And best of all, she will request extra plates and a fork and spoon for Chitra from the restaurant. She wonders if Parvati will actually show up and hopes that she will not be upset to see another guest.
Even though Chitra has slipped into a nondescript shalwar kameez outfit, her effect on the slum dwellers is electric. Everything about her—the cut of her clothes, the way her hair is styled, the elegance of her sandals, the gingerly way she walks through the basti—marks her as an outsider. As they walk, a crowd of children begin to follow them, pushing and shoving each other for a better look at this stranger in their midst. Chitra carries on a steady, friendly conversation with the urchins, but Bhima’s face is tight with embarrassment. And that embarrassment turns to fury at the sight of one of the louts openly staring at them and licking his lips. Looking at Chitra, the man rubs his crotch suggestively. A scarlet-faced Bhima turns toward Chitra, wanting her to avert her eyes from such indecency, but Chitra looks coolly at the man and stares directly at his hand. At first, the man seems thrilled at her response, but when Chitra keeps staring impassively at him, the man mutters an obscenity and moves away. Chitra nods to herself, a slight movement that only Bhima catches. She feels a new sense of respect for the younger woman. How she has crushed him, like an insect under the foot.
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