The Secrets Between Us

by Thrity Umrigar

  She folds her hands and bows her head. “Thank you, doctor sahib,” she says. “I am so grateful.”

  He gives an embarrassed grin. “No mention, no mention. You have a good advocate in Chitra.” He packs his bag, then says to Chitra, “Do you want to go with me to pick up the prescription?”

  “Definitely.”

  After they leave, Maya gets up and puts her arms around Bhima. They stand there, looking down at the restless, agitated woman. “Ma-ma, I’m scared,” Maya says. “I’ve never seen someone die before.” She catches herself. “I mean, of course I saw my parents. But I wasn’t there when . . .”

  “I know,” Bhima says. She struggles to capture the clarity she had had just a few minutes ago. “Parvati is a kite,” she says. “She belongs to the sky. When the time comes, it will be up to us to release her and let her fly. You understand?”

  Maya looks at her wide-eyed. “I think so,” she says. But she is sobbing.

  35

  Three days later, Parvati is looking so much better that Bhima briefly entertains the thought that maybe the woman can return to the market after all. “Today I will make the tea,” Parvati announces as soon as she walks in. “You’ve worked all morning.”

  “Accha,” Bhima says, more to preserve the woman’s dignity. She pretends not to notice the wave of pain that makes Parvati’s face go rigid as she gets to her feet. But instead of the Primus stove, Parvati heads to where Bhima has set her white canvas bag. She digs to the bottom of the bag and pulls out a wad of money. “Take,” she says simply.

  Bhima frowns. “Kya hai?”

  “What’s it look like? It’s our money. From the business. Whatever I could save from what you pay me. I have no use for it, sister. You take it to pay for my dava-daru.”

  “No need,” says Bhima, offended. “You call me sister, but still you offer me money?”

  Parvati gives her a meaningful look. “What am I going to do with it? Carry it to my pyre? Take it. Where I am going, I won’t need money.”

  Bhima fights the lump in her throat, struggles to maintain eye contact. “You going somewhere?”

  “The devil has reserved a seat in hell for me, sister. And he doesn’t need money. It’s only the devils that walk on earth who will kill their own mothers for money.”

  “You’re an old woman but still talking rubbish,” Bhima says, turning away, and Parvati lets her. The bills, held together by a rubber band, lie on the floor, until Bhima finally picks them up and returns them to the white bag. Parvati watches but doesn’t protest.

  Maya is out this evening, has plans to go to a movie with her college friends. Bhima had been anxious to get the girl out of the hut, which has taken on the smell of disease and medication. As evening falls, she is wondering what she should prepare for dinner, maybe some broth for Parvati, when the old woman sighs and says, “These four walls are closing in on me. I am longing for some fresh air.”

  Bhima looks at her sharply because this desire to leave the house is proof that the new medicine is working. “You wanting to go somewhere?”

  Parvati looks self-conscious. “Where to go? In this shape?” she says, glancing at herself. But there is a quiver in her voice, a question.

  “We can go sit at the seaside,” Bhima says, only half believing her own words. But the hope that the words ignite in Parvati’s face strengthens her.

  “Do you think we can, sister?” There’s that tremor in Parvati’s voice again. “I would love that. It doesn’t have to be for long.”

  “Then we shall go.” Bhima gets to her feet with a grunt, opens the door, and steps outside. She will need help getting Parvati out of the lane, but if living in this wretched slum has any advantages, this is one of them—she will never lack for someone willing to help, whether it be out of idle curiosity or kindness. She spots her neighbor Shyam, lounging outdoors as he always does. Bhima has never liked Shyam, but now, she lunges toward him. “Ae, babu. I need to take the old lady to the seaside to get some air. Can you help me walk her out? I can pay you a few rupees.”

  Shyam looks offended. “If you wish to pay, mausi, the answer is no. But if you ask as a neighbor, I am willing. Among neighbors there should be no money, na?”

  Bhima looks chastised. Perhaps she has judged the man wrongly. “Thank you, ji,” she says. “We will be ready in five-ten minutes.”

  “Taxi needed?” Shyam asks.

  “Yes. We will get one from the main road.”

  Shyam clicks his tongue. “Nahi. At this hour, impossible. Also, if they see you with an old lady, no one will stop.” He chews on his lower lip. “You get ready,” he says. “Taxi will be waiting when you come out.”

  “What—?”

  “Don’t worry. That Abdul fellow? Two lanes down only, he lives. He drives a taxi. Should be home by now. But don’t worry. He will take you, as favor to me.” He lifts his hand to squash her protest. “That way, he can help you. At the other end. And then bring you home, safeum-safe.”

  Abdul pulls up illegally beside a row of parked cars at the seaside and comes around to help Bhima get Parvati out of the taxi. He waits until they are comfortably seated on a bench overlooking the water. “All right?” he says. “I am going to find a parking space, accha? But I come back, faata-faat, no worry.”

  They both turn their heads to watch him hurry back to his vehicle. “He’s a kind boy. Goes to show there is still some humanity left in this world,” Parvati says, and Bhima nods. “Are you comfortable?” she asks, and in response, Parvati takes Bhima’s hand, squeezes it, and holds it in her lap.

  “I am so grateful I got to see the sea one more time,” she says.

  “Why one more time? Many-many more times, God willing,” Bhima says. But she hears the lie in her own voice, and Parvati doesn’t even bother contradicting her.

  “The village where I was born, there was no sea,” Parvati says. “I didn’t know it existed until I come to Mumbai. Can you imagine?” Her face looks unimaginably old as she stares straight ahead. “First time I see it, I screamed. I thought it was some demon moving on its stomach, coming toward me to eat me. Principal laugh and laugh. Years later, he used to bring me here. It was the only thing that made life bearable.”

  “Who?”

  “Rajesh. The man who became my husband. While I was still at the Old Place, we used to come.” Parvati’s lips twist bitterly. “Once we were married, all that stopped. After the first year, I’d say. Then I was just his servant.”

  Bhima strokes Parvati’s hand. “Forget these memories, sister,” she says. “That’s half your illness—these sad memories.”

  And then, to Bhima’s great shock, Parvati begins to cry. “I can’t,” she whispers. “I can’t forget. Every man in my life has used me. Like I was a newspaper to collect trash in and then discard.” She lifts a finger and points to the churning sea. “This. This was the only one who stayed with me. My brother. That’s what I used to call the sea. My strong, reliable brother. The only one who swallowed my pain and made it his. You see how he moves? Those waves? Only someone who understands suffering tosses like this.”

  Bhima looks at Parvati out of the corner of her eye. It is hard to know if this is the drug talking. She looks around discreetly for Abdul, in case they need to rush Parvati home. She spots him sitting on the sea face wall diagonally across from them, and he raises his hand, to let her know of his presence. Somehow, that simple gesture comforts her, reminds her she is not alone.

  “My Maya was raped,” Bhima says suddenly. It is the first time she has ever said this out loud, and she is so stunned that she looks around quickly, as if someone else has said those words. “By Serabai’s son-in-law. A boy I loved like my own.”

  Parvati nods. “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Maya told me. One day, when you were at work.”

  A numb, hollow ache grows in Bhima’s chest. “That’s why she let me go. Because she had to defend that badmash’s honor. Over my own.” She shakes her head ang
rily. “Over my own.”

  “Sister . . .”

  They sit on the bench together, two old women, while an entire city parades past them—the old Parsi gentlemen in their faded suits and bowler hats, the college students who move in shouting, laughing clusters, the young Romeos who wolf-whistle compulsively at every attractive woman they pass, the ragged beggars who thump their dented bowls at passersby, the male residents of nearby buildings in their T-shirts and shorts. Occasionally, the ocean emits a furious roar and sprays them with its spittle. When this happens, Parvati licks the salt on her lips greedily, while Bhima wipes her face with her sari.

  “I have a favor to ask,” Parvati says at last.

  “Bolo.” Say it.

  “When I am gone—no, wait. Listen. What use pretending, sister? I know my days are numbered.” Parvati waits until Bhima finally nods her assent. “After I am gone, I want you to sprinkle some of my ashes here. Into the sea.”

  “Of course,” Bhima says, relieved at the smallness of Parvati’s request. “Of course.”

  “And then, carry the rest of them back.”

  “Back where?”

  “To my home village. To the land of my ancestors. It is not too far from here. Maybe five or six hours by train.”

  “What for?” Bhima asks, calculating the cost of lost business days. “Why you wanting to go back there?”

  Parvati fidgets with the lump under her chin. “Because it’s where I should’ve lived my life. If my kismet had been better. I want to go home.”

  “Are you having family there?”

  Parvati shakes her head vigorously. “No. That is, I don’t know. But I don’t wish to find out.” She half turns her head to look at Bhima. “No. My family is here. With you and Maya. Understand?”

  Bhima nods, too overcome to speak. “Do you understand?” Parvati says again, and this time she replies, “Yes. Yes, I do.” She attempts a laugh and then cries, “But what I will do without you, I don’t even know.”

  Parvati gives a cackle that makes her sound like her old self. “Don’t worry. The devil and I, we will take care of you.”

  “You don’t believe in God, but you believe in the devil?”

  “Sister. I have never seen the face of God. But the devil—I have seen him a thousand times. Isn’t that so?”

  “Baap re,” Bhima says. “What blasphemy you speak.”

  Parvati ignores her. “There’s a river,” she says, as if speaking to herself. “In my village. The year I left, it was dry as a bone. But this year, the monsoons were good. Take my ashes there. That’s what I ask. My savings will buy two train tickets, for you and Maya. Good for the girl to get out of this city for a day or so. Hai, na?”

  “What is it called? Your home country?”

  “Lodpur.”

  Bhima frowns. “I have heard that name.”

  “Lot of chikoo farms there.”

  “No. I don’t know. But I am knowing that name.”

  “Will you grant me this last wish, sister?”

  “Of course.”

  Parvati exhales, leans back her head to gaze at the sky. “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  36

  Bhima is relieved to find out how much of the business she can manage, even without Parvati there to help her. But she has to admit that there has been an unexpected source of help, from Rajeev’s son, Mukesh, who still has a year of college left but is glad to help during his summer vacation. The boy is as hardworking as his father and has also inherited his good nature. But unlike Rajeev, Mukesh is sharp, able to think for himself, and can add and multiply at lightning speed.

  She has been spending more and more time at home. At first she told herself that it was for Parvati’s sake, but now she knows the truth—it is for her own. Already, even with Parvati alive, a persistent ache has lodged itself in Bhima’s heart. The sense of loss she feels is as concrete as a physical object. In a life marked by a succession of losses, Parvati’s passing will be one more.

  Bhima watches from the corner of her room as Maya takes the bedpan outside. Even a month ago, it would’ve been unthinkable for her to let Maya step out of the house and into the basti alone in the late evening, much less to perform such an odious task. But tending to the dying—and yes, Parvati is dying—changes the living. Old rules and mores give way to hasty, new arrangements. Bhima, unaccustomed to taking physical care of an elderly woman, is feeling the terrible weight of her own age. Every joint in her body aches, mostly from the sporadic, restless sleep they are all getting—a sleep increasingly punctured by Parvati’s moans and mutterings and nocturnal bodily accidents. The old woman is up at odd hours, then sleeps out of sheer exhaustion. Bhima and Maya are both bleary-eyed. But to Bhima’s great surprise, Maya has not complained once. In fact, the girl has come into her own, tending to Parvati with a tenderness that Bhima had not imagined she was capable of.

  She is startled by a loud groan. Parvati has turned over on her side and is staring at her with unblinking eyes. Bhima mutters an oath but rises and scoots down the tiled floor to the poor woman’s mattress. She sits on her haunches and takes Parvati’s hand in hers and is startled by how hot it feels. “You are having a fever?” she cries, now noticing the sweat on her brow. “I give you a Crocin?”

  Parvati shakes her head. “No more tablets,” she rasps. Since the last two days, her voice has changed. “I will take a sip of water, though.”

  Bhima lifts the old woman’s head so that she can take a sip. “Thank you,” Parvati says. “What a burden I have become to you.”

  “I told you. No burden.” Bhima’s tone is curt. She wants Maya to return so that they can all get a few hours of sleep.

  “Something I have to say,” Parvati continues, as if she’s not heard. “I want you to listen.”

  “What?” Bhima is still eyeing the door, not paying attention.

  “I have left a note for you. It is kept in my bag. Have Maya read it after you sprinkle my ashes in my home village. But read it while you are still there, at the riverbank. You understand me? Don’t open it now.”

  On her deathbed and still this woman is plotting and planning, Bhima marvels. She’s always up to some tingle-tangle. “Why the secrecy, sister?”

  Parvati’s dry lips crease into a smile. “You’ll see.”

  “Okay.” Bhima is suddenly furious, the sleeplessness of the past few weeks catching up with her. I have no time for these games, she fumes to herself. “Chalo, try to sleep.”

  “One more thing.” Parvati raises her bony hand and grabs Bhima’s wrist. Her hand burns against Bhima’s skin. “One time you ask me, do I hate all the menfolk? I say yes. I lied to you, my sister. There is one man I love more than life itself.”

  Curiosity battles with impatience. “Who?”

  “My father,” Parvati says and begins to cry. “My father.”

  It is the fever talking, Bhima thinks. “Your father sold you to that degenerate place,” she says. “You only said.”

  “I know,” Parvati cries. “And I was angry. But I always understood why. Deep in my heart I understood why he must do what he did. He sold me to save everyone else. This is why I hated him—because I couldn’t blame him. If I could have just blamed him, I could’ve stopped hating him. But I was so close to him, Bhima, that even at the train station, I could understand his reasons.”

  “I don’t follow,” Bhima says, but just then Maya walks in with the clean bedpan and Bhima signals to her with her eyes to go to her corner. Maya does not need to hear this conversation.

  “He used to sing to me,” Parvati says, but her voice has gone so soft that Bhima is not sure if she is awake or talking in her sleep. “When I was little, before the boys were born, he would occasionally take me to the fields with him. I would lie under the banyan tree and watch while he broke up that hard soil. I would beg him to let me help. He never did. Called me his rani, his queen. One time, I remember . . .” Parvati drifts off to sleep. And then suddenly, her eyes fly ope
n and she says, clearly, “It is that motherfucker cow that I hated. The one he sold me to keep.”

  Bhima flinches at the crudeness of the word, then watches as the woman’s eyes close again. She sits stroking her hair as Parvati falls into a restless slumber. Is it the lot of women, she wonders, to love the men who destroy them?

  It is Maya who notices that Parvati’s breathing has changed. The older woman is also drenched in sweat. “Dip some rags in cold water and put on her forehead,” Bhima commands, but in a half hour, the fever hasn’t come down. The two look at each other. “Shall I phone the doctor?” Maya asks, her voice fearful. Bhima considers, then says no. “No doctor can help her now, beti.” Her voice is steady, and she looks directly at Maya, who is crying. Bhima doesn’t cry. But a monsoon rages within her.

  Death, when it comes, is merciful. Peaceful. Parvati’s eyes flutter open a few times. Once, she grips Bhima’s hand hard, before letting it fall away. The groaning ceases. Then, there is only the sound of deep, raspy breathing. A few times, the breaths stop and Bhima and Maya look at each other, bewildered. Then, there is a loud snort and it starts again. But slowly, like a train chugging to a stop, the breathing slows down.

  And then Parvati becomes a yellow kite and flies to her home in the sky.

  A day after Parvati is cremated, Bhima returns to the site and is handed the ashes. She spends that evening sitting cross-legged on the floor, occasionally lifting the urn that contains the ashes, marveling each time at how little the human body actually weighs. It is hard enough to accept that this is what the physical body amounts to. But what about a person’s anger? What about her voice? Her laughter? Her arrogance? Her irreverence? Her humor, her ego, her honor, her character? Do these fingerprints of an individual life simply evaporate and disappear with the last exhale? And if that is so, what use all this struggle, misery, and strife? What difference whether a woman ever lived or not? Whether she was loved or unloved, educated or illiterate, wanted or unwanted by her parents, whether or not she suffered hurt and betrayal, or whether she still managed to retain her humanity and nobility? In the end, Bhima thinks, it doesn’t matter. It is all ash and dust. This is what it means to be human, she thinks: grains of dust arranged in human form—some dark, some light, some tall, some short, some male, some female. And in the end, the same gust of wind breaks them all down.