The Secrets Between Us

by Thrity Umrigar

  Parvati rolls to her side on the rope bed and pulls the thin cotton sheet up to her ears as if to block out the chattering voices of the past. For so many years, she has treated the past like a condemned house she is no longer allowed to step into. But these days it creeps up on her, triggered by the glassy laughter of the dancing women, the thud of the tabla music as familiar as her heartbeat, even the smell of the fried foods that the girls eat in between customers, taking her back to the fetid heat and smells of Principal’s house. She has put so many miles between herself and that brothel, first by marrying Rajesh and later, by being on her own, and yet, here she is, protected only by her old age from the goings-on just outside this room. There is no God. Or, if He exists, it is simply to torment His human creations.

  She still recalls her stunned silence when Rajesh had approached her a few months after his wife’s passing and proposed marriage. “She will never let me go,” she’d said at last, meaning Principal, of course, and Rajesh had stiffened, his professional pride hurt.

  “She will, if she wants this bleddy place to remain open,” he’d said. “You forget. I am still a police inspector. I have not retired yet.”

  “You don’t know Principal,” she’d replied, unsure if she was simply avoiding his proposal. “She will put up a fight.”

  Rajesh had looked at her sadly. “I’m only saying this because you’re forcing me to, janu. But your market is down. For one thing, you’re no longer young, hai na? And then, with that thing growing under your chin . . .” He stopped. There was no reason for him to complete his sentence.

  Still, Parvati had remained silent until Rajesh’s eyes flashed with impatience. “Not too many men would offer a woman like you a respectable life, Parvati,” he said. “I’m offering you a good home, among decent people. Any woman in your place would be sobbing with gratitude. Or are you so fallen that you cannot be rehabilitated?”

  Parvati looked up at the challenge in his words. “You go speak to her. See what she says.”

  “Arre, wah. You act as if she owns you . . .”

  “Doesn’t she? She purchased me . . .”

  “Even if she did, you have repaid her a thousand times over. How many men a night did you . . .”

  “If you are to be my husband, you cannot talk to me like this. About what I did with other men, before you. Ever. You understand? Promise me.”

  He smiled appeasingly. “Accha, accha, what for you getting all angry? Okay, baba, I promise.”

  Parvati groans. If she ever added up the number of people who had broken their promises to her over the years, she could build a ladder to the moon. Best to leave the past where it belonged and fall asleep. It would be morning soon enough.

  17

  Because it is not enough that the tyrant sun beats upon them all day long, baking their flesh as they squat in the open marketplace

  Because it is not enough that the incessant jackhammering across the street is so jarring that they can feel its vibration long after they leave the market

  Because it is not enough that Bhima was jolted out of a fitful sleep at predawn by the sounds of one of her neighbors beating his unfortunate wife

  Because it is not enough that as Parvati left her room this morning a strange man wearing only a pair of shorts stood on the balcony and leered suggestively at her, making her chest tighten with fear

  Because it is not enough that Rajeev’s wife has the pneumonia and they still owe the doctor sahib four hundred rupees from the last time she was sick

  Because it is not enough that Rajeev’s son is pressuring his father to ask for more money from his new, strange job of carting Bhima’s groceries around

  Because it is not enough that both Parvati and Bhima have tossed and turned all night long to escape the ghosts from the past that still haunt them so

  Because it is not enough that both women are glued together in this tiny spot in hell, bound by their need and mutual contempt for one another

  Because it is not enough that after faithfully buying her produce every day from Jafferbhai, he had laughed in her face this morning when Bhima had broached the subject of credit

  Because it is not enough that Jafferbhai’s insult still burns and has made Bhima even less tolerant of Parvati’s incessant rubbing of that nasty thing growing under her face

  Because it is not enough that Parvati immediately picks up on Bhima’s distaste and this makes her even more crotchety than usual

  Because it is not enough that there’s a rumor that the displaced fishmongers are planning on protesting the opening of the mall, thereby disrupting all the other businesses

  Because it is not enough that there has been an unexpectedly sharp hike in Maya’s college tuition

  Because it is not enough that despite the higher income Bhima still feels insecure, held hostage to Parvati’s whims and moods

  Because life is not hellish enough, and money is not tight enough, and their fears are not fearful enough

  Suddenly and without warning it begins to rain.

  The monsoons have arrived.

  18

  Business has been cut in half.

  Bhima is sick with worry. The largess that she had felt toward Parvati and Rajeev has soured into resentment. She is especially annoyed at Parvati because despite the torrential rain, the old woman still sells all six of her cauliflowers each day. Now, she waits until Parvati’s third customer of the day—a bedraggled, skeletal woman who is soaking wet—leaves and then turns toward her. “What I don’t understand,” she says, as if continuing a conversation, “is where do the customers go during monsoon season? They still have to eat, no?”

  Parvati talks to the air. “Some people are having eyes, but still they are blind.” She looks at Bhima condescendingly. “Look around, sister. See these pucca shops with walls and floors and roofs? Why should they buy from you when they can buy from a real shop?”

  Bhima tugs at the plastic tarp that Rajeev has set up for them to sit under. “But those shops charge more,” she says.

  Parvati lets out a cackle. “Nahi. Those crooked baniyas are smart. On days like this, they give extra-special pricing. Just to steal business away from small people like you.” She fingers the lump absently. “Besides, tell the truth. When you were shopping for your mistress on a wet day like today, did you mind paying extra to stay out of the rain?”

  Bhima flushes. It is true. Even though she guarded Serabai’s money, she used to pay asking price from the shopkeepers on miserable days like this one.

  Despite his raincoat, Rajeev’s hair is matted down on his forehead and water runs down his face as he hurries toward them. “You needing me to go pick up more of our produce, mausi?” he pants.

  Bhima gestures toward the unsold fruit. “What for? First we have to sell all this, no?” She avoids looking him in the face. “If a customer wants you to do a home delivery, you are free to do so today. Business is bad here.” It wounds her to say this to him after the selfless service he has provided her. In fact, for the past three days she has continued paying Rajeev his daily rate. But now, she must stop. She is here to do business, not charity, and every morsel she puts into Rajeev’s mouth, she takes out of Maya’s. Still, she will miss the exhilarating feeling of paying Rajeev more money than he used to make at his old job. Unlike the sourpuss woman sitting to her left, Rajeev is always grateful.

  Rajeev’s face falls as he understands her meaning. But he merely replies, “Theek hai, mausi. I will check in with you a little later.”

  A half hour later, she is still mulling over what Parvati has said about the advantage the shopkeepers have over pavement vendors like her. She waits until it is time for lunch, and sure enough, there’s Rajeev trotting up to them like a pet dog expecting to be fed. She considers telling both her companions that they must start paying for their own lunch, but at the last minute, she reconsiders. Instead, she says, “You bring back something to eat and stay here until I return. Can you manage?” Even though she doesn’t ask, she kn
ows that Parvati will intervene if Rajeev, sweet as a sparrow and dumb as a pigeon, makes a mistake. “I will just go and come,” she says, snapping her fingers. “Accha?”

  She braces herself for some caustic comment from Parvati, but the older woman merely looks at her with raised eyebrows as Bhima grabs the day’s earnings from under the tablecloth and hurries away.

  There are three customers ahead of her when she gets to Birlabhai’s onion and potato shop, and Bhima uses that time to survey the premises. The shop itself is filled to the brim with Birla’s own stock. But the shop has an overhang, and there is space under it for her to sell her fruit. Will Birla agree to rent out this tiny area to her? And if so, how much should she offer? The low sum she pays Parvati each day will offend him, she knows. But how much is fair? Bhima feels a twinge of guilt at the thought of abandoning the older woman, but guilt is a luxury she cannot afford. She is not here to save the world.

  “Ah, hello, Bhima bhen,” Birla finally says. “How many kilos you need?”

  She sneaks a quick look around her and speaks in a low voice. “Nothing I need to buy,” she says. “I’m here to discuss another matter.”

  Birla gives her a curious look and waits. “Yes?”

  “You may have heard. I am now selling fruits in the market.” She grimaces. “Business was good. But these rains are killing me. So I was wondering how much you will charge to let me set up my place outside your shop.”

  She is not done, but already Birla is crisscrossing his hands in front of his chest, to prevent her from continuing. “No, no, no, bhen,” he says. “Ask me for anything, but not this, please. My dear departed father always teach me—Give a hungry person a roti but don’t loan a homeless person a home. Sorry. I’m not interested.”

  “But I will pay you . . .”

  “Bhima bhen. Don’t take this the wrong way. But we’ve been in this location for over sixty years. In that time, we have been approached by people who drive Mercedes cars and can buy and sell small folks like you and me a million times over. But my rule stands. No rental-fental. I don’t need that headache.”

  As if to stress his words, there is a loud clap of thunder, and they both jump. Birla smiles ruefully and turns away. “I am sorry,” he says.

  Bhima stares at the shopkeeper for a moment and then turns back and heads to her spot. She is soaked by the time she climbs back under the tarp. “You smell like a wet dog,” Parvati says in greeting, then shuts up as Bhima glares at her. The two women sit in a huddled, miserable silence.

  “Where did that Rajeev disappear to?” Bhima asks after a few minutes.

  Parvati shrugs. “He had a delivery. So I tell him to go. As it is, we only having one customer. Your money is under the sheet.”

  “Thanks,” Bhima says shortly.

  “So, he said no to you?” Parvati asks.

  “Who?”

  “Who else? The shopkeeper you went to see.”

  Bhima’s eyes are blazing. “Nothing is private in this wretched place. Who told you?”

  Parvati laughs. “Nobody told me. I explain to you why you have no customers and a little later you rush off, like you are having to do urgent soo-soo. I can see what’s below my nose.”

  Bhima’s hands itch with the desire to slap the woman’s smug face. “Some of us want to better ourselves,” she hisses spitefully. “Not all of us are lazy, happy selling six cauliflowers a day.”

  Parvati looks at her intently. “For unfortunates like us, there is no bettering ourselves. You can try all you want, sister. But you end up where you started. This much I know.”

  Her words echo what Bhima already believes and so it is hard to argue. But then she hears herself say, “I don’t have that luxury. Of admitting defeat. I have a granddaughter to educate and to marry off.”

  To her great surprise, Parvati nods. “Sahi baat hai. You are correct. That is the biggest difference between us.”

  Bhima’s eyes fill with tears at this unexpected softening. “It’s all for her,” she splutters. “I . . . So that she can have a better life than . . .”

  Parvati pats Bhima’s wrist with her own bony hand. Twice. “Sister. No need to explain. I understand.” She is quiet for a few minutes and then she says, “Let me see what I can do. To get you a better spot. Covered.”

  Bhima doesn’t try to hide her skepticism. If Parvati can help her, she thinks, why hasn’t she helped herself all these years?

  “Who did you approach? That rascal Birla?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was your mistake. He is too fat and prosperous to care. You need to find someone whose business is not so strong. Understand?”

  Bhima’s eyes search Parvati’s face, but the older woman’s visage is inscrutable. “How you so clever?” she says.

  Parvati emits a low hoot. “Clever? Sister, I’m so clever that I spend my days killing flies at this market. And then going home to a place that can be shut in a police raid at any—” She catches herself, clamps one hand over her mouth, and stares at the pavement.

  Bhima’s mind is whirling, but she looks away, pretends to have not heard. She lets a moment pass, and then says, “Who should I approach, then?”

  “I don’t know. Let me make inquires.”

  She is about to profess her gratitude when Parvati intercepts her. “Of course, I will take a finder’s fee from you. To make up for my loss of income.”

  Bhima has no choice but to nod her assent.

  19

  His name is Vishnu and he owns a small, nondescript shop not too far from where Parvati has her spot. Bhima has walked past it daily, but the shop must be as unassuming as its owner because she has never noticed it. Unlike the other shopkeepers, Vishnu doesn’t call out to passersby but waits for them to come to him. That is his first mistake. The second, Bhima notices, is that he is a painfully shy young man and has a disconcerting habit of looking over the shoulder of the person he is talking to. She has been selling fruit for only two months, but already she has learned the importance of eye contact, of salesmanship. This Vishnu possesses none of that.

  But he is a tough bargainer. Instead of a flat rental fee, he wishes to claim a percentage of her daily earnings. Bhima stares at him, unsure of whether to agree or disagree. She wishes Parvati were here to help her, but the older woman is back at their usual spot. As it is, Bhima feels she may have no choice but to agree to this young man’s terms. The rains have been so heavy the past two days that yesterday their whole street was flooded, and she was unable to sell anything. Jafferbhai has agreed to hold her produce for her in the warehouse for an extra day, but Bhima knows she needs to move quickly. Besides, Vishnu has a corner store, one end of it abutting a wall that she can lean against all day. “You please wait,” she says to him. “I will come back in fifteen minutes, only.”

  Parvati scowls as Bhima tells her what Vishnu has offered. “In a way, it’s better,” she says. “But on a good day, you will pay him a lot more. Accha, do one thing. Tell him no more than three percent.”

  Bhima sighs, loathe to give away three percent of her hard-earned money. Watching her, Parvati shakes her head. “Don’t think small like a mouse. This location will bring new customers to you.” She groans as she rises to her feet. “Chalo, I’ll go with you. I’ve known that Vishnu for donkey’s years. He thinks he’s a big shot now. I’ll set him right.”

  Bhima watches in wonder as Parvati and Vishnu go back and forth. They both scribble numbers on a notepad, they each raise their voices and call out numbers. Finally, Vishnu’s voice rings out. “Three percent,” he says, smacking his hand on his counter. “Final offer. Lower than that, I will not go. Take or leave.”

  Parvati chews on her lower lip. She turns slowly to Bhima, stares at her mournfully. “I’ve failed you, sister,” she says. “I know it’s a hardship for you, but what to do? This here Vishnu drives a hard bargain. Well, today is an auspicious day. My advice is you agree to pay him three percent.”

  Bhima is bewildered. “But that’s
what we . . .”

  “Sister.” Parvati is blinking furiously. “Don’t argue so much. Just say yes.”

  “Yes but—”

  “Then the matter is settled.” Parvati gives Bhima a quick wink before turning back to the shopkeeper. “Vishnu beta. Do this old widow a favor and get someone to wash and paint the wall before she starts. It stinks of urine and is covered with paan stains. Bad for the business.”

  “What to do, auntie? People see a wall and think it’s a urinal, only. I paint today, they deface it tomorrow.”

  Parvati smiles. “Do one thing. Get the painter to paint some pictures of saints and Gods. A few Lord Krishnas, a few Sai Babas should do the trick. No one will piss on a saint.”

  Vishnu blinks, his mouth agape at such casual blasphemy. But he nods his agreement. “Accha, auntie. Give me one-two days.”

  Bhima casts Parvati a sideways look as the two women walk away from Vishnu’s shop. She can tell that Parvati is pleased with herself. “You should be in the politics,” she says at last. “In my whole life I have never known someone like you.”

  Parvati points one finger to the heavens. “Destiny,” she says. “Kismet.” Then she whirls around and points the same finger at Bhima. “You will still owe me full payment until the end of the month.”