Is it possible, Parvati wonders, for a human being to be sold twice during one lifetime? First by her father and then by Principal? But even as she asks the question she knows the answer—in this pitiless world, a human being can be bought and sold not once, not twice, but a million times over. In this country, human life has as much value as this stone she is kicking down the street.
Lost in her thoughts, Parvati gives the stone a savage kick, and the motion makes her rubber chappal slip from her foot and fly a short distance. She hurries to retrieve it, hoping that nobody has seen. But in this city of a million busybodies, of course someone has, a teenage boy who laughs out loud. Parvati flushes and ignores him, slipping her foot back into the slipper. Serves you right, old woman, she scolds herself. Walking down the street kicking stones as if you are a carefree teenager.
Would it have been possible, she wonders, that despite not being in love with Rajesh, they could’ve had a good life together, one based on respect and kindness? She had never known a prostitute to whom sex was important, and she herself had come to think of the act as an odd, mechanical thing, something a male body did to a female body, sometimes painful, sometimes not. Whenever she read one of those stupid women’s magazine articles on how to entice a man or how to be a dutiful wife, she fought the urge to throw the magazine across the room. Parvati felt nothing but contempt for those young, naive virginal women from good families, lining up to enter the marriage market, which, to her jaded eyes, seemed more dishonest than the red-light market. At least men paid her, rather than the so-called respectable families who paid lavish dowries to have their daughters taken off their hands. She did not wish to trade places with them, found their deference to their husbands, fathers, and brothers to be hypocritical, saw it as a survival tactic deployed by women in a world ruled by men. If the deer lives in the same jungle alongside the tiger, the deer must learn to flatter, praise, and obey the tiger. That’s how Parvati thought of marriage—an arrangement between a doe and a tiger.
Still, in the early days of their marriage, she was hopeful, her distaste for Rajesh—for his sagging breasts, his paunch, the gray hair growing out of his nostrils and ears—tempered by her gratitude for getting her out of the Old Place. The marriage certificate, the red sindoor in the parting of her hair, meant nothing to her, though he didn’t understand this. But after decades spent in a noisy, public place with a wraparound balcony and children running in and out of every room, she was thankful for the quiet of their one-bedroom flat. In her new home, no strange man leered at her when she came out of the bath dressed in only her choli and petticoat. She could spend hours in the kitchen listening to her cassette tape of Mukesh songs while she cooked and Rajesh watched TV. And until he ordered her to stop wasting his money, she bought four roses to put in a plastic vase every two days. Just walking down to the small market near their building and shopping for groceries, and then returning home with the small bundle of flowers, tasted like freedom to her.
When did the troubles begin? Parvati asks herself, then shakes her head because the answer has always been as hard to reach as a cloud in the sky. Did it start with Rajesh’s realization that Parvati was a poor housekeeper? That she barely knew how to cook? She remembers the first, disastrous meal she had made for him—a fried chicken that was golden on the outside and red and raw on the inside. He had taken one look at it and flung the plate across the room, leaving her to sweep up the shards. But this was still in the early days, and after a few minutes he had apologized and ordered some food from the cheap Muslim restaurant around the corner from them. Still, Parvati had known that she was in trouble then. There was no one to turn to for cooking tips—no trusted friend she’d grown up with, no wise mother, no exasperated-but-helpful mother-in-law, no shaking-her-head-and-laughing sister. There was only this long-faced man, whose motives and expectations were not yet clear to her. Except that he expected her to cook his meals. And wash his clothes. And clean his home. And seemed dissatisfied with her efforts.
Two months after they were wed, there had been a knock at their door. She opened it to see a thin-lipped young man standing there. “Yes?” she said.
“Is my father at home?”
Parvati’s face lit up with understanding. “You must be Rahul. Please, come in.”
She could see his eyes wander to the tumor, but Rahul’s face was expressionless. “I’ll wait. You just let my father know I’m here.”
Was she imagining the hostility in his voice? Perhaps he was upset with his father for remarrying? She awoke her husband from his armchair, and Rajesh hurried to the front door, while Parvati retreated to the kitchen. “Come in, son,” she heard Rajesh say. “Why you are standing there like a stranger? This is your house, na?”
She couldn’t hear either man for a few minutes. Then, she heard Rahul say, “Will not tolerate it,” but couldn’t catch Rajesh’s muttered reply. A few seconds later, she heard the word randi, and Parvati froze. Whore. So Rahul knew of her past. No wonder he had stood stiff as a corpse at their door. Now, she could hear the men arguing and talking over one another. She heard the words your grandchild, then shamed, then randi again, and, finally, disgraced the whole family.
“Lower your voice,” Rajesh said. But he had raised his own voice to say it.
Parvati stepped out of the kitchen. “Please,” she said, folding her hands before Rajesh’s son. “Please, beta, do not be angry with your father for my mistakes. Try and understand . . .”
A muscle twitched in Rahul’s jaw as he pointedly looked away. “This is between father and son,” he said. “Do not interfere in our business.”
“Rahul,” Rajesh said loudly. “Bas. Enough of this. I won’t tolerate this. Like or don’t like, this is your new mother.”
Parvati flinched at the same moment that Rahul did, knowing it was the wrong thing to say. Usha had been dead for less than a year, and how could she be mother to a boy she’d never met? “Don’t.” Rahul’s voice was raw. “Don’t you dare compare my mother to this . . . this . . . thing.” He looked at both of them, his eyes speckled with hatred. “Have you lost your senses, old man? It wasn’t enough for you to just fuck this gold digger? What jadoo did she do to make you marry her?”
Parvati closed her eyes. So this was the respectable world. These were the decent, God-fearing people. In all her days in the brothel, no one had spoken to her as disrespectfully as this mouse.
Both men were staring at her openmouthed, and she realized she had said this out loud. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Maaf karo,” she apologized. And before Rahul could answer, she hurried back to the kitchen.
A moment later, she heard the sound of a slamming door. She waited a few minutes before joining Rajesh in the living room. Her husband sat in his armchair, holding his head in his hands. When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were bloodshot. And in those eyes was something she’d never seen before. Regret.
She has been going around in circles for the past ten minutes. First of all, the name of the street has changed, from its short English name to a long, unpronounceable one. All over Mumbai they’ve been doing this—even Victoria Terminus, the most famous and beautiful building in Bombay, has been renamed after the great Marathi warrior Shivaji. Still, Parvati is fairly sure that this is the street, recognizes the round corner building that used to house a bakery and now houses a Sony electronics store. She feels disoriented, as if the characters in a familiar story have been replaced by new ones. Even the tall coconut trees that stood in the compound across the street are gone. And instead of the squat, three-story building where she had spent so much of her life, there stands a pencil-thin skyscraper. She cranes her neck back to look, but the tumor makes it hard to stretch her neck and the top of the building is lost to her.
Could this be? That the Old Place is really gone? Broken up into bits, razed to the ground? All of its miseries, its dark secrets, its perversions, gone? Turned into rubble? What does it mean that the place that destroyed her is now itself destroyed
, and yet, she remains? What does she do with this old body that still stands in witness, when there is nothing to testify against? Parvati looks around her in bewilderment, even reaches out to stop a man hurrying by, before checking herself. What would she ask? Whether once, not too long ago—or was it a long, long time ago?—a house of ill repute stood here? Who would know? Who would answer truthfully? Who would admit to knowing, to participating in the evil that happened within its four walls?
As if in answer, she hears a squeal of laughter and watches two young schoolgirls in uniforms and pigtails run down the marble steps of the skyscraper and into the street. Their maids follow. “Careful, baby,” one of them shouts. “You wait for us by the taxi stand, okay?”
Parvati follows the two girls with her eyes until they round the corner and disappear. And without warning, tears roll down her cheeks. How did he do it? How did he sell his only daughter in order to feed his own stomach? And why had Ma allowed it? Why did she not kill herself and her daughter to prevent such a travesty? She was twelve, a young peasant girl who knew nothing of the world. And suddenly, she feels that girl inside the wizened shell of her body, feels the well-oiled joints inside her own creaky ones, feels the smoothness of the girl’s muscles inside of her stringy ones, feels the innocence behind her jaded eyes, the trusting, open heart that beats beneath her barb-wired organ. That girl is alive.
Stop your craziness, stupid woman, Parvati berates herself. Get out of this rich neighborhood before someone calls the police. Muttering to yourself in the middle of the street, pretending that you are young. If a thousand new buildings sprout from the spot where the Old Place stood and if these buildings grow tall enough to touch the face of God, so what? It still won’t change the fact that the Old Place existed. Or the fact that the Old Place will never die, that it will simply change addresses and rise up elsewhere. In fact, you are renting a room in one such place. And that’s the hard truth you must live with the rest of your days.
Her heart sinks at the thought of returning to Tejpal Mahal, but Parvati also knows that she has no more business on this unrecognizable street. She gives the new building one last look and begins the dispiriting trudge home.
22
“Why you so quiet tonight, Ma-ma? Are you still scared after what happened today?”
Bhima forces herself to concentrate on Maya. “No. I’m all right. Just a little tired.”
“At least you saved all the fruit,” Maya says, pointing to where the unsold fruit sits in the corner, still in Rajeev’s basket. He had been good enough to drop it off for her at the end of the day.
“Yes,” Bhima says. “It is good.”
“And Chitra was not angry about you being a no-show?”
Bhima feels a flash of irritation. Why all these questions? The truth is she is still shaken by the memory of the bleeding man and the sound the lathis made as they struck human flesh. Tonight, their small hut feels oppressive to her, and she longs to fling open their door and let in the night air. But that, she will never do. She is not one of those common slum women who leave their doors open all the time, subjecting themselves to lewd comments and leering eyes. Besides, an open door is an invitation to flies and mosquitoes and the smoke from a hundred wood-burning stoves. Better to remain in here and tolerate the questions of this inquisitive girl.
“So Rajeev uncle is fine?” Maya asks, and Bhima clucks her tongue. “Yes. I told you. Don’t you have your homework tonight, chokri?”
Maya yawns. “I’m done.” She pauses and then asks, “And that other lady? Parvati? Is she unhurt?”
Bhima’s eyes narrow. “You only meet her one time. Why are you worrying about her?”
“I liked her. She reminded me of you.”
Bhima looks indignant. “Of me? Kya matlab? Meaning what?”
“Nothing. Just that she’s tough from the outside. Like you.” Maya lets out a giggle. “Like those custard apples you sell. Rough on the outside. Sweet and soft inside.”
Bhima smacks Maya lightly on the head. “Stupid girl. Knowing nothing, you are. That old woman is a witch.” She hesitates. “But I was thinking of asking her. To join my business. What you think?”
Maya shrugs. “If you need help with accounts and all, Ma-ma, I told you. I can help you.”
“No. You have only one job. And that’s to get good marks in college. I can manage. Besides, this woman is knowing more than numbers. She knows how to talk to people, how to bargain, everything.” She sees that Maya is hurt and pulls her close to her. “But if I am needing extra help, I come to you. Okay?”
Maya rests her head on her grandma’s shoulders. “I will always help you, Ma-ma.”
“I know, beta,” Bhima says, stroking Maya’s lush hair. And it is true. In a world where nothing is as it appears, this young girl’s goodness and love is something she can count on.
23
It is one in the afternoon and Rajeev has given her several plaintive glances. At last, Bhima digs into her purse and unfolds a solitary bill for him. “Go get yourself lunch today.”
“What about you and her?”
“You don’t worry about us today. We are having something to discuss. We will manage.”
Rajeev opens his mouth, but Bhima shakes her finger at him. “Go now,” she says, turning away from him.
After the man leaves, Bhima gestures toward Vishnu’s young assistant. “Ae, beta,” she says. “I am taking a lunch today. Fifteen-twenty minutes, tops, I’ll be away. Can you manage?”
The boy looks at her uncertainly. “Only if I am not having any customers of my own,” he says. “Vishnu bhai is out today, also.”
Bhima nods. “I know. I will not be gone long.”
Parvati is haggling with a customer Bhima doesn’t recognize when she reaches her. She waits impatiently for the transaction to conclude, and when the woman walks away without buying, Bhima feels a sense of relief. Parvati looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. “To what do we have this honor?”
Bhima gazes at her silently. Is it her imagination, or does Parvati look even more thin than usual? How old must the woman be? Bhima doesn’t know her own age, but Serabai had guessed that she is sixty plus seven years of age. This woman must be at least eight years more.
“I was going to the Udupi restaurant at the corner,” she says. “I was hoping you would join me.”
Parvati sighs. “What you needing from me now?”
Bhima controls her temper. “Behenji,” she says. “It is true I wish to talk with you. But let us do it over hot tea and idlis.” She glances toward where Reshma sits. “Away from listening ears and wagging tongues.”
For a minute she thinks Parvati will refuse, but then the woman rises and the two of them make their way to the nearby restaurant.
“I am in your debt for buying lunch daily,” Parvati says after they place their order. “But no need to do this. You have enough mouths to feed. That Rajeev alone has a mouth the size of a watermelon.”
Bhima laughs out loud at the image, and Parvati allows herself a half smile. “It is true,” Bhima says. “That man eats like a buffalo.”
“But you didn’t bring me here to speak of Rajeev.”
“Correct,” Bhima says. Just then the waiter arrives with their glasses of water, and she waits until he leaves. But before she can speak, Parvati interrupts her. “Before you ask, the answer is no. I am not giving up my space to you. Ours was a temporary arrangement.”
“It was. And so it shall remain. But my offer is different—I wish for you to join me. In my business. By the grace of God, business is good.” Bhima looks away, knowing she won’t be able to bear the gloating in Parvati’s eyes at what she is about to say. “But sister. I am an illiterate. And I am needing someone who can keep the books, do the hisab-kitab.”
Parvati is silent for so long that Bhima forces herself to raise her eyes. There is no gloating on the older woman’s face. Instead, she sits plucking at her lower lip, a thoughtful look on her face, and Bhima suddenly feels ho
peful. “Will you consider what I am asking?” she asks.
Parvati is silent as the waiter sets their food on the table. “What terms do you offer me?” she asks after he is gone.
“You please say, sister.” Bhima has already humbled herself before this woman; she is ready to defer to her.
“I will still buy and sell my own vegetables, daily,” Parvati says fiercely. “This new arrangement may work, not work, we don’t know. I am not giving up my livelihood.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And I am holding on to my spot. We will store our surplus there. That way, Rajeev doesn’t have to go back and forth to the wholesale market. We can use him more for home deliveries.”
“But how does he carry more . . .”
“Simple. He takes a tempo every morning to bring the whole day’s produce at one time, only.”
Bhima’s eyes widen. “Tempo costing money . . .”
“We will recover it. As I say, we will use Rajeev for home delivery. Personal service.”
“And what if someone steals from . . .”
Parvati clicks her tongue. “Let them try. You leave that to me.”
Bhima’s mouth is dry with fear. This woman sounds as if she has thought about this for months. If she swindles her, will she even know it?
As if she’s read her mind, Parvati says, “I’m many things, sister. But I’m not a liar. Or a thief.”
Bhima flushes. “Of course. I didn’t think . . . But why you willing to help me?”
“Who says I am helping you? I’m helping myself.” Parvati is silent for a moment before she says, “If I believed in God, I would say it was God who brought you here. Today of all days.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that yesterday I learned a new lesson. That the past doesn’t exist. People say that all the time, of course. But yesterday, I see proof with my own eyes. It just disappears, like that.” She snaps her fingers. “So then what’s left?”
The Secrets Between Us Page 17
