The Secrets Between Us

by Thrity Umrigar

  Bhima blinks, trying to follow along. To her, the past is more real than the present. She is debating whether to contradict Parvati when the older woman thunders, “I asked, what’s left?”

  “I don’t know,” Bhima says in a bewildered voice.

  “The present, that’s what,” Parvati says triumphantly. “And for that reason only, I will join your business.”

  Bhima lowers her voice. “Ah, yes, but you see, behenji, for me, my every thought is for my Maya. It’s for her sake I want to do well. For her, I . . .”

  “Sister. I swear on my mother’s head. I am not a cheater. I know you are having a big responsibility.”

  Aware that her fifteen minutes are up, Bhima tries to catch the waiter’s eye for the bill. “Accha, then,” she says. “Time to . . .”

  But something is disturbing Parvati today. “I couldn’t even find the address I was looking for,” she mutters. “The very name of the street had changed. And in place of the building was a new one. The old one, gone. Like waking up from a dream.”

  “True, true,” Bhima says, nodding her head vigorously, even though she has no idea what the woman is going on about.

  Parvati bangs her hand on the table so hard that the water in Bhima’s glass jumps. “You are not hearing me,” she says. “What I’m telling you is it’s all changing. The whole city is unrecognizable. You know why? Because it is dying and being born, dying and being born again. And people are getting rich, sister. And so, we, too, must die. And be reborn.”

  Bhima curses her misfortune. Once again, her luck has turned sour. The woman before her has gone pagal, totally mad. Maybe a lathi did land on her head yesterday, when she was standing proud as a queen in the middle of the riot. She eyes Parvati cautiously. “Chalo, behen,” she says. “We will pay at the counter. We can talk some other time.”

  She watches the light go out of Parvati’s eyes. “You not understanding a word I’m saying,” she says. “You think I’m mad.” She stares at Bhima’s impassive face, then shrugs. “Think what you must. But do you wish for my help or not?”

  Reluctantly, Bhima says yes, more out of awkwardness than conviction. She pays, and her heart is heavy as they walk back. “Listen,” Parvati says, as they reach her spot. “With your permission, I will go with Rajeev to the wholesale market tomorrow. It is time your supplier start giving you goods on credit. And I can find out about which tempo service is reliable.”

  “No,” Bhima says. “For now, ji, please you just help with the accounts. Maybe in a few months, I approach Jafferbhai.”

  Parvati gives her a hard look but acquiesces. “Whatever you wish.” She squats on the ground and then calls after Bhima. “One more thing.” She waits until Bhima turns around, then rises to her feet and draws close so that Reshma will not overhear them. “One more idea. You cook in people’s homes, correct? Tomorrow, you please come with some good-and-tasty recipes. Make sure they use lots of onions and potatoes. And cauliflowers. That way, we make your stall and Vishnu’s a one-stop shopping for customers.”

  “I don’t have time to tell recipe to each customer. Besides, my business is mostly fruit.”

  Parvati hits her forehead in frustration. “Baap re. Who said anything about telling them recipes? We will make Xerox copies to give out. You speak them to me and I will write them down.”

  “But what for? Everyone having their own ways of cooking.”

  “Exactly. But we must make them change what they use. Whatever we are selling, they must buy that day. So if we get cabbage cheap from your distributor, we give them cabbage recipe. Understand? And if you increase Vishnu’s business, then you ask him to take less of a fee.”

  Bhima stands there with her mouth agape. “Who taught you all these things?” she asks at last.

  Parvati shrugs. “Nobody.” And then she smiles bashfully, showing her broken teeth.

  Bhima smiles back, suddenly reassured. “Accha, I’ll take your leave,” she says after a few minutes. “Till tomorrow, sister.”

  Parvati nods. “Tomorrow we start,” she says. “You mark my words, I will make your stall the most popular one in the marketplace within two months.”

  II

  One year later . . .

  24

  Parvati is unwell. For days Bhima has tried to ignore this truth, afraid of what it means. But it is unmistakable: the woman’s face is even more sallow, the cheeks more sunken. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, Parvati stops and her eyes go glassy and Bhima knows that she’s waiting out the pain that shoots through the base of her spine. These days, Parvati rubs that spot more often than she does the thing on her neck.

  “That’s it,” Bhima says. “Bas, no more arguing. You take the money and go see the doctor.”

  “And what is the doctor going to do? Will he hand me the poison that I will beg him for?”

  Bhima turns away with a frown. “Like a madwoman you talk, sometimes.”

  Parvati laughs, cups Bhima’s chin, and turns her face back toward her. “Arre, baba, why you’re taking so much tension? I’m not going to leave you high and dry. I told you, na. I’m not dying until your Maya finishes her college.”

  “Why must you always talk about dying-fying? None of us gets to go until God is ready for us.”

  Parvati slaps her knee. “That only is what I’m saying. You think God is ready to face my judgment?”

  “Arre, wah. You will judge God? Instead of Him judging you?”

  “Of course. Who is He to judge me? What crime did I ever do against Him? And what crimes He has committed against me are too many to count.”

  “Be careful, sister. God will punish you for this idle talk.”

  Parvati’s face turns serious. “Hasn’t He been punishing me every day of my life? What more can He do to me?”

  Bhima turns away again so the older woman cannot see the tears that suddenly sting her eyes. In the year since Parvati has been working alongside her, she has learned a few things about this woman’s bleak existence. A much older husband who is dead but whose memory arouses none of the sweetness that Gopal’s memory arouses in her. Once or twice Parvati has alluded in an oblique way to the beatings she suffered at the man’s hands and confided that after his stroke, he spent the last years of his life shitting and pissing in bed. “Those years were the happiest in my life, sister. He just lay there, mute as a broken radio,” Parvati once said, but by this time Bhima knew that the older woman often said outrageous things just for effect.

  As for Parvati’s life before her marriage, Bhima knows little. Ask her a direct question and Parvati turned to brick. Or, she would give a nonsensical answer that would set Bhima’s teeth on edge. “Why do you carry so many secrets?” she’d once snapped.

  Parvati had given her an intense look. “Because without my secrets I am nothing.”

  Now, Bhima says, “Accha, if you won’t go to the doctor, I will go to the temple and pray for your good health.”

  Parvati shrugs. After a minute she asks, “So how many apples and strawberries you wanting me to set aside for your party?”

  Bhima looks at her with worried eyes. “How to guess, sister? That chokri Chitra is touched in the head. For all I know she will invite five or ten homeless people to celebrate her birthday.”

  Parvati laughs. “Why you say that?”

  “Have you ever heard of a mistress inviting their servant to a birthday party? Now, if she is wanting me to come and serve her guests, that’s my duty. But to go as one of the guests? And she looked like she going to cry when I say no. That’s why only I must go. Maya, too.”

  “It’s good for Maya. To get to know these influential folks.”

  “I know. But . . .”

  “But-fut, nothing. You go. Let someone take care of you for once.” Parvati scowls. “Why you are so afraid of these rich people? I’m telling you, in the dark, the cocks of rich men look no different than those of the poor.”

  Bhima covers her ears. “Baap re baap. What filth you speak. Whoever
heard of a woman with a mouth like a sewer?”

  “Theek hai.” Parvati shrugs. “Listen, don’t listen, I don’t care. But go to the party.” She reaches out and pinches Bhima on the wrist. “And eat until your stomach is full. All skin and bone you’re becoming.”

  Bhima laughs, shaking her head, wise to Parvati’s tactics by now. “I tell you to go to the doctor and you . . .”

  “Sister. I told you. It’s between me and God now. And God will win. The bastard always does.”

  Bhima goes to remove her slippers as soon as they enter Sunita’s house, but Maya squeezes her hand. “Ma-ma, don’t,” she mutters, and Bhima realizes that despite putting up a nonchalant front, Maya is as nervous as she is.

  “Wow, Maya,” Chitra beams, as she takes Maya’s hand in hers. “I love your outfit.” She moves to hug Bhima, and the older woman stiffens at this breach. Instead, she hands over the fruit basket to Chitra. “For your birthday,” she says. “A small gift.”

  “Thank you,” Chitra says. “Come, come in.” She takes them into the living room where two well-dressed women are chatting with Sunita. “Hey, Ferzin and Binny. These are our friends Bhima and Maya.”

  The two women look up and smile. “Hello,” they say.

  “Namaste-ji,” Bhima says.

  “How are you, Bhima?” Sunita asks quietly, a bemused look on her face. It is the same expression she wore the day Chitra had invited Bhima, as if Chitra is a child whose whims she indulges. Even though Bhima had agreed with Sunita’s unspoken disapproval on the day of the invitation, she now feels an uncharacteristic spurt of resentment. It is this anger that makes her stay in the living room rather than offer to help in the kitchen. She is about to squat on the floor when Maya pinches her discreetly and guides her to the chair. “Sit here, Ma-ma,” she says in a tight voice. “A hard chair will be good for your back.” She herself sits on the couch next to her grandmother.

  “What do you do, Maya?” Ferzin asks, and Bhima listens with pride and amazement as Maya talks to the strangers in a matter-of-fact manner, with none of the deference that she herself feels around important people. Bhima can tell that these are important people from how tall the women sit, their good clothes, the perfume that lingers on them, the fact that they speak mostly in English.

  The woman they call Binny turns toward her. “And you are Maya’s grandmother?” she asks, and Bhima nods.

  “I see. And—how do you know Su and Chitra?”

  Maya, who has overheard the question, cuts herself off midsentence and gives Bhima a quick look. “My Ma-ma is a businesswoman. She owns a fruit and vegetable stand at Ambedkar market. You are knowing where it is?”

  Bhima almost laughs out loud at Maya’s caginess, but the two women don’t notice. “Not really,” Binny says. “Our driver does all of our grocery shopping.”

  “Then you must have him try our products,” Maya says. Bhima wonders if she is the only one who hears the tightness in Maya’s voice. But the next second she hears Sunita’s gentle voice change the subject. “So, Maya is one of the best students in her college. Isn’t that so, Maya?”

  Chitra drifts back into the living room, her face flushed from the heat of the stove. “What will you drink, mausi?” she asks, and Bhima tenses, waiting for the other guests to register that this silly girl has just called her aunt. But the two women are deep in conversation with Maya, and she says, “Just some water, baby.”

  “Okay,” Chitra says. “You relax. I’ll bring it to you.” And she returns a moment later with a Coke for Maya and coconut water for Bhima. “Try this, mausi,” she says. “Better for you in this heat.” She sets the tray on the coffee table and then plops down on the floor in front of Bhima, resting her elbow on the older woman’s knee. “You sit here,” Bhima protests, trying to rise from the chair, but Chitra smiles. “I’m fine. I’ve got to get up in a minute, anyway.”

  The others are chatting away in English and Chitra clears her throat. “Hey, why don’t we make this an English-free zone tonight? That way, everyone can participate. And I’ll get a chance to improve my Hindi.”

  Su raises her eyebrows. “I thought you Delhi folks spoke the purest Hindi,” she teases. “Whereas we uncouth Mumbai folks bastardize it.”

  “Arre, don’t start your Delhi-versus-Mumbai fightum-fighting, yaar,” Maya says, in a tone so familiar that Bhima is about to scold her when she realizes that all four women are laughing at her remark. How is this possible? she marvels. Maya has only met Sunita and Chitra a handful of times and already she behaves as if she is one of them. One of them. The words are an ache in her heart. Maya is all she has in this world. What if she ever . . .

  “Bhima.” Chitra’s voice interrupts her thoughts. “Will you come taste the bhindi for me? Tell me if something is missing?” And with that, Bhima rises.

  In the kitchen, Chitra rests her hands on Bhima’s shoulders. “Are you all right in there?” she whispers. “Not feeling too uncomfortable?” And when Bhima shakes her head, she continues, “I invited Binny and Ferzin at the last minute. I thought maybe they’ll be able to help Maya find a job when she’s done with college.”

  “I’m grateful to you for thinking of . . .”

  “Of course. Maya’s a friend.” She gives Bhima’s shoulders a quick squeeze before dropping her arms.

  Serabai would’ve undoubtedly helped Maya find a job, also. But Bhima can’t imagine her old mistress throwing a party to do so. “God bless your parents for having a daughter like you, baby,” she says fervently. “I give thanks to them.”

  Chitra gives a short laugh. “Oh, they wouldn’t agree with you.” She says it lightly, but Bhima sees the flicker of pain in her eyes before she turns away, and understands exactly what Chitra is alluding to. She takes Chitra’s hand in hers. “Their misfortune,” she says deliberately. “Their bad naseeb. For not knowing what a gem they are having.”

  Chitra’s nose turns rust-colored and her lower lip quivers. “Thanks, Bhima,” she says.

  “Bad luck to cry on your birthday.” Bhima gives Chitra a push. “Baby. You please go rejoin your guests. I will do everything here.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t invite you here to work. You are—”

  “Chitra. You please go. Enjoy. All of you can talk happily in the English. Please. I am comfortable here.”

  She and Chitra serve dinner together, and Bhima is stunned by the number of dishes. She is no stranger to a bountiful table—whenever Serabai and Feroz entertained at home, there was enough food to feed the whole neighborhood—but it dawns on her that Chitra has cooked or ordered dishes that are her favorites. As if to confirm her suspicion, Chitra leans toward her and says, “I made the bhindi especially for you, Bhima. Hope you like it.”

  Maya is seated between her and Ferzin, and halfway through the dinner, over the sound of the other voices, Bhima hears her granddaughter say, “I always wanted to be a lawyer. That was my dream.” Bhima stops chewing, a puzzled look on her face. “What did you say, chokri?” she asks.

  The girl glances at her impatiently. “Nothing. I was talking to Ferzin, only. She is a lawyer.”

  How could this be? This woman across from her looks so high-class and decent. Bhima has heard that all lawyers are crooks and scoundrels. “Chup re,” she says to Maya. “Don’t talk rubbish.”

  There is a sudden silence at the table as the five of them stare at her, and then Maya lets out a giggle. “That’s why only I never say anything to her,” she says triumphantly. “My Ma-ma thinks every lawyer is a thief.”

  Bhima turns scarlet, but Ferzin smiles. “And she’s right—most of the time.” She turns toward Bhima. “I practice labor law, ji. Which means I protect the rights of working people. Whereas this one here—” she gestures toward Binny, who grins sheepishly, “she works for the big shots—the big industrial houses.”

  Bhima finds herself wishing Parvati were here. Somehow, in the past year, Parvati has become her interpreter to the world, cutting up information into tiny slices that she
can digest and comprehend. “Accha?” she says vaguely.

  “I want to be lawyer like you,” Maya says loudly. “So that what injustice happened to my Ma-ma and Dada can never happen to someone else.”

  Again, Bhima makes to shush Maya, but it is too late. “What happened?” Ferzin asks, her eyes resting warmly on Bhima. And Bhima has no choice but to tell the story of Gopal’s work accident and how the crooked foreman had tricked her into placing her thumb impression on the contract that freed the company from any liability.

  “Wow,” Ferzin says when she’s done. “How long ago was this?”

  Bhima’s eyes are cloudy as she looks into Ferzin’s face. “This was a long time ago, bai,” she says.

  “And how is your husband now?” Ferzin asks gently. Bhima falls silent, her eyes downcast, and it falls upon Maya to say, “My Dada moved back to his home village. He took my Amit uncle with him. Many-many years back. Before I was even born.”

  There is a short, sympathetic silence before Binny says, “Well, if you’re willing to work really hard, Maya, we can certainly help you. If you’re serious about becoming a lawyer, I mean.”

  Bhima watches as Maya’s face lights up and then falls again. “Thank you,” she says at last. “But I will need to get a job after graduation.”

  “Chokri,” Bhima interrupts. “I don’t know anything about becoming a lawyer. But if that is what you want to do, I will work ten jobs. No need for you to get a job after graduation.”

  “And no need for you to work ten jobs either, Bhima,” Binny says, smiling. “I’m sure we can all pitch in. If Maya goes to Government Law College, the fees are not that much.”

  Bhima’s head bobs with gratitude as Chitra claps her hands. “Now this is what I call a great birthday,” she says. She reaches for the okra and spoons more of it onto Bhima’s plate. “Eat,” she says, and even though Bhima protests, she does. “You give me the recipe, please, Chitra baby,” she says in between bites, and Chitra nods. “Do you guys know what Bhima does at her vegetable stall?” she tells the others. “She hands out written recipes to her customers. Pretty ingenious, eh?”