“Car accident?”
“AIDS.”
Parvati’s eyes narrow. “AIDS? What did your daughter do?”
“Nothing.” Bhima can hear how defensive she sounds. “My daughter was blameless. Her . . . it was her husband who bring that demon illness home. To her.”
Parvati shuts her eyes, and when she opens them they are bright with an emotion that Bhima cannot identify. “I know about the AIDS.”
Bhima nods. “Now everybody knowing about the AIDS. But in those days . . .”
The older woman continues looking at her, her eyes searching Bhima’s face. “Of course, when I was in the trade, it was not present. I was long gone by that time, thanks to my husband.”
“Your vegetable trade?” Bhima says, puzzled.
“No, sister. I’m talking about before. Years before. The red-light business.”
Bhima blinks. Looks away. Blinks again. “Meaning what?” she says at last, barely able to breathe due to the hammering of her heart.
“Meaning I was a whore. Meaning that when I was even younger than your Maya, my father sold me to the woman who became my madam.”
The sweetness of the yogurt drink suddenly makes Bhima want to gag. The dosa feels oily and heavy in her stomach. What is this woman saying to her? Could she be so stupid, so ignorant that she has spent the last year in the company of a fallen woman? She, Bhima, who has not so much as looked at another man since her husband left her? She, who has taught her granddaughter to walk with downcast eyes, to not dress or laugh or talk in a manner that would attract the attention of those mawalis in the slum? Of course, Maya had slipped once, but that sin is nothing like what this strange woman seems to be confessing to her.
“What are you saying?” she gasps, looking for a way to end this meal and leave.
But Parvati’s eyes are unforgiving, have her pinned. “I am saying that I have known many, many women die from mistakes made by men. That is what I’m saying.”
“No father . . . No father would do what you say. It is not good, blaming others for . . .”
Parvati emits a loud snort. “It’s too bad you cannot read. Otherwise you’d see for yourself what the newspapers say.” Her eyes are hard, milky marbles. “Every day fathers get their daughters married off to men thirty years older. Or to men who are cripples or imbeciles, or deaf and mute. Why? To pay a smaller dowry. Every day fathers kill girls who have been raped by the men in their village. Why? Because the girl has stained the family name by getting raped. Honor killings, they call them. No father would do what mine do? Wake up, sister. Look around. Right now, probably half the men here have fucked their sisters. Or their daughters. Or betrayed their wives.”
“Enough.” Bhima covers her ears with her hands. “What is the matter with you, that you talk such filth? No respectable woman talks in this manner.”
“Respectable woman? You say that as if that’s worth something. What did being respectable ever get you? Did it pay a single debt for you? Did it keep your husband? Bring your Amit back?”
“Don’t. I won’t have my son’s name on your tongue.”
Parvati smiles viciously. “If you don’t want to know the truth about my miserable life, sister, why then are you always poking your nose into my affairs? Always asking this and that.”
“Is this why you couldn’t go home today? Because you live in a brothel?”
“Sister. Listen carefully because I will only say this once. I am no longer in the trade. I left it many years ago because of this,” Parvati gestures to the growth below her face, “and because the man who married me needed a housekeeper.” For a startling moment Parvati looks as if she might cry, but she doesn’t. “My current situation is not my doing. The boy who I considered my nephew abandoned me. And the only place I can afford is my present home. That is the place I go to rest my head.”
Suddenly, Bhima sees it. Sees how hard Parvati is trying. It is all a façade, an act—the toughness, the cynicism, the insults to her father. What sits before her is a scared, broken human being, a woman with even less control over her life than herself. Once again, she feels deeply grateful for Maya, who anchors her days. But unlike her, nothing ties Parvati to this earth.
“Do you—did you—have children?”
Parvati looks at her unblinkingly. “Sister. It is better you don’t ask me this question.”
Now Bhima remembers an earlier, offhand reference to multiple abortions, and a hole opens up in her chest. “Did he—did your father—really . . . ?”
Parvati bows her head. “He did.”
They sit in a worn-out silence, too exhausted to speak. When Parvati finally looks up, she is crying. And as if the tears have oiled her tongue, she begins to tell her story.
It begins with an illness. Her mother is sick. There is no money for a doctor, but when the Christian doctor visits for a few weeks of free clinic, her father takes his wife. The man prescribes a medicine they cannot afford. And so they decide to wait out whatever this illness is that makes her sweat and shiver on the hottest days, that leaves her mouth dry no matter how much water she drinks, that makes her turn away from the sight of food. After a few days, it appears she is getting better, but then, the symptoms come back.
Mother used to work construction, could balance a metal tub filled with bricks or stones onto her head and carry it around the job site. A strong woman, the muscles on her thin upper arms hard as pebbles, who worked all day under the punishing sun without complaint. A severe, silent presence at home but a good mother and a blessed companion to her peasant husband. Every morning they left home soon after dawn, she, to walk to her job site; he, to dig the inhospitable soil of his little patch of land and coax it to yield potatoes and carrots. His one pride and joy was the cow he owned, whose milk he sold, feeding the surplus to his four children. It was a mild-tempered beast whose every rib showed, and he worshipped that animal. The cow was the difference between starvation and existence. Parvati, the eldest, would stay home and watch the other three children. If the parcel of land her father tilled had been large enough, she would’ve been expected to help, but as it was, she was more useful at home, to mind the others.
He was a tall, bony man, her father, with a pensive face and dark hair that fell across his forehead. When she was a child, Parvati’s favorite game was to push his hair back, only to watch it flop down again. She thought it was magic, how that happened, something that her father was doing to entertain her. He would laugh along with her, and even their mother would let a small smile play on her lips.
The loss of the mother’s income is calamity enough, but then comes the drought. The soil turns dusty and large veins crack its surface, making it look diseased. Breaking up this dry soil with a hoe is like hitting concrete. The father lies awake at night, waiting for the welcome sound of the first raindrop hitting the metal roof. He and Parvati stand outside their hut looking up anxiously to a sky that has turned its back on them. Their lips are as chapped and dry as the soil they stand on. As the temperatures rise, so does their anxiety. The mood at home becomes grim, the silences longer. There is no money coming in. There are no crops to sell. The drought has even affected the cow’s output of milk. One day, Parvati suggests to her father that he beat the cow in order to get her to yield more milk, and before he can check himself, he angrily thumps his daughter on her back so hard, she stumbles forward. “Stupid girl,” he says before turning away. She hates the cow then, the dumb, vacuous beast that her father clearly favors over her.
A few weeks go by. They now understand. There will be no rains this year. They are on their own. No God, no government, no landlord is going to help them. They are going to slowly starve to death. The father briefly contemplates the cost of buying enough rat poison to kill his whole family. He cannot afford it. There is no money, no money, no money.
Parvati has noticed that every time she looks up from her chores, her father is staring at her. Some times he absently strokes his chin as he looks at her. Her mother is now jus
t a small pile of clothes and bones in the corner. The baby is too exhausted to even cry. The other two boys fidget and pinch and claw at each other, in misery and boredom. No one bothers to stop them anymore. Parvati and her father are only aware of each other’s existence; something charged and electric runs between them. She doesn’t know what it is. But he looks at her. Looks at her. Looks at her.
The following week, he takes her to the train station. While they are waiting on the platform, he tells her. It is between selling the cow and selling her. And he has made his decision. He begs her to understand. To forgive. If he sells the cow, their only source of nourishment is gone. He needs the cow. She is a beautiful child, his daughter. He is getting good money for her. Her sale will keep her whole family alive, does she understand? He is a father, a husband, the head of the household. He has a responsibility toward all of them, not just her. She is a girl and he would’ve had to marry her off soon, anyway. And where was the money for the dowry going to come from? This way, his three sons will have a chance. To eat. To live. To be strong. Would she dare stand in the way of this? Because of her selfishness? The man who is to meet them here is taking her to Bombay. Bombay! Home of the film stars. Who knows? She may get to meet Raj Kapoor or one of his handsome brothers. One day she will thank her old father for this opportunity. What, beta? Does your mother know, you ask? I’m not sure. Perhaps her mother’s intuition tells her something. But I believe she thinks we are at the marketplace. Though truth be told, she will be relieved, too. Maybe, out of the money I will get, I can buy her some good-proper medicine. Wouldn’t you like that, for your ma to get well? And what do you want here, anyway, chokri? What can we offer you except worry and grief and pain? Now come on, wipe your face. The man will think he is purchasing a water fountain instead of a girl, if you don’t stop. Why can’t we water our fields with our tears instead of rain? Ae, Bhagwan, why didn’t You make it so? We’d all be rich if that were the case.
And so it happens. They are met by a fat man with oily hair and a belly that dribbles like a basketball under his shirt. He looks at her up and down, up and down, and then his red, paan-stained lips crease into a smile. “Theek hai,” he says, giving her father the thumbs-up. He opens his wallet, takes out a few bills. Her father protests even as the sound of the approaching train drowns out his words. The man pulls out a few more bills. As soon as the train comes to a stop, he tries to push her up the steps and into the compartment. She screams, turns around, and clings to her father. “Forgive me, my child,” her father says. “Try to understand.” She feels a yank on her arm, and the pain is so acute, it makes her light-headed. “Come on,” the man says, not slacking his grip. “No time for this drama-frama.” He bundles her into the train just as it gets moving, then blocks the door. She tries frantically to look out of the window at her statue-still father, but the car is crowded and she can barely see. Still, she gets a final glimpse of him standing motionless, one hand raised, as he watches the departing train, his eyes shedding the monsoons that never came that year.
Bhima hates the air-conditioning now. Perhaps that is what makes her shiver as she looks into Parvati’s eyes, which have gone opaque, flat. They sit there, looking at each other, the last of the dosa cold and untouched. Bhima knows she should say something, something comforting and false, but her mind is blank. Perhaps it is best to say nothing, because only silence can honor the enormity of what Parvati has confided in her. Words are pretty butterflies that seduce and flit away, words lie and betray—who knows this better than she? No, the only way to honor Parvati is with silence. But as they sit, Bhima’s anger gathers, like seaweed at the water’s edge, and finally she has something to say: “A million curses are not enough for what your father did to you.”
Something flickers in Parvati’s dead eyes, a small light. But she says nothing. Then, after a long silence, “So now you know. All my secrets.”
How to pour everything she feels into the thin, feeble vessel of language? Bhima feels a storm gather in her chest, feels something dark and foreboding enter her blood. “Were they miserable years, sister?” she hears herself ask. “The years you spent in that place?”
Parvati shrugs. “No worse than the years I spent being a slave to one man. My husband. What I wish is that instead of talking about love and marriage, he had told me straightum-straight what he required. A cook, a housecleaner, and someone to fuck.”
Bhima flinches at the crude word. But she does not chastise the older woman. Parvati has earned this cynicism. She sighs. The glossiness of the mall suddenly feels oppressive to her. “Chalo, sister,” she says. “Let’s go back to our little stall. Whatever little hope there is for us in this life rests there.”
Parvati nods, begins to rise, then sits back down. She covers Bhima’s hand in hers. “I . . . I . . . No one has ever heard my full story,” she says. When her chin wobbles, so does the growth below it. “I hope I have not dishonored myself in your eyes.” And before Bhima can respond, “Because, believe or don’t believe, sister, your good opinion matters to me.”
“Whatever dishonor there is, the stain is not on you.”
Parvati nods. “Thank you.”
The stare at each other for another moment and then rise. On their way out, Parvati holds Bhima by the crook of her arm. They walk in this manner, like two schoolgirls, toward the exit sign. They are almost out the door when Bhima hears someone call her name.
26
Bhima recognizes the voice calling her name before she even turns around. Still, for a second after she spins around, she doesn’t spot Serabai. She lets out a small cry when she does, her hand flying to her mouth. Because next to her old mistress is a little boy, holding Serabai with one hand, sucking his thumb with the other.
She frees herself from Parvati’s hold and rushes toward the woman and the boy, and when she reaches them, she gasps. This is not Serabai but a ghostly version of the woman she hasn’t seen in two years. This Serabai has dark circles around her eyes and the skin sags on her face, which is framed by graying hair. It isn’t even the fact that Serabai has aged. It is something else, some defeated quality in the stoop of her shoulders, the slight hunch of her back. Bhima knows she is staring, and in order not to, she bends from the waist and says, “Ae, Bhagwan. Is this beautiful boy my Dinaz’s . . . Is this . . . ?”
Sera smiles. “This is Darius. Dar, this is Bhima, our old servant. Say hello.”
In response, Darius hides behind his grandmother’s dress and peers out at Bhima. “He’s shy around strangers,” Sera says apologetically. Bhima nods but registers two things—Serabai has labeled her a stranger. And she has introduced her as her servant. Her mind flashes to Chitra’s birthday party where Chitra had introduced her as a friend.
As if to atone, Sera touches Bhima’s shoulder. “How are you, Bhima?” she asks quietly. “I miss you so much.”
Bhima turns around, and before she can say a word, Parvati gives her a nod. “I’ll go mind the stall,” she calls. “You come when you are done.”
“Accha, thanks.”
Sera glances at Parvati as she walks out the glass doors, then faces Bhima again. “Stall?”
“We—I own a fruit and vegetable stall, bai. Just outside of Vishnu Brothers. Not too far from here.”
“Really? Since how long?”
“More than a year back I started it.” Bhima looks at her carefully. “I used some of the money you sent to us with Dinaz. Every day I give thanks to you for my new livelihood.”
Sera looks embarrassed. “I didn’t,” she says. “I only mentioned that you’d left your savings with me. Of course, I planned to get it to you. But Dinaz took it upon herself to drop it off.”
There is an awkward silence as Bhima tries to remember the details of Dinaz’s visit. “I think she said that you . . .”
“Probably. But that’s Dinaz for you.” The two women exchange a knowing smile. “How’s Maya?” Sera asks.
“She’s good, bai. Almost finishing with the college.” Bh
ima hesitates for a moment, not wanting to attract attention from some troublemaking God who happens to be flying by. “She say she’s going to study law, bai. We have some friends who are helping her.”
She notes with satisfaction the look of surprise on Sera’s face. “Really? But can you afford . . . I mean, she will have to delay getting a job for a few more years.”
This time, she abandons all attempts at humility. “That’s okay, bai. By the grace of God, I can afford it. Business is good.”
“I see.” Sera studies her. “You’ve changed, Bhima. I—I can’t say how. But you’re different.”
“And you, bai? How are you?” It is the gentlest of queries, but Sera blanches and breaks off eye contact with Bhima.
“Good,” she says finally. “I am good.” She makes a rueful face and runs her fingers lightly over her torso. “As you can see.”
“But you don’t look good, bai.”
Sera gives a startled laugh. “This is what I miss about you, Bhima. Your brutal honesty.”
“Who you have working for you now, bai?”
“Let’s see if I can remember the latest one’s name, even.” Sera rolls her eyes. “I think we’ve had about eight servants since you left.”
Bhima knows it’s cruel, but the words slip out of her. “I did not leave, bai. You forced me out.”
Sera flashes her a quick look, then stares at her feet. “Fair enough.” She chews on her lower lip, then nods repeatedly to herself, as if trying to gather up her courage. “I had no choice,” she whispers. “After what you said. About Viraf.”
Bhima digs her slippers into the floor, to stand her ground. “I said nothing that wasn’t the truth.”
Now, finally, Sera looks up. “That is precisely what made what you said so dangerous. The truth. Don’t you understand?”
They stand looking deeply at one another. The chatter and noise around them fades away so that Bhima feels it is only the two of them alone at the mall. The moments tick by. For two years Bhima has wondered what Serabai knew and whom she had believed. And now, on this day of revelations, she has her answer. “Why?” she croaks at last. “How could you . . .”
The Secrets Between Us Page 20
