And then, the tears come to her eyes again. Perhaps this is the rejection she couldn’t have imagined—not the deliberate turning away she has been dreading, but the simple yet deadly act of unrecognition. The acknowledgment that too many years have gone by, that the past is a murder that cannot be undone. She blinks, feels the acidic shame burning in her stomach, and starts to turn away, when . . .
When.
“Bibi?” The voice is soft, low, meant for just the two of them. She hears the tentativeness in it but also something else. Tenderness. And a tendril of hope.
Mere sapno ki rani kab aayegi tu? That’s the song he used to sing to her, the one that has delivered her to his doorstep. The queen of my dreams, when will you arrive?
She has arrived.
She is here, home with her family. With her husband. If he will have her.
“Gopal,” she whispers, and this time he says it louder, with conviction. “My Bibi? Is it you? Is it really you?”
She bends down to touch his feet, to beg his forgiveness, but he reaches to prevent her, grabs her by her upper arms, and pulls her toward him. “Nahi,” he says. “It is I who. It is I who should. Who needs to . . .” They stand like this for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes in the fading light of the day, and then he lets go of her and turns to Maya. “And you are my Pooja’s child?”
“Dada.” Maya moves toward her grandfather, but he does not embrace her as Amit had done. Instead, he looks deeply into her face, and then, as if he’s satisfied by what he has seen, he nods. There is a faint smile on his face. “It is good that you have come.” He faces his fields and then sweeps his hand in an arc, to include all that stands before him. “This kheti belongs to you and your mother, child. This is your inheritance. It is good you have come to claim it.”
Maya opens her mouth to explain, then looks at her grandmother, and closes it. Bhima gives her a small nod of approval. There is so much to learn, so much to know, so much to tell. She looks toward the house and sees the shadows of people flitting around. Her heart quickens at the thought of meeting Amit’s wife. Perhaps she will have another daughter after all. She glances up toward the sky to offer her gratitude when Amit speaks.
“Arre, bhai, chalo, let’s go in the house,” her son is saying. “We have to feed our guests, na?”
“Not guests,” Gopal says, resting his arm on Maya’s shoulder, as he escorts her into his house. “Blood.”
He looks at Bhima, cocks one eyebrow, and for a split second, he is the exuberant young man on the bicycle chasing the bus she rode to work every morning. He smiles. “Shall we enter, my bride?”
For a moment she is unable to reply, unable to take his offered hand. She stands on the threshold of his house, their house, and feels Parvati’s presence sure as if her friend is poised to cross the threshold along with her. She feels Parvati urging her forward and then imagines a hard thump on her back as Parvati tires of her hesitation.
Bhima nods. “Yes,” she whispers. And then, a little louder, “Yes.”
Although it is dusk, in Bhima’s heart it is dawn.
Acknowledgments
I have often thought that it is a pity that the book jacket only carries the name of the author, instead of all the people who help make it possible. I don’t mean just the names of the editors and the copy editors and the art designers and the publicity and marketing crew and the countless others at a publishing house who toil in anonymity, though they, of course, are crucial to the production of a book.
I also mean to include the family members who provide unconditional love and who pick up the slack of neglected housework; the friends who offer comfort or celebration, depending on the circumstances; the colleagues who encourage and influence; the pets who sit purring in your lap at midnight, when everyone else is asleep; the children in your life who remind you that this world is unimaginably beautiful and inspire you to create art that reflects that beauty.
And I mean the larger community of writers, whose work inspires and motivates, and the community of readers, without whom there is no book and whose presence at readings or whose encouraging words in an e-mail mean more than they can possibly realize.
Sometimes I wish that books were constructed like movies, in that there would be a scroll of credits at the end of each one. If this book were to list credits, here is a short list of some of the people it would feature:
Homai Umrigar, Eust Kavouras, Gulshan and Rointon Andhyarujina, Judy Griffin, Perveen and Hutokshi Rustomfram, Anne Reid, Barb Hipsman, Diana Bilimoria, Kim Conidi, Kershasp Pundole, Rhonda Kautz, Ilona Urban, Jenny Wilson, Merilee Nelson, Paula Woods, Regina Webb, Dav and Sayuri Pilkey, Mary Hagan, Denise Reynolds, Rick van Every, Vanessa Humphreville, Dave Lucas, Athena Vrettos, Chris Flint, Regina Brett, Mary Grimm, Connie Schultz, Jim Sheeler, Sarah Willis, Loung Ung, Paula McLain, Sara Holbrook, Karen Sandstrom, David Giffels, and so many others.
And, of course, Kulfi and Baklava, my darling feline sweethearts, who have taught me more about character and bravery and the importance of silliness than I could have ever imagined.
Gail Winston, my editor, thank you for your steady, calm presence; Daniel Greenberg, my agent, thank you for your hard work and commitment to my books. Special thanks to Jane Beirn, Lily Lopate, Sofia Groopman, and Mary Gaule for shepherding this book through. Thanks to Jonathan Burnham and Michael Morrison, for their faith in me.
Thank you, all, for being my tribe, my people. In these perilous times, I lean on you more than ever.
About the Author
THRITY UMRIGAR is the author of seven novels—Everybody’s Son, The Story Hour, The World We Found, The Weight of Heaven, The Space Between Us, If Today Be Sweet, and Bombay Time—and the memoir First Darling of the Morning. She is also the author of a children’s book, When I Carried You in My Belly. A journalist for almost twenty years, she is the recipient of the Nieman Fellowship to Harvard and a finalist for the PEN/Beyond Margins Award. A professor of English at Case Western Reserve University, Umrigar lives in Cleveland.
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Also by Thrity Umrigar
Fiction
Everybody’s Son
The Story Hour
The World We Found
The Weight of Heaven
If Today Be Sweet
The Space Between Us
Bombay Time
Memoir
First Darling of the Morning: Selected Memories of an Indian Childhood
Picture Book
When I Carried You in My Belly
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
the secrets between us. Copyright © 2018 by Thrity Umrigar. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
Cover design by Adalis Martinez
Cover photographs © plainpicture/Mohamad Itani
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition JUNE 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-244223-9
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-244220-8
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