The Space Between Us (10 page)

In reply, Sera raised her arm so that Bhima could see the receding marks on her skin. The older woman nodded briskly. “By tomorrow morning, there will be no signs of…no signs, at all.”

Sera felt her face flush at what Bhima had not said. No signs of Feroz’s brutality, that was what Bhima had wanted to say. Mortification made Sera turn her head away, so she didn’t notice that
Bhima had abandoned the kitchen sink and taken a few steps toward her, drying her hands on her sari as she walked. “Serabai,” she said softly, “You are much wiser than I am, an educated woman while I am illiterate. But, bai, listen to me—do not tolerate what he is doing to you. Tell somebody. Tell your father—he will march in here and break his nose. You are trying to cover up your shame, bai, I know, but it is not your shame. It is Feroz seth’s shame, not yours.”

Sera’s eyes welled with tears. She felt exposed under the X-ray vision of Bhima’s eyes, but the relief of another human being acknowledging out loud what Feroz was doing to her was immense. “Does—does Gopal never beat you?”

Bhima snorted. “Beat me? Arre, if that fool touched me once, I would do some jaado on him and turn his hands into pillars of wood.” Then, seeing Sera’s shocked face, she smiled. “No, bai. With God’s grace, my Gopal is not like the other mens. He would sooner cut his hands off than hurt me.”

Lying in bed now, Sera remembers Bhima’s confident assertion about Gopal—
He would sooner cut his hands off than hurt me
—and smiles bitterly. Time had proven Bhima wrong, had shaved off her confidence in her husband and left a raw, splintered woman in its wake. They were alike in many ways, Bhima and she. Despite the different trajectories of their lives—circumstances, she now thinks, dictated by the accidents of their births—they had both known the pain of watching the bloom fade from their marriages. Gopal had been a good man, but he had struck Bhima like a viper and stolen away the brightest, shiniest object in her life.

Well, no use lamenting the past, Sera thinks as she gets out of bed and turns off the alarm clock. Better to try to fix the future, which is what she’s doing by helping Maya get an abortion. She sits
at the edge of the bed and prays five Yatha Ahu Vahiriyos. Next she kisses the small picture of Lord Zoroaster that she keeps in a plastic frame on her bed stand. She heads into the bathroom, walking silently so as to not disturb the children sleeping in the other room. Thinking of Dinaz reminds Sera of how Bhima used to dote on her when Dinaz was a little girl. Bhima has done this whole family many favors, she thinks. If Maya needs my help now, how can I possibly refuse?

A
t least she is not picking them up at the slum, Sera thinks as she gets into the cab. Thank God she’d had the presence of mind to ask Bhima and Maya to wait at the bus stop for her. This way, she and Maya can continue in the cab to Dr. Mehta’s clinic. Although many years have passed, Sera still shudders at the memory of her visit to the slum.

Bhima had been sick with typhoid fever. Unable to come to work, she had sent news of her illness with one of her neighbors, and Sera had immediately known that it was something serious. Typhoid was nothing to be blasé about, she knew. And so she had decided to visit Bhima and Maya.

Although her apartment building was located less than a fifteen-minute walk away from the basti, Sera felt as if she had entered another universe. It was one thing to drive past the slums that had sprung up all around the city. It was another thing to walk the narrow byways that led into the sprawling slum colony—to watch your patent leather shoes get splashed with the murky, muddy water that gathered in still pools on the ground; to gag at the ghastly smell of shit and God knows what else; to look away as grown men urinated in the open ditches that flowed past their homes. And the flies, thick as guilt. And the stray dogs with patches and sores on their backs. And the children squawking like chickens as their mothers hit them with their open hands. Sera had wanted to turn
away, to flee this horrific world and escape back into the sanity of her life. But her concern for Bhima propelled her forward.

As Sera walked on, a group of slum dwellers—excited children hopping on one foot, curious women, and a few of the bolder men—began to follow her, making her feel even more like an alien, a space invader who had stumbled upon a different planet. The crowd behind her was festive, filled with excitement, the steady buzz of their conversations following her like a swarm of bees. But none of them talked to her except to point out the way to Bhima’s hut—“Take left, madam,” and “No, bai, this way.” She knew that the slum people encountered well-dressed, affluent people like her every day on the streets and that many of these people must have jobs working in the homes of people like her. They were familiar with her world; the novelty was in having someone from her world step into theirs.

But the worst part of her visit—the memory that still makes Sera’s cheeks flush with heat—was the reception that awaited her when she got to Bhima’s house. One look at Bhima told Sera the older woman was deathly ill. Bhima’s gaunt face was skeletonlike, and her eyes were bright with the high fevers that were battering her daily. Still, Bhima scrambled to her feet to welcome Sera into her humble home. Rummaging through her belongings, she pulled out a five-rupee note and asked Maya to go get a Mangola—she knew it was Sera’s favorite soft drink—for their guest. Without being asked, Bhima’s neighbors hastily found an old wooden chair that everybody insisted Sera sit upon. When she protested and said she could sit on the floor, they laughed as if she’d cracked a really good joke. Maya returned with the Mangola. When Sera offered her a sip, the child refused, although she licked her lips and looked away.

Sitting on the only chair in the room, surrounded by people sitting on their haunches, and sipping the Mangola while the slum children looked at her with their big, greedy eyes, Sera felt over
whelmed by guilt and sorrow. With each sip of the thick, sweet mango liquid she felt as if she was swallowing a blood clot. Several times she made like she was full and didn’t want to drink any more, but each time Bhima looked crushed. The generosity of the poor, Sera marveled to herself. It puts us middle-class people to shame. They should hate our guts, really. Instead, they treat us like royalty. The thought of how she herself treated Bhima—not allowing her to sit on the furniture, having her eat with separate utensils—filled her with guilt. Yet she knew that if she tried to change any of these rituals, Feroz would have a fit. Still, Bhima’s sickly, fevered face and her spontaneous generosity had decided something for Sera. “You’re coming home with me and staying with us until you’re better,” she said. “No, no use arguing, Bhima. You’re in no position to take care of yourself, let alone Maya. Anyone can see that. Just get whatever things you need and let’s go.”

True to her word, she had nursed Bhima back to health, taking her to see their kindly family doctor, Dr. Porus, the next day.

But now, her mind racing along with the speeding cab, Sera feels no comfort or pride in that. What she remembers instead is the fact that, even so ill, Bhima had slept on the thin mattress on the balcony. The thought of her sleeping on one of their beds had been too repulsive to Sera. Little Maya had slept on a bedsheet next to her grandma. At the time Sera had blamed Feroz for this, had told herself that he would not tolerate anything else. But the truth was that she would’ve been uncomfortable with any other sleeping arrangement. The smells and sights she had encountered in the slum were still too fresh, as if they had gotten caught in her own hair and skin. Each time she thought of the slum, she recoiled from Bhima’s presence, as if the woman had come to embody everything that was repulsive about that place. For many years, Sera had marveled at how clean and well-groomed Bhima was. Now, when it was time to give Bhima her pills, Sera made sure that she plopped
them in Bhima’s open palm without making contact. And for the next few weeks, she zealously kept Dinaz away from Bhima. She told herself it was because of the fever, but she had also wanted to protect her daughter from the sheen of dirtiness she now saw each time she looked at her servant.

Sera sighs so loudly that the cabdriver looks at her in his rearview mirror. Try as she might, she cannot transcend her middle-class skin, she thinks. Still, she has done her best for Bhima and her family. And now she must see this thing with Maya through. But for all their sakes, she will be glad when the whole sordid affair is over. This wretched business has affected Bhima terribly—just yesterday, Sera had to bite her tongue on at least five occasions while Bhima made stupid, careless mistakes.

When Sera reaches the bus stop, they are waiting for her. She sees them before they spot her, two figures almost fifty years apart and yet unmistakably linked by blood and destiny. Although they are not speaking, their bodies are leaning into each other’s in an unconscious gesture of familiarity and intimacy. Sera feels her throat tighten with affection and warmth for Maya. It has been quite some time since she has seen her because a few months ago—about the time Maya had her affair, Sera now speculates—the girl stopped showing up for work at Banu’s house. Banu’s day nurse at the time preferred to leave by 3:00
P.M
. and Sera had hired Maya to bridge the gap before the night nurse started her shift at 8:00
P.M
. It was an easy job, too—all Maya had had to do was stop by Banu’s apartment after college and make sure that the old lady had her afternoon tea and evening meal. Sera knew she could get away with paying someone else a lot less than she paid Maya for the job, but Maya was practically a family member and Sera didn’t begrudge her the extra money. The teenager probably already felt out of place around her
more affluent college classmates, Sera figured. After all, not too many of them were orphans whose only surviving relative worked as a domestic servant in someone’s home. If a few extra rupees could help decrease her discomfort, if it helped pay for an extra outfit that boosted her confidence, then it was worth it.

“Pull up a little past the bus stop,” she directs the taxi driver. “Bas, this is good. Stop here, only.”

As she steps out of the cab, the other two spot her and walk toward her. Sera is distressed to notice that Maya does not make eye contact with her and stares at the ground instead. Somehow, the girl’s lack of enthusiasm at seeing her pricks at her, deflating her earlier gush of affection. “Hello, Maya,” she says coldly. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Maya says in a dead voice. Feeling Sera’s critical gaze, she at last lifts her head and looks at her. But her look is as dead as her voice, as if her face has suddenly turned to stone.

Bhima looks from one to the other, worriedly. “She’s in a bad mood today, Serabai,” she explains. “Woke up all depressed, only.” Her old, gray eyes silently beg Sera to understand and forgive.

Sera suddenly wishes Bhima was accompanying them to the hospital. She does not wish to deal with this new, sullen Maya. The girl that she knows, that she has nurtured and educated, is lighter, younger than this heavy, depressed girl standing in front of her. She fights the urge to remind Maya that it is she who has asked for Sera to accompany her to the doctor and not the other way around. She also feels a moment’s guilt—had she, Viraf, and Bhima conspired to force Maya to have an abortion against her will? After all, she has never spoken directly to Maya about her wishes. But then she takes one look at Bhima’s old, tired face and her spine stiffens. This girl is simply too young and naïve to know what awaits her if she has a child out of wedlock. The vulturelike savagery with which the world will descend upon her and tear her to bits. No, best to get rid of the baby, and then, after a few weeks have gone by, maybe she
can sit down with Maya and explain to her the importance of resuming her education. Maybe she can even help her get enrolled at a different college, someplace where she can make a fresh start. No boyfriends, no affairs this time, she will say to Maya. Just your studies. Remember, without education, you are nothing. In this city, people with law degrees and Ph.D.s go hungry. A high school degree is not enough even to get a job as a channawalla. It is the same lecture she had given Dinaz years ago. But with Maya, she will add another threat. Without at least a bachelor’s degree, you will spend your life sweeping other people’s floors and washing their dirty clothes. Is this what you want for yourself—the same life that your mother and grandmother had?

The thought of Maya’s dead mother softens Sera’s feelings toward the girl standing next to her. She glances at Maya, but Maya’s face is as blank as a ceiling. Sera sighs. She is tempted to tell Bhima that she has changed her mind, that she wants her to accompany them to the clinic after all, but she resists the urge. There is simply too much housework for Bhima to take the time to go with them. Despite the intervention of Viraf’s doctor friend, God knows how long they will have to wait. The last thing she wants to do at the end of this day is go home to a dirty house. “I’ve left the house keys with the next-door neighbors,” she says to Bhima. “They will let you in.”

Maya looks at Sera sharply, and a laugh, as bitter as almonds, escapes her. “She could’ve brought the house keys with her,” she says to her grandmother, as if Sera is not there. “She could’ve trusted you with them. But she trusts the neighbor more.”

Sera is shocked at the insolence. But no, that’s not quite it. It’s the hostility in Maya’s voice that shocks her. That and—well, it has to be said—the sheer ingratitude. But before she can respond, Bhima does. “Stupid, ignorant girl,” she berates her granddaughter. “Poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. What business is it of yours what Serabai does with her keys? It’s her house, na? See if you can get your
own big-big house someday and then do what you like with your keys. Until then, you keep your trap shut, you understand?”

Such ugliness, so early in the morning. Sera is not quite sure what has brought it on. It must be the pregnancy, she thinks, the unwanted baby growing inside Maya anticipating its imminent death and unwilling to leave this world without soiling it with its presence. The thought of a dead baby makes her shudder. The sooner this day ends, the better it will be for all concerned, she thinks. She has never seen Maya so angry, so defensive, so uncultured, so—low-class, really. And ever since she found out about Maya’s pregnancy, Bhima has been like a madwoman—slow and absentminded one moment, agitated and prickly the next. The unwanted pregnancy had also cast a pall on the Dubash household, so that the baby growing like a weed inside Maya was smothering the happiness they should be feeling at the thought of the child flowering within Dinaz’s belly. Dinaz was probably curtailing her own shouting joy in deference to Bhima’s sorrow. Now that she thought about it, Sera had detected a certain subdued quality to Dinaz in the past few weeks. And there was no reason for it. Dinaz’s first trimester had been hellish, Sera knew. She had been nauseated, tired, irritable, and she and Viraf had picked at each other like crows picking at roadkill. But as the fatigue and nausea abated, Dinaz became more like her old self with each passing day. Still, somehow Maya’s baby was casting a shadow over their happiness. It was hard to come home laden with new clothes for the newborn, to think of what color to paint the wooden crib that had once been Dinaz’s, to decide on which obstetrician and what hospital, all under Bhima’s deadpan but watchful face. Like trying to hold a wedding reception in a funeral home.

Well, if there is to be a funeral, if the baby living in Maya’s womb is to be killed—Sera winces at the word—then there is no time to waste. Best to get the show on the road. “We’ll drop you
off at the next street corner, Bhima,” she says briskly, getting into the cab. “Then you can walk it up. Maya and I will continue to the clinic. Now come on, let’s get going.”

Maya hesitates for a split second before getting into the taxi. But Sera pretends not to notice.