The Space Between Us (15 page)

“What…What’s wrong?” she repeated.

Her turned on her then. “You. You are what’s wrong.” Ignoring her start of surprise, he went on, “Don’t think I didn’t notice your nataak during dinner. Embarrassed me in front of our friends. Flirting with a waiter young enough to be your son. Smiling at him, saying thank you every damn time he filled your glass with water. Don’t think I didn’t see everything that was going on. You must think I’m a total chootia, to flirt with another man—and that, too, a boy—while I’m sitting right there.”

He was joking. He had to be joking. The whole thing was so preposterous it was surreal, Sera thought. She had barely noticed the waiter, would not recognize him if she passed him on the street tomorrow. She tried to formulate her outrage and surprise into a sentence and found that she couldn’t. Her husband’s preposterous accusation had left her speechless. Also, the man who stood before her, with the bulging eyes and the jaw that worked convulsively, was someone she didn’t know. A perfect stranger. And part of her resented even having to defend herself against the ridiculousness of his charges. It was late; they were to get up early tomorrow for a day of sightseeing. And nobody had ever spoken to her in this tone before. She was a serious, thoughtful person, all her friends knew that. Not one of those cheap, heavily made up women who flirted with anything in pants. Didn’t Feroz know this about her? And if he did not, what else didn’t he know about her? After all, this was her character that he was attacking…

She blinked back the tears that were beginning to form in her eyes. “Your remarks are not worthy of you,” she said, with all the dignity she could muster. Suddenly, she felt a spurt of anger, like a matchstick lit in the dark. “I was not even looking at that waiter. How dare you accuse me of—”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “You’re in a hotel, not in your home.”

“My voice
is
down. And you should have thought of that before you began all this…” A wave of remorse washed over her. “Listen, Feroz, it’s late. You’ve probably had too much to drink tonight. Let’s not spoil our trip with a stupid fight.” She reached out to stroke his arm.

She did not see the punch coming. It landed on her right arm with such precision that the pain seemed to go straight through the thin layer of muscle and into the bone, where it vibrated like the silver gongs the priests rang in the fire temples. The pain was so sharp that she felt nauseated, so even while she cradled her right arm with her left hand, she drew her hurt arm over her stomach to control the nausea.

Feroz was standing over her, shuffling from one foot to the other like a boxer waiting to see if his opponent is down for the count. “I told you not to touch me,” he said. “I warned you…”

She was conscious of a fear so large that it covered even the nausea. I have to get away from him, I have to call for help, she thought, but she was held in place by another thought—that this was no stranger she was trying to run away from, this was no dark man who had leapt at her from behind the bushes. This was her husband, the man she had married only three months ago, the one to whom she had pledged her future. She looked around the room in a blind panic, unsure of what to do next. The last time anyone had struck her had been in third grade, when she had gotten into a fight with a classmate over a stolen eraser. Raised by parents who
were dead set against corporal punishment, she had escaped the physical violence that most of her contemporaries took for granted. Sera now realized she had no defenses, no strategies to protect herself from Feroz, who was still breathing heavily and had a mad, out-of-control look on his face.

She took a few tentative steps backward, until her knees hit the edge of the bed, and then she let herself down. And now the tears came, streaming down her face and landing on the hand that still cradled her stomach. Even as the pain in her arm receded a tiny bit, the pain in her heart grew. She cried at the swift brutality of Feroz’s violent gesture; she sobbed at the injustice of his false accusation; and above all, she cried at the thought of spending year after year in the company of a man who thought so little of her that he could blithely accuse her of flirting with a common waiter. She, who had turned down marriage proposals from men who came from families of three generations of doctors. She, who had spent her Saturday evenings at Homi Bhabha Auditorium in the company of cultured, dignified men. She, whose father, one of the most eminent scientists in Bombay, had never so much as raised his voice at his wife.

Her heart swelled with outrage and, despite her fear, gave wings to her words. “In my whole life, no one has ever treated me like this,” she said to him. “No one has ever accused me of inappropriate behavior. And nobody has ever hit me. If my father knows what you have done here tonight, he will…” Her voice cracked, and she was unable to finish her sentence.

And suddenly, as abruptly as the punch that had landed on her arm a few minutes ago, Feroz was on his knees before her, rubbing her arm, begging for forgiveness, his eyes shiny with tears. “Oh, God, Sera, I’m so ashamed. I’m so sorry, darling. I don’t know what happened…It’s just that I love you so much, I can’t bear the thought of losing you. And I’m so much older than you, and it makes me so nervous…”

She could feel the frost leaving her heart at his words, and despite herself, she was thankful. His tears were falling on her lap now, a reminder of his hot shame, and they melted the icy feeling that had come over her. She stroked his head with her hurt arm, ignoring the pain that shot through it when she raised it. Listening to his fervent apologies, his promises that it would never happen again, she felt assaulted by a million conflicting emotions—doubt, fear, apprehension, hope, shame, but above all, relief. Relief that Feroz had been restored by her tears, that he had been brought back to life by her words. “You know, it wasn’t my intention to strike you, darling,” he was now saying. “What happened was I just raised my hand and just then you were touching me and I don’t know what happened—I think you just got in the way of my hand.”

For a quick second, the memory of the well-landed punch flashed through Sera’s mind, but she was as eager to believe her husband as he was to convince her. She put the memory out of her head, let Feroz hide it in the burlap sack of his soothing words. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me deliberately, Feroz,” she said. “And janu, why would I notice some low-class waiter when I have you?”

“I know. I know you’re a respectable woman, Sera. You’re right, it must have been the Kingfisher talking. Here, let me rub some Iodex on the spot where it hurts. I’m so sorry. I’m so clumsy, and you got in my way.”

Now Sera grimaces at the memory. You should’ve left him then and there, she tells herself. The first time he hit you, you should have left. And you should never have covered up for him, never allowed his shame to become your shame. She remembers the long-sleeved, polka-dotted shirt she had worn the next morning, to cover up her bruised arm. “Goodness, Sera,” Aban had said. “Why the long-sleeved dowager’s clothes? It’s not so cold, is it?”

And recalling her weak reply, unconvincing even to her ears, Sera feels a fresh wave of anger. You deserve what you got, she tells
herself. You should’ve humiliated him in front of Aban and Pervez all those years back. That would’ve stopped his bullying right then.

Dinaz has walked back into the living room and is looking at her with a curious expression on her face. “You okay, Mummy?” she asks lightly. “Is the beer going to your head?”

For a moment, Sera feels as if Dinaz has read every dark thought that dripped into her mind like paint. Not for the first time, she wonders how much Dinaz knows about Feroz’s sporadic assaults on her. After Dinaz was born, she did her best to muffle her cries when Feroz’s fists rained on her body, to cover up the hurt that showed on her body and in her eyes. She had not wanted the shadow of her father’s violence to eclipse Dinaz’s childhood.

Sera brushes aside the cobweb of anger and forces herself to smile at her daughter. “I’d have to drink a lot more for that,” she says. “How is Toxy? Did you see her?”

“Yah, she’ll be out in a minute,” Dinaz replies. “All the girls are back in the bedroom, doing their girl talk.” She bends toward Sera and lowers her voice. “What’s wrong, Mummy? You look so—sad.”

Aban overhears Dinaz. “I said the same-to-same words to your mummy a minute ago, Dinu,” she says. “I tell you, my Sera has not been the same since her beloved Feroz’s death.”

Mother and daughter exchange a quick look. Dinaz raises her right eyebrow slightly, in a gesture reminiscent of her father. And in that moment, Sera is sure that Dinaz knows. She is unsure of how that makes her feel. On the one hand, Dinaz’s unspoken gesture implies a solidarity that gratifies Sera. On the other hand, she feels guilt at her inability to have spared her daughter the knowledge of her parents’ frayed marriage.

Dinaz puts her arm around Sera. “Mummy’s okay, Aban aunty,” she says. “She’s just a little tired, that’s all. Our Bhima has been a little—preoccupied lately. So Mummy’s had to do more of the housework.”

“That’s what you get when you treat the servant like the mistress of the house,” Aban says promptly. “Pardon my saying so, Sera, but I’ve told you for years that Bhima will take advantage of you. Say what you will, these ghatis are ghatis. We Parsis are the only ones who treat our servants like queens. And it always backfires.”

Sera wishes Dinaz had not brought up Bhima’s name. Truth to tell, she is a little tired of thinking about Bhima. Ever since the Maya affair, she has had to think more about Bhima than about her own family. And the cold, distant way in which the girl treated Sera on the day of the abortion still rankles her. She had been looking forward to a carefree evening, but Dinaz has unwittingly launched Aban on her favorite subject.

Sera half-turns toward her daughter to give her a warning look, but it is too late. “I didn’t say anything was wrong with Bhima,” Dinaz says. “She just has her own problems, like we all do.”

Aban stares openmouthed at Dinaz for a second and then bursts out laughing. She flings her arms around the younger woman and covers her face in a flurry of kisses. “Oh, oh, oh, this is too much,” she roars. “Like mother, like daughter, I say. Oh, my God, look at this one’s angry face—just like her mother she is looking. My God, their precious Bhima, they treat her like she is the Kohinoor diamond or something.”

Another guest, who Sera knows lives in Aban’s building, pipes up. “I tell you, though, Aban is correct. You can’t treat these people too well. Best to keep them at some distance. Otherwise they will take advantage of you, hundred percent guaranteed.”

“Arre, did you see the story in last week’s
Times of India
?” someone else says. “About that elderly Parsi lady who was murdered? They said she had been a professor at Elphinston College for forty years. Poor woman, stabbed in her bed by her own servant. Neighbors said the woman had worked for her for decades. But the professor kept her wedding jewelry in her house, see. And of course,
the servant knew that. They are like snakes, these people. They can see in the dark, I think. Stabbed her seventeen times and took off with the jewelry. Paper said her boyfriend encouraged her.”

“But really, our Parsis are also mad, if you ask me,” Pervez says. “Being a professor and all, she should know not to keep jewelry in the house. That’s why we have our own Central Bank. Should’ve had a locker there.”

“But janu, that’s what’s wrong with us Parsis,” Aban intones. “We’re too trusting, you see. And honest, too. So naturally we think all other jaats will also be honest like us.” Aban turns to Meena Patel. “Including the Gujaratis, of course. They are an honest community, also. But not these Maharashtrians. First-class crooks, they are.”

The doorbell rings, and Pervez goes to the door. A second later, he comes back with Viraf. Aban rises from her seat with a squeal. “Ah, my Prince Charming is here. How are you, my darling? Working too hard, Dinu says. Well, what to do, as a soon-to-be father of course you have to work hard. Still, you are looking too thin, my dear,” she says, pinching his cheek.

Viraf grins. “Hello, Aban aunty,” he says. “You’re looking as lovely as ever. And by the way, I’ve gained five kilos in the last few months. Except it’s all going to my dimchu,” he adds, patting his stomach.

Aban beams, as she usually does in the company of handsome men. “Achcha, Viraf, you be the referee. We were just saying that you can’t trust these non-Parsi servants, no matter how much you do for them. So what do you say? Are Sera and Dinaz making Bhima sit on their heads, or not?”

Viraf looks around the room. “Oi, Aban aunty,” he says. “Bad manners, yaar. You haven’t even introduced me to Toxy’s hubby to be. So where is he?”

“Very clever, very clever, changing the subject.” Aban laughs
good-naturedly. “Great diplomat, our Viraf. I think they’re going to send him to Pakistan to negotiate with that General Musharraf—I call him General Sheriff—over Kashmir.” Her face falls. “Darius and his family won’t be here. His mother thinks it’s bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other a few days before the wedding. God knows where our Parsi women get these ideas from.”

Dinaz grabs Viraf’s hand. “Come on, I’ll lead you to Toxy,” she says. “You can at least say hi to her.”

Take me with you, Sera wants to say to her daughter’s departing back. I don’t want to be stuck here with these ignorant people. “Tell Toxy to come say hello to us old fogies,” she calls, and Dinaz lifts her hand in acknowledgment.

Aban looks as though she is about to resume her discourse, but just then her maidservant, Jaya, pokes her head in from the kitchen. “Bai,” she calls. “Come for a minute, na. Cutlets are ready.”

Aban grumbles as she gets to her feet. “Can’t manage for ten seconds without me,” she says.

Sera is chatting with Meena Patel about the ugly new skyscrapers that are sprouting up all over Bombay when Aban reenters the room. Behind her, Jaya, a sprightly girl of about twenty, is holding a large tray heaped with mutton cutlets. “Chalo, hurry up,” Aban says. “Serve them to our guests while they are hot-pot.”