The Space Between Us (17 page)

No, there was no telling what her parents would do if they ever found this out. Violence, cruelty—these were things outside their experience. And they were too old to have to rescue her, to fight her battles for her. Besides, her mother had tried to warn her about Banu. She had offered to make inquiries, to track down rumors. And how arrogantly, how blithely, she, Sera, had dismissed that offer. How idealistic, how confident that woman who had left her parents’ home had been. What was left of her now? A tremble in her right hand that she sometimes couldn’t control, dark circles under her eyes, and a heart that broke like a fallen plate.

“Mummy, Feroz and I are having some difficulties, obviously,” she said carefully. “I know it’s an imposition on you and Daddy, having me and the little one over. But if I can stay just a little longer, I will—”

“Now you will make me angry,” Jehroo said. “Darling, don’t play with my words like they are marbles. You know how much your daddy and I enjoy having you with us. But that’s the point—your place is not with us; it is with your husband and your in-laws. So tell me, what bothers you?”

“She interferes with us a lot.” Sera said the first thing that came
into her head. “You know, she’s an old woman, set in her ways.” She realized she was making Banu sound like an eccentric old woman, instead of the evil monster that she was.

“This joint family system is a curse on India, I tell you,” Jehroo said. “Countless women have been sacrificed to its cause.” She looked out of the restaurant to where a young white man wearing baggy, floral pants and a printed, loose-flowing shirt, stood talking to a woman in a cotton skirt carrying a backpack. “You know, we Indians talk about these Westerners and how they kick their children out of their homes when they turn eighteen, how they put their elders in old people’s homes, how they don’t have the same love for family that we do. But sometimes I wonder if we’re really as superior as we think we are. What’s the point of everyone living together if all it does is cause kit-pit at home? Better to go your own separate ways than always fighting-fighting.

“You know our neighbors Freny and Jamshed? Well, they are taking care of Jamshed’s mother in their home. The other day I went to visit the old lady, and what do you think? The poor woman is covered in bedsores. Freny says she’s just not strong enough to turn her in bed as often as she needs to. You know, Jamshed is at work all day, so it all falls on Freny. During my whole visit, that’s all Freny did—complain about the old woman, about how she doesn’t cooperate in turning in the bed or when they have to lift her to give her the bedpan. When everyone can see that the poor thing is all skin and bone. She can barely lift her eyebrows, let alone her own buttocks. But Freny is convinced she is doing this on purpose, to harass her. And Freny herself—what to say about her? She looks like she’s aged fifty years in two months. Says she can barely leave the house for more than an hour at a time, says she smells urine and rubbing alcohol even in her sleep. Her whole life has been taken over by this problem.” Jehroo raised her eyes to Sera. “Beta, I’m sure she prays for the old lady’s death day and night. And yet
we criticize those foreigners for warehousing their old people. I pray that when my time comes, I’m not a burden to anybody.” She smiled. “Just slip some pills in custard or pudding, and one, two, three—problem solved.”

Sera reached over and stroked her mother’s hand, spilling a little water from one of the glasses the waiter had brought to them as soon as they’d sat down. “Mummy, don’t say that. If something happened to you, I don’t know what I’d ever do.”

Jehroo’s voice was soft and gentle. “Your daddy and I won’t be around forever, darling. We’re getting old, you know. Which is why I say your place is with your husband. In every marriage there is some tension. It is unfortunate you live with your in-laws. But that’s a choice you made. Just tolerate the old woman as much as you can. And with your good nature, you should be able to win her over.”

Sera smiled at her mother, but her heart was cold. She felt removed from this elegant woman with the big, kind eyes. Her mother might have lived more years than she had, but at that moment Sera felt older, more jaded, more experienced. Jehroo Sethna had been blessed with kind, wealthy parents who cared for her; an erudite, gentle husband who doted on her; a daughter who loved and respected her. She had never known the impact of a man’s hard knuckles bouncing off her soft flesh; she had never experienced the claustrophobic feeling of being locked in a room in her own house; she had never had her husband contemptuously tell her she was getting old, fat, and ugly, or accuse her of flirting with every man they encountered together. She had never known the ratlike swiftness of eyes that followed her every move in her own house. Jehroo Sethna had not suffered, Sera realized, and for the first time in her life, she felt distant from her mother, unable to connect with her at a level other than the obvious love they had for each other.

“Tell you what, Mummy,” she said. “Let’s go buy those knickers
for Dinaz. That way, if I decide to stay with you a few more weeks, we won’t have to go shopping again.”

One afternoon three weeks later, there was a knock on the door, and Sera opened it to find Freddy Dubash leaning against the wall. Freddy had on his brown bowler hat, and his gold watch chain dangled from his pocket. “Freddy pappa,” Sera cried with delight. “What are you doing here?” Her faced clouded over. “Is everything…is Feroz all right?”

“Everything is fine,” the old man said. He pretended to frown. “Arre wah. Do I need a reason to come to see my daughter and granddaughter?”

Sera flushed. “No, of course not. Please, come on in. Daddy,” she called. “Look who is here.”

The two men hugged. “Kem, Freddy, how are you?” an unperturbed Jehangir said, as if Freddy stopped by his house every day. “Please, have a seat.”

“Fine, fine,” Freddy replied, lowering himself into a chair. “I saw in the paper that Franz Gutman is going to be conducting this Saturday. I have one of his early recordings of Haydn’s Symphony Number Ninety-four. Are you going to the concert?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for anything. And now that my Sera is here to accompany me…” He glanced at Sera and then fell silent as he realized the circumstances of Sera’s presence. An awkward silence fell over them. Jehangir looked around the room for help. “I’ll go wake Jehroo up,” he said. “She’s napping with Dinu.”

“Actually, don’t,” Freddy said. “What I mean is, I actually wanted to talk to Sera in private for a few minutes, if that’s okay with you.”

Jehangir looked at his daughter for a cue. When she nodded im
perceptibly, he rose to his feet with a sigh. “See you soon,” he said vaguely.

Alone with Freddy, Sera felt a heavy shyness fall over her, making it difficult for her to lift her eyes toward him. When she finally forced herself, she noticed that Freddy was staring hard at her. There was a serious look on his face, a look of purposefulness that she had never seen before.

“Just like that you walked out,” he said. She could hear the hurt in his voice, and she imagined what it must’ve been like for him, discovering that she was not returning, realizing that his only music companion had deserted him. “Not even a good-bye, not even a ‘Freddy pappa, stay well, I will miss you.’ Bas, just like that you are gone. Taking away all the joy out of my house.” His voice had dropped and his chin was resting on his chest, so that she had to strain to hear him. She felt as if he was talking to himself.

“How is Banu mamma?” she asked, realizing as she asked the question that she really wanted to know.

His head shot up. “Banu? I wish I could say my darling missus has turned into Mary’s little lamb, all meek and tender. But the sad truth is she is as mean and jabri as ever. She’s driving poor Gulab mad with her do-thises and do-thats.”

“Does…does Feroz know that you’re here?”

Freddy looked at Sera, his watery eyes searching her face. “Listen, deekra,” he said seriously. “I’ve come here on a very important mission. I want you to pay good attention to what I am saying.” Suddenly he looked exasperated and addressed the room. “Will you look at this girl, with her face as long as a pineapple? I’ve come all this way to see her, and all she is wanting to know is whether her hubby knows I am here.” He sighed dramatically. “Yes, my dear, Feroz knows I’m here. And more important, he knows why I’m here. Now will you pay attention to what I have to say?”

Sera nodded.

“Good. Two days ago, I ran into one of my old clients. Divan Shah is his name. He is a very rich man now, but a few years back he was in legal trouble and let’s just say I helped him a lot. Anyway, all this is of no interest to you. The main thing is, this man is a builder. You remember Moti Mahal, the big bungalow that’s at the end of our street? Well, turns out that the old woman who lived there for over fifty years has sold the building and surrounding land to Divan’s company. They are going to knock it down and build a new seven-story building there.”

Sera found her attention wandering. She wanted to go wake Dinaz from her nap so that she could spend some time with her grandpa Freddy. How will Dinaz respond to him? she wondered.

“My dear, are you listening? What I’m trying to say is, I spoke to Divan about buying a flat in his new building. He is willing to give it to me at a good price. And last night I spoke to Feroz. Talked to him in a way I’ve never talked to him before, if you are knowing what I’m saying. Man-to-man. Told him that if he lost you, his life was finished. That he would someday end up like one of those old, pathetic Parsi men, talking to themselves on the street and drooling on themselves when they eat. And for once, my bullheaded son came to his senses. And he agreed.”

Freddy stopped, looking at Sera triumphantly. Noticing the expectant expression on his face, Sera knew he was waiting for her to say something. “That’s good,” she said vaguely. And when Freddy didn’t respond, “Agreed to what?”

Freddy smacked his knee. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I tell you, chokri, I’m beginning to worry about you. You look like you’ve been taking five calmpose tablets every morning. If you’re not careful, cobwebs will start growing on your face.”

Sera pulled herself up. “Freddy pappa,” she said. “I’m sorry to say this, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“How could you? I haven’t told you yet.” He leaned forward. “What I’m saying is, I am buying a second flat. For you and Feroz—and Dinaz, of course. Separate from Banu and me. That way, Banu cannot do her usual dadagiri, and you and Feroz can have some privacy.”

She stared at him, afraid to believe her ears. “And …Feroz agreed to this plan?”

“Yes. Beta, I know my son. His stupid pride will never let him beg you to come back. But I tell you, he is a changed man. He comes home late, hardly eats anything for dinner when he is home. The other day, he was leaving for work and I had to remind him that he’d forgotten to shave. Can you imagine, our Feroz forgetting something like that? But without you, he has become someone I don’t recognize. Even Polly has noticed.”

Sera struggled against the sudden spurt of hope that burst into her heart. “Even if Feroz agrees, Banu mamma will never,” she said dully.

Freddy looked annoyed. “Arre, meaning what? All of you may forget, but I am the man of the house. The head of my household. I told Banu last night that unless she wants to see her son look older than her in her lifetime, this is the only solution. Explained the situation to her and didn’t give her a chance to do her yes-but-no business. Bas, told her that this was the plan and that she had to accept it, chup-chaap.”

“And what did she say?”

Freddy roared. “Didn’t I just tell you? There is nothing for her to say. Out of my own hard-earned money I am buying this flat. It is my gift to my son and my darling daughter-in-law, if she will have it.”

She saw, for the first time, the pleading look in his eyes, heard the uncertain quiver in his voice, noticed the slight tremor in his hands. Freddy pappa is getting old, she said to herself. And still he has come here, swallowing his own pride.

“Beta,” he said before she could respond. “You are the crown jewel of our family. Your place is at the side of your husband. Trust me when I say, Bombay is no place for a single woman to raise a child. In my years as a lawyer, I have seen many, many ugly things. Of course, you are having your wonderful parents, may God bless them with good health. But still, this is not your home. Your home is with Feroz. Now tell me, do you accept an old man’s gift?”

She got up from the sofa and went over to where he was sitting so that she saw the top of his bald, round head, which looked so much like Feroz’s. Looking at that head, she felt a pang of loss. For a moment, she missed Feroz terribly, missed the hard outline of his body as it slept against hers, missed his dark hands cupping her breasts when he came up behind her, missed his cool, easy confidence, the sense of protection and safety she felt when they were out in the city together. Besides, Dinaz needed—no, she deserved—what only her father could give her.

“Freddy pappa,” she cried. “I hope I’m not making a mistake, but I accept your kind offer. I accept.”

T
he salty sea air smells good, and the ocean tickles Bhima’s and Maya’s feet as they walk along the water’s edge, zigzagging on occasion to avoid the people coming toward them. A slight wind plays with Bhima’s tightly pulled back hair, making a few stray strands stand up at the top of her head.

As they walk, Bhima feels herself dropping her burdens into the welcoming water, so that her body becomes softer, more pliable, and she loses some of the angry stiffness that she normally carries in her. She is glad that she and Maya have taken to going to the seaside in the evenings. She listens to the rhythmic sighing of the dark sea and feels that it echoes her own. The water fights against the shore, chafing at its boundaries, leaving behind a foamy hiss of frustration as it recedes. Bhima feels her tired feet dig deep into the wet sand, looking for a place to call their own.

It has been years since she has come to Chowpatty Beach. “Your grandpa and I used to come here,” she tells Maya.

“With Ma and Amit?” she asks.

Bhima clicks her tongue. “No, before. Just after our marriage. This place used to be different then.” Her face softens at the memory of how she and Gopal would sit on the caramel sand and eat vegetable pakodas and chew on pieces of fresh sugarcane. Then, after the sun went down and the crowds receded, leaving behind only pockets of lovers, Gopal would reach for her and pull her toward
him. All across the sand, couples sat together in different stages of passion, but etiquette demanded that one did not pay attention to what the others were doing. Some days it seemed to Bhima that all of Bombay was on these sands—those engaged to be married, those involved in illicit affairs, those in romances that could result in grave punishment if their parents found out. In contrast, she felt safe and respectable being here with her husband.

“Different how?” Maya is saying, and Bhima feels a moment’s impatience at being disturbed in her reverie.

“The government has cleaned up the place,” she says. “Before, this beach was dirty and littered. People used to do soo-soo in the sand, right in front of your eyes. And that part”—she points to the glittering half of the beach that’s filled with food vendors—“that used to have many-many more panipuri and other food stalls. Now it’s all regulated by the government babus.”

She hopes that her explanation will make Maya recede into silence because she wants to revisit the past, spend some time again with Gopal on the golden beaches of their youth. But Maya wants to talk. “Your balloonwalla,” she says. “The Afghani man you were talking about. Did he come here, also?”

“I don’t know,” she says but feels a sudden revulsion at the thought of the man selling his wares at gaudy Chowpatty, amid the tartlike glitter of this beach. She wants to picture him in the more somber vistas of Marine Drive, where there were no crowds of teenagers and college students descending in search of the perfect plate of bhelpuri. Where someone could take the time to appreciate the man’s artistry, the patient, careful way he twisted a bit of rubber and air and made magic out of it. “Probably not,” she says. “He wouldn’t have come here.”

“I’m sure he did,” Maya says. “If this is where the crowds were, I’m sure this is where the business was. So he had to have sold his
balloons here. We learned that in my business class—you have to go where the demand is.”

Bhima feels a sudden, hot surge of anger, and her fingers itch with the desire to slap Maya’s smug, all-knowing, young face. She is unsure of the root of her anger—whether it stems from Maya’s casual reference to college or whether her unthinking words have somehow desecrated the memory of the dignified Pathan and cheapened his artistry. “He wasn’t a businessman,” she cries. “Stupid girl, I told you. He didn’t come here.”

Maya looks shocked and then hurt, but some stubborn streak makes her not give in. “Well then, no wonder he was poor. No wonder you felt sorry for him.”

Bhima wants to correct Maya, wants to point out that it’s not clear to her whether she indeed felt sorry for him. She wants to say: But beti, it’s more than that. He wasn’t the kind of man you felt sorry for, exactly. Rather, looking into his fine, sad eyes, you felt a deep sorrow, the kind of melancholy you feel when you’re in a beautiful place and the sun is going down. And mostly, now, when I think of him, I feel sorry for myself. Because that old Pathan had something that I need now. I don’t know what it was, don’t even have a name for it. All I know is that he could’ve taught me something, if only I had not been young and shy and afraid to ask.

But Maya is younger than she had been then, and Bhima knows it is no use trying to explain all this to her granddaughter. Besides, she feels a memory rise from the dark landfill of the past, and she needs to concentrate on helping that memory move into the present. Something the old Pathan had said once while talking to Gopal…What had Gopal asked him, maybe some question about his homeland? Yes, that was so. Gopal had said, “Compared to our Bombay, with the monsoons and all, your Afghanistan must
seem as dried up as an old woman, no? All hills it is, dry as a bone, correct? I saw a picture of it once.”

She had expected the Pathan to be insulted, but he laughed. “Nahi, sahib,” he said in his low, dreamy voice. “My Afghanistan is very beautiful. A hard land, yes, full of mountains, but toughness has its own beauty.” He paused for a long moment, his hands stilled over the balloon that he was transforming, and Bhima had the distinct impression that he was traveling down those hard Afghani roads again. “In the morning, when I was a lad, I used to wake up and run outdoors,” he continued in that same deep voice that, to Bhima’s ears, carried in it traces of tobacco and camphor and eucalyptus. “I would smell the clean mountain air, look at those hills that in the morning light looked almost bluish pink. And I would think I was the happiest boy in the world.” The Pathan smiled at the foolishness of that long-ago boy.

“Wah, old man, you make me wish I could see your home country,” Gopal said in his usual cheerful way. “Are you sure you’re not a poet instead of a balloon seller?”

Bhima was about to pinch Gopal when she saw that the Pathan was smiling. “Everybody is a poet in my homeland, sahib,” he said. “The country makes you so.” Then his face clouded over. “That is, everybody
was
a poet. Now the country is broken. Too many people fighting over the poor land, and the land is sick in its heart. Night and day it is weeping. Now it cannot take care of its sons and daughters.” He stopped, and his eyes were like inkwells, the skin on his face like parchment paper. He looked as if he was about to speak again, but just then Amit interrupted him. “Is my balloon done?” he asked, hopping from foot to foot and impatiently looking up at the man who must’ve appeared as tall as a building.

The Pathan stooped down and patted Amit’s head. “Sorry, baba,” he said. “I’m getting slow in my trade.” He finished the bal
loon in his usual methodical way and handed it to Amit like a flower.

“Sorry, what to do, this boy is impatient just like his father.” Bhima smiled her apology. “But…what happened to your homeland that there is so much fighting?”

The Pathan looked at her and smiled slowly. “There is a saying in my community,” he said. “They say that when something is very beautiful, the Gods of Jealousy notice it. Then, they must destroy it. Even if it’s their own creation, its beauty begins to make them jealous and they are afraid it will overshadow them. So they destroy the very temples that they have built.”

The Gods of Jealousy, Bhima now thinks. Was that what happened between her and Gopal? Did their happiness stick in the eye of some mean god? Was that why both her children were taken away from her? Why she had to urge her grandchild to destroy her own baby? Maybe the Pathan was right, maybe too much happiness and beauty were not good for humans. Perhaps human happiness had to be measured out in spoonfuls, like the castor oil that Banubai used to pour into a teaspoon and swallow every Sunday. Drink directly from the bottle and it could kill you.

“Ma-ma, I’m asking and asking you and you won’t reply,” she hears Maya say. “Are you angry with me or what?”

Bhima shakes her head to destroy the fog of the past. “I’m sorry, beti,” she says. “I was just thinking and didn’t hear you.”

“I asked what happened to the old Pathan.”

Bhima feels an icy sensation around her heart at Maya’s words. “I don’t know,” she says abruptly. “After your grandfather’s accident, we stopped coming to the seaside.”

“Why?” Maya insists. “There was nothing wrong with Gopal dada’s legs, was there? Why couldn’t you come to the seaside?”

Bhima’s face is as closed as a book. “After the accident, everything
changed,” she says shortly. She looks away, blinking back the tears that have formed unexpectedly in her eyes.

Maya leans her head on Bhima’s shoulders. “Ma-ma,” she says softly. “My poor ma-ma.”

“Listen, beti,” Bhima says. “I never told you what happened after the accident. But I’m going to tell you now, so you understand, once and for all, how this world treats those without an education.”

She had been sick with the flu the day of Gopal’s accident, which was why the man from the factory found her at home when he knocked on her door at three in the afternoon. He was a stranger to her, this dark-skinned man with the anxious, shifty eyes. “Are you…” He consulted a piece of paper. “Bhima? Gopal’s wife?”

“Yes.”

He looked toward his feet. “I’m afraid there’s some bad news,” he said. “You have to come quick to the hospital.” He pronounced it “hispeetaal.” “There’s been an accident.”

“Accident? Involving my Gopal?” She felt light-headed, faint from the flu and from the sudden fear that grabbed her heart like a giant hand. “Is he…hurt badly?”

The man shifted uneasily. “He’s okay,” he said. “Just a small hand injury. But still, the boss sent him to the hospital, to get tiptop care. And then he sent me here to inform you. At Godav Industries, we take care of our workers.”

Gopal had been working at Godav Industries for fourteen months, after the textile mill where he had worked for years had filed for bankruptcy. Bhima had never met any of Gopal’s new colleagues, including this man who stood at her door. But there was something about him that she didn’t like. “And who are you?” she said.

“I’m Gopal’s foreman. But come on, we should go. I have to return back to work.” Bhima noticed he didn’t offer his name, and she was too shy to ask. She didn’t want the man to think Gopal had a forward wife.

She made arrangements with the woman next door to keep Amit when he got home from school. “Pooja will be home from her job around seven, didi,” she said. “Tell her to make some rice for Amit if I’m not home from the hospital by then.”

“The children can eat here,” the neighbor replied. “Your children are my children.”

“Many thanks.” At the last minute she went to the stainless steel pot in which she kept a few rupees for household expenses and grabbed them. She wished the man would look away for a minute as she pulled out the money, but he was watching her every move.

The foreman hailed a cab and waited for Bhima to get in. He gave the driver the name of the government hospital.

“We took him to the government hospital because it was nearby,” he said to Bhima. “He was bleeding, so we put him in a taxi and took him. Bara seth paid for the taxi,” he added proudly.

Bhima felt faint at the thought of Gopal bleeding so much they had to hire a taxi for him. “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Is my husband hurt badly?”

“He will be okay,” he replied. “All depends on what kind of care he receives. Since his right hand is injured, we need you to sign some papers, allowing us to give him the treatment he needs.” He reached into his plastic briefcase and pulled out a long printed form and a pen. “Sign here,” he said.

Bhima felt the familiar shame rise in her like heat as her eyes fell across the page with the incomprehensible words. “I can’t,” she said, swallowing the sob that formed in her throat. “I can’t read or write.”

“That’s okay,” the man said immediately, digging into his briefcase. “You are in luck today.” He pulled out an ink pad. “Here,” he
said, flipping it open and pulling her hand toward it. Just dip your thumb in the ink and place it on the paper.”

For the umpteenth time, Bhima wished she were not illiterate. She would’ve liked to have read this long piece of paper, read it as fast and casually as she’d seen Serabai read the morning newspaper. Perhaps the paper would tell her the truth about Gopal’s condition. She felt shame at the memory of how she had argued with Gopal against placing Pooja in school as he had wanted to. Now, Pooja would grow up as dumb and illiterate as her mother. “She’s a girl,” she’d argued with Gopal. “What does she need an education for? Before we know it, she will grow up and marry a man who will expect a wife who knows how to cook, sweep his house, wash his clothes. Better she know how to use a broom than a pen.”

“These are modern times,” Gopal said. “A girl should—”

“Not so modern that a man would accept a woman who was uneducated in housework. And not so modern that we could not use an extra income in the family. That way, we can pay for Amit’s school fees. If he is educated, he can help his sister later in life.”

As Bhima’s thumb hovered over the white form in front of her, her cheeks burned at the memory. She wished Amit had been home when this man, this bearer of bad news, had knocked on her door. Her son could’ve made out these black words that rested like dead insects on the page. Beside her, she felt the man shifting impatiently. “Come on, we’re almost at the hospital,” he said. “Ink takes a few minutes to dry. Press your thumb here.” And before Bhima could react, he covered her hand with his, directed it to the paper, and pressed on her thumb, so that it left an impression on the form.

A strange man touching her in the backseat of a taxi. Bhima was mortified. Her dislike for the man curdled like milk. She moved in the seat of the small Fiat until she was leaning against the door. But the man’s mood seemed to have changed. “Don’t lean any further,
bhenji,” he said with a laugh. “Or else I’ll have two patients to take care of instead of just Gopal.”