The Space Between Us (21 page)

He gave her a curious look. “Happy at my job?” he repeated softly.

Gopal took to stopping at the bootlegger’s shop for a drink or two after work, but Bhima forced herself not to mind. “Your baba is in pain,” she told her children. “The drink is like medicine for him.”

But the following Tuesday, Gopal refused to get out of bed. “I’m declaring today a holiday for all the workers of Bombay,” he
said. Bhima could smell the stale odor of alcohol on his breath. “You, too, should stay home today,” he continued. “There’s a new Rajesh Khanna movie out. We can go to a matinee show.”

“And then rub two paise together for the rest of the week?” she said bitterly. “Even if you don’t care about me, think of the children, no. What am I supposed to feed them? Already, I owe the baniya money. Just the other day, Pooja was talking of taking a second job. My daughter’s entire youth will go in supporting her father’s drinking habit. Is that what you want?”

“There’s the settlement money,” he said loftily. “You forget, my dear wife—there’s the money you earned us with your brilliance.”

She flushed at the insult but did not let that derail her. “Gopal, that money is to pay the rent for a few more months. Without your wages, how will we keep this place, husband? Give some thought to the future, na.”

Gopal rolled onto his side and went to sleep.

A week later, Amit was waiting for her at the street corner when she came home from work. “Ma,” he called as soon as he spotted her. “Come home, quick. Baba has gone soft in the head.”

“What is wrong?” she said, quickening her step to keep up with her son’s strides.

“I don’t know. But when I got home from school he was already there. He’s running around the house like a mad bull, looking for something. I got so scared I left. I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to come home, Ma.”

Gopal turned on her as soon as they walked in the door. “Where’s my money?” he panted. His hair was dishevelled, and his sweaty face had a bruised, dazed look on it, as if he’d been in a fight. “Where’s the money you made off of my chopped-off fingers, you whore of a woman?”

“What for you need money?” She looked around and noticed
that he had pulled the sheets off the bed, flung open and rummaged through the cupboard, and turned every pot in her kitchen upside down.

“I have to pay the bootlegger,” he said. “My credit has run out and he must be paid tonight before he will give me any more of his brew. I need my money,” he said wildly.

“The money’s not here,” she said dully. “It’s with Serabai, in her safekeeping. There’s only a few hundred rupees left anyway. How do you think I’ve been running this house since—”

He let out a howl and rushed up to her in fury, so that she closed her eyes, bracing herself to feel his hands around her neck. Was Gopal strong enough to choke her with one good hand? she wondered.

“Baba,” Amit’s voice stopped Gopal in his path. “Baba, what are you doing?” The boy was crying openly, and the sight of his son’s tears seemed to hold Gopal in check. Besides, Amit was digging into his pants pocket. “Here,” he said, holding out a crumpled five-rupee note. “I won a bet at school today. Take this money, baba, and go get your daru.”

The room stood still for an infinite second. Don’t take the money, Gopal, Bhima prayed silently. If you take this money from your son, I will know for sure that you are gone away from us forever, my husband. Allow me to feel some pride in you still. Do not strip away from our family this last thread of pride.

The stillness continued, but somehow the room seemed to shimmer and vibrate with unspoken tension. It was as if each one of its occupants knew that a moment of reckoning was at hand, that this was the test they had to meet together or forever be banished into their own separate, silent worlds; that together they formed the three points of a triangle where each of them touched the other two, and that the slightest movement on any of their parts would shatter this uneasy balance.

Gopal snatched the note out of Amit’s hand. “You’re a good boy,” he mumbled, not daring to make eye contact with Bhima. “I will pay you back, my son.”

At the front door, he paused. He looked at his son’s crestfallen face and the broken, beaten look in his wife’s eyes. He let out a soft cry, as if he was noticing for the first time that Bhima had lost the plumpness he had always prized so much, as if he was surprised by her pale, hollow face, where the giant thumbs of fate had pulled her cheeks downward. Bhima stared back at Gopal, expecting to see sorrow and guilt on his face. She would’ve been horrified to know that what he felt instead was a dark, cruel excitement, as deft and stimulating as a whore’s tongue.

A look of pleasurable malice came over Gopal’s face. “By the way,” he announced. “A piece of good news, wife. I was let go from my job today. From tomorrow, you will have me at home all day long.”

Fingerless, jobless, unproductive, Gopal had found his area of creativity—he could still produce misery, mounds and mounds of it.

When Amit brought home a terrible report card, Gopal said maybe it was time for the boy to leave school and get a job instead. Pooja put her foot down. Instead, she took up a second job washing dishes for Mrs. Sodabottleopenerwalla’s neighbor. Gopal’s eyes grew misty when he first heard the news, but then he yawned and turned on his side and fell asleep.

“Ma, the baniya stopped me on the way home today,” Pooja said. “Says he won’t give us any more credit.”

Bhima’s face ached with worry. “Maybe I can pay him half of what we owe,” she said. She lowered her voice. “You and I will just have to eat less the rest of the week to make up for the rent money.”

Gopal, who was lying on the cot, made a face at his wife. “Always talking of money, money, money. Woman, you disgust me.” He rose. “Well, since you brought this subject up, I need ten rupees.”

Somehow, he always found enough money for his drinks. He stole from Bhima sometimes; other times, he simply threatened her until she gave him what little house money she had. That money came wrapped in her curses, like the tobacco wrapped in betel leaves he sometimes chewed. When she had nothing to give him, when he had picked her carcass dry, he would undertake small jobs for the bootlegger to pay for his habit. “He’s my only friend,” he once told Bhima. “He’s the only one who understands what happens to a man who has been emasculated by his own wife.”

She had to bite her lips to prevent the hate from spitting out at him then. She also didn’t tell him what she knew—that Munnu, the landlord’s son, had stopped by yesterday and threatened them with eviction if they didn’t pay the rent.

As it turned out, the older woman who lived next door had learned of her trials. “Beti, don’t be offended by what I’m about to say,” she said to Bhima the next time they were standing in line outside the bathroom they shared with one other family. “But Munnu, our landlord’s boy, was here yesterday and mentioned your situation to me. Munnu wants to get rid of you, that much is definite. Says he already has another family all ready to move in and that they’ve promised him six months’ rent in advance. No heart in these people, I tell you. So if you’re looking for a cheaper place to move to, let me know. I can help you.”

Bhima turned to her eagerly. “Where is the place, didi? And what is the rent?”

“Actually, it is closer to your work than even this place, beti. You won’t have to walk as much to get home after a day’s work. In Bhaleshwar Colony, there’s a nice little place that’s—”

“Bhaleshwar? But that’s a slum area, no? I cannot take my children to a place like that.”

The old woman knocked on the bathroom door. “Arre, bhaisahib, are you building your home in that bathroom?” she yelled. “I’m an old lady, show some pity and finish your business jaldi-jaldi.” She took a step closer toward Bhima and looked her in the eye. “Beti, a slum is no place to raise children, agreed. But neither is the street, correct? Do you want to come home one evening to find your things out on the street? Where will you go then? If not of yourself, think of your Pooja. A young girl on the streets is no safer than a young girl in a jungle—there are wild beasts in both places.”

“How do you know of this place, didi?”

The old woman looked embarrassed. “My son-in-law owns a few huts in the slum colony,” she said. “Once upon a time, he lived there himself. Now, of course, he has a nice place of his own. But as a favor to me, he will give you a good-good price on the rent.”

The bathroom door creaked open, and its occupant, a bald man in a lungi and a sleeveless jersey, stepped out. “Sorry, mausi,” the man muttered. “What to do, diarrhea.”

The old lady entered the bathroom, holding her nose in a theatrical fashion.

Bhima stood outside, feeling the pressure of her bladder and moving discreetly from foot to foot. All these years, she had fantasized about a flat with its own private bathroom, like the one Serabai had. Instead, she was now facing a descent into a place worse than what she currently had. Daily, she passed by Bhaleshwar Colony on her way home from work, holding her nose against its fetid smells. She remembered now how dark and endless the place looked from the street, with little side alleys running like crooked tunnels into its very heart of darkness. And the women sitting inside the open huts breast-feeding babies, their breasts hanging from
blouses that were as open and exposed as their homes. And the men sitting on their haunches on the sidewalk, their insolent, drunken gazes falling on respectable women like her who hurried past on their way to steady jobs. She imagined Gopal joining the ranks of these unemployed, dissolute men, spending his days sitting idly under the boiling sun. And she imagined Amit and Pooja in that hellish place—Amit hurrying home from school, withstanding the taunts of the idle, illiterate slum boys who wished to corrupt her son into their delinquent ways; Pooja averting her eyes from the greedy, salivating gaze of the local thugs.

No. When the old lady came out of the bathroom, she would tell her no. She would take on another two jobs if need be. Maybe Amit could find a way of earning a little money on the side also. They would make it work, she and her two children. Nothing mattered except Pooja and Amit. They didn’t need Gopal anymore. She would be both mother and father to them. It was she who had carried these two in her belly for nine months, not Gopal. The children were her responsibility, not his.

But how would she protect them if they were on the street? Even if she got a new job next week, it would still be at least another month before she got paid. And what if Munna wanted her to repay the entire amount she owed him all at once?

The bathroom door opened. Bhima saw the blank expression on the old woman’s face and knew she’d forgotten all about her conversation with her. See how quickly the world forgets you, she reminded herself.

Bhima felt her mouth opening but was unsure of what she would say. So when she spoke, she heard her words at the same moment that her neighbor did. “Didi,” she said. “I would like to see this place at Bhaleshwar. Can you set up a time?”

She felt a start of surprise at hearing the words. She had been so sure she was about to refuse the old woman’s offer.

B
hima entered the dark slum and wondered where the past two years had gone. Already her feet knew by rote the sinister curves of the dark, narrow lanes that led to their hut. She no longer gagged involuntarily when the putrid smell of the slum first assailed her nostrils. And just the other day, Amit had asked her a question about their old apartment that made her realize he was already beginning to forget its details.

Thinking of Amit made her quicken her step. The boy had stayed home from school that day, fighting a high fever. “Keep an eye on the boy, you hear?” she’d said to Gopal that morning. “If the cough or fever gets worse, take him to Dr. Roy’s dispensary.” She hesitated before giving Gopal a few rupees. “This money is for the doctor’s fees, if you need to take Amit, understood? Do not spend it on your vileness.”

Gopal had nodded earnestly. “Swear to God, wife. You must think I’m an animal instead of a man. What kind of father would spend his son’s medicine money on daru?”

When she got home that evening, Amit was lying on the floor, a thin sheet covering him. Alone. “How are you feeling, beta?” she asked. “Where’s your baba?”

The boy’s voice was hoarse and his face shiny and flushed. “A little better, Ma,” he said, sitting up. “I told baba this afternoon to
go get me some medicine from the doctor’s clinic, but he said I didn’t need it. But I think the fever has come down a little.”

Bhima saw now that her son was shivering. “Are you cold?” she cried and, without waiting for an answer, covered him in a second sheet. “Where’s your baba?”

Amit glanced at her and rolled his eyes. “Where else?”

A cold fury fell over Bhima like a steady rain. “He’s at the drinking place?” she said. “Even today? He left you home alone, like this?” But she didn’t really need a confirmation. She looked around the small room until her eyes fell on the broom standing up in the corner. “You stay here, Amit,” she said, grabbing the broom. “I won’t be gone long, beta.”

By the time she reached the bootlegger’s den, the fury had turned into a tempest. Bhima spotted Gopal as soon as she entered the semipermanent structure that masqueraded as a restaurant, gambling den, and drinking hole for the local men. She was the only woman in the place. “Ae, missus,” someone yelled. “Ladies not allowed in.” Ignoring the man, she headed straight for where Gopal was sitting with five other men. He was laughing at something, his white teeth gleaming in his dark face, when he noticed her and the laugh died in his mouth. “What are you—” he began, but the next instant he got his reply as Bhima pulled out the broom from behind her back and began to beat him with it. “Saala, besharam, mawali,” she panted, crashing the broom on his body repeatedly. “Cur. Mad dog with rabies. Snake born of your mother’s belly. Lowest of the low. Serpent, pig. Motherfucker. The machine should’ve cut off your penis along with your fingers. Hijda, that’s what you are, a hijda. You’re a eunuch, not a man. After all, a real man doesn’t leave his sick child at home while he goes drinking with the other local loafers.”

She had run out of steam now, as well as the energy it took to
land precise blows on the unprotesting Gopal, who did little to protect himself against her onslaught. She stopped, keeping a warning eye on her husband, who placed his arms in front of his body to deflect any further blows and moved toward her in an appeasing way. But just then, someone at the next table giggled, and the giggle stopped Gopal in his tracks. He looked around the room quickly and saw all the men there—his neighbors and his drinking companions, who were waiting to see what he would do next, how he would restore his battered manhood. He tried to signal this to Bhima. “Come on, let’s go home,” he said stiffly, grabbing her by the wrist, but she shook his hand away. “Don’t touch me, you kutta,” she said.

Gopal had not been in a fight in fifteen years. But now his body moved of its own volition as he slapped Bhima’s sunken cheek with his left hand. Her head jerked back, and for a moment, something like pity came into Gopal’s eyes. Then he slapped her again. This time, a stream of blood trickled out of her nose. Gopal’s eyes widened at the sight of blood. Bhima saw her husband staring at her face in fascination, saw that the sight of her blood excited him, so he looked as if he could lick it, make it his. Before she could react, Gopal was slapping her again, using the back of his hand, his wrist acting as a hinge that allowed his hand to swing like a door. Finally, a couple of the men gripped him from behind. “Bas, yaar, Gopal,” a man drawled. “You want something of your wife to remain for tomorrow, na? Chalo, take her out of here and go home.”

Bhima walked home behind Gopal, trying to stop the bleeding with her sari and fighting the urge to pull the garment over her shame-filled face. She felt the eyes of the basti upon them. Like vultures these people are, she thought. Peck, peck, pecking away at one another’s lives, feasting on one another’s misery, circling over other people’s dead marriages. She saw Gopal walking ahead of her, thin and lost, and for a frightful moment she thought she was
seeing a shadow instead of a man. If I didn’t have a sick boy at home, she thought, ae Bhagwan, I swear in your name, I would never return to that house.

At that time, she thought Gopal had extracted his revenge for her humiliation of him at the bar. But his true betrayal came five days later.