The Space Between Us (23 page)

Dinaz. Sera’s heart froze at the thought of breaking the news to her daughter. Still, she forced herself to think. “They must be on their way home from work by now. Better to try to catch them on the mobile. Get me the phone book, Bhima. I have Viraf’s cell phone number written in there.” She stopped dead in her tracks as another thought hit her. “Oh, my God, someone will have to tell the old lady that her…her son is dead.” Sera began to sob again.

“Viraf baba can do that,” Bhima called from the other room. “You don’t have to go there, bai. And who knows what that poor woman will even understand? Like a stick of carrot she lies there all day.”

The doorbell rang a half hour later, and Viraf and Dinaz walked in, their eyes and noses red. “We jumped off the train,” an out-of-breath Viraf said. “Took a cab. Dinaz got impatient at the traffic light, so we just got out and ran the rest of the way.”

The sound of Dinaz’s sobbing tore at Sera’s heart. She had not heard her daughter sob like this since she was twelve years old. Sure, Dinaz had cried at Freddy pappa’s funeral—Sera herself had felt as if she had lost her right arm when Freddy died—but this grief over her dead father was different—searing, acidic, hot as a branding iron. “I didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye,” Dinaz sobbed. “What with me and Viraf living so far away in the suburbs, I hadn’t even spent much time with him these past few months.”

Sera went through the purse of her memory, hunting for a few gold coins. “I know, deekra, I know,” she murmured as she sifted.
Suddenly, she found what she was looking for. “Do you know what Daddy said to me just two-three days back? That your marriage was the one great source of happiness in his life.”

But her offering backfired, because now there was a new sound of grief in the room. It was Viraf, his slender body racked with grief, his long nose as red as a beetroot. “He was a king,” Viraf blubbered. “Feroz daddy was a prince of a man.”

Suddenly, Sera felt caught in a bubble of clear, objective thought, floating untouched on the churning sea of unthinking, tumultuous grief around her. So this is how history gets rewritten, she thought. This is how it begins, with exaltation. Now it is not enough for a man merely to have been a man; now the etiquette of grief demands that we change him into a prince, a king. Now the flaws of a man have to be ironed out like creases in a suit, until he is spread out before us as smooth and unblemished as the day he was born. As if the earth would refuse to receive him, as if the vultures at the Tower of Silence would refuse to peck at him, unless he was restored to his original glory. In death, all men become saints, she thought, and she both welcomed and rebelled against the thought. Perhaps it was better this way—this erasing of bad memories, this replacement with happier ones, like changing a dirty tablecloth. But if this was true, what to do about this heavy, lumpen body of hers, this body that cried out its true history, this body that wanted to testify, to bear witness to what had been done to it? This battered, bruised body that had been punished for other people’s crimes—for Feroz’s jealous rages; for Banu’s conniving and superstitious ways. Would this body—this knitted sweater of muscle and bone and nerve endings—would this body have to be dead, would its blood have to freeze into immobility before anyone sang its praises and called it the body of a princess or a queen?

“Mummy, say something, please. I feel so alone.” Dinaz’s voice
pierced Sera’s bubble, and she felt herself plunge once again into the hot, bubbling waters of grief.

“Come here, my darling,” Sera said, cradling her daughter’s head. “You will never be alone, not as long as I’m alive.”

Three years have gone by since that day, Sera now marvels. How can that be, when the memory of that grief-filled day is still so sharp, as if someone sprinkled chili powder in my eyes? And yet, she admits to herself, I have never been as happy as I have these three years, with the children living with me and a new one on its way. She feels a twinge of regret when she thinks that Feroz won’t be here to enjoy the new baby. As much as Feroz loved Dinaz, he would’ve adored his grandchild, she thinks. Still—she sighs—it will be lovely having the baby to myself while Dinaz and Viraf are at work. She will get to enjoy her grandchild in a way that she never got to enjoy Dinaz. After all, Dinaz was born in a house that was always darkened by the shadow of Banu’s irrational behavior and Feroz’s fearsome rages. Even after they moved out of Banu’s home, she never quite felt rid of the old woman’s presence, held ransom to every unexpected ring of the doorbell. And contrary to her hopes, Feroz’s fists had not stopped flying after they moved out. In some ways, she had given him another, more permanent excuse for his rages—the forced separation from his mother.

But all that’s over, she now reminds herself. The home that you never got with your husband, you now have with your daughter and son-in-law. Viraf and Dinaz have provided you with your life’s dream. So, silly woman, why live anymore in the past when the present is so full of hope?

Viraf playfully digs his elbow into Sera’s ribs. “Su che, Mummy?” He grins. “Why all these seductive, secret smiles?
Thinking of a new boyfriend? What’s his name, Pestonji Pipyadas? Be careful, all these bhaiyas here will think you’re flirting with them.”

Sera bursts out laughing. “Silly boy,” she chides him. “I should tell your mummy what ridiculous things come out of your mouth.”

“My mummy doesn’t even know what flirting means, I’m sure,” he replies promptly. He winks at Dinaz and then turns to Sera. “After all, she’s not glamorous, like you are. I tell you, Dinaz, if your mother was twenty years younger…”

“Ignore him, Mummy,” Dinaz says, taking Sera’s arm. She turns to her husband with a raised voice. “You saparchand. Are you going to feed your poor pregnant wife, or are you just going to feed your own mouth with your crazy words? Come on, I’m starving.”

“Let’s see if Ramdas’s stall is still here,” Sera says. “He was your father’s favorite bhaiya at Chowpatty.”

They look for the booth, but things have changed. “Forget it,” Sera says. “Let’s just eat anywhere.”

They are all starting on their second plate of bhelpuri when Dinaz lets out a cry of surprise. “Look who’s here,” she says, her mouth full.

“Can’t follow what you’re saying,” Viraf says. “Swallow and then talk.”

Dinaz swallows. Her eyes are shiny with excitement. “Look, it’s Bhima and Maya, at the booth over there. God, it’s been ages since I’ve seen that little girl. Bhima,” she yells.

“Er, we probably shouldn’t disturb them,” Viraf says. “After all, with Maya having lost her child, she may be…”

Dinaz ignores him. “Bhima. Maya. Over here,” she yells, waving her hand frantically.

B
hima spins around. Her face lights up with genuine pleasure when she sees the caller. Dinaz is waving to them, and even across this distance, Bhima can see the eager smile on her face. “It’s Dinaz baby,” she says to Maya, pulling her by the wrist. “Come on, let us go pay our respects.”

“You go, Ma-ma,” Maya protests. “I’ll wait here.”

“Arre wah.” Bhima looks shocked. “What, have you become so bigheaded that you cannot walk over a short distance to greet your well-wishers?” Her grip on Maya tightens. “Come on, you lazy girl.”

“Hello, hello, hello,” Dinaz says as they approach. “Hey, Maya, haven’t seen you in so long. How are you?”

“Fine,” Maya mumbles, staring at Dinaz’s swollen belly.

Dinaz catches the look and laughs. “Yah, I’ve probably grown like a fat pig since you last saw me, na?” she says, patting her belly.

A look of sudden spite crosses Maya’s face. “I was looking the same way, too. That is, until your mummy fixed me,” she says and stares defiantly at Serabai, whose face has turned white at the girl’s inexplicable rudeness.

Bhima is mortified. What has gotten into this girl? she wonders. She stares at the ground, trying to think of an excuse for Maya’s behavior, when Serabai rescues her. “That was more than a month ago, Maya,” she says in her usual, measured tone. “And what happened,
happened. But you need to come talk to me about what we’re going to do about your college.”

Maya mumbles something and looks away. Under the golden lights of the food stalls, her eyes look artificially bright, and her face is so flushed that Bhima wonders if Maya is getting sick. That would explain her strange behavior, she thinks.

Still staring at her granddaughter, Bhima catches a movement out of the corner of her eye and follows it until her eyes fall on Viraf’s face. Towering behind Sera and Dinaz, he is staring at Maya. Like Maya, he has a manic, flustered expression that is such a contrast to Viraf’s usual cool confidence that Bhima looks at him in fascination. Viraf chews on his upper lip and his long, slender fingers pick at the stubble on his cheek. The boy looks sick…no, scared…no, guilty, Bhima thinks and notices that Viraf is actually trying to hide behind his wife and mother-in-law. Her mind flashes to an incident at the basti a few months ago when one of the residents had accused a neighbor’s teenage son of stealing money from her hut. The boy had shaken his head in vehement denial, but the hot, guilty expression on his face—the way he gulped hard, the way he ran his tongue over his dry lips—told a different story. That’s what Viraf looks like, Bhima marvels, as if he’s a thief, as if he’s guilty of something. But what?

Dinaz, too, must’ve sensed something, because she looks over her shoulder and reaches for Viraf’s hand. “Ae, sweetu,” she says. “You haven’t even said hello to Maya and Bhima.”

Viraf nods. “Hello,” he says in a low voice, letting his eyes fall over Maya’s bowed head before they come to rest on Bhima. He gives a little start as he notices the attentive way in which she is staring at him.

Dinaz laughs gaily. “It’s getting to be past this one here’s bedtime,” she says, poking Viraf in the ribs. “He didn’t even want to go
back out tonight. But I just had a craving for bhelpuri. We should get going.”

“I’ll go ahead and get the car,” Viraf says immediately. “You all just come and wait at the traffic light.”

Dinaz turns to Maya. “It was so nice seeing you, Maya,” she says. “I miss seeing you at Banu mamma’s.” She reaches over to give the girl a quick hug. “I know you will start college again when you’re ready,” she whispers. “And I’m so sorry for your loss.”

As the two women walk away, Bhima feels rooted in place, as if she is one of those sand sculptures of Hindu gods at Chowpatty that passersby throw coins at. Indeed, she feels as though she is made of sand and one bucket of water would destroy her. The world around her also seems constructed of sand—shaky, ambiguous, and impermanent. A world in which none of the old rules, the old taboos apply. A world in which a slum girl from a poor family can seduce a clean, handsome, upper-class boy whose wife is about to have his first child. A world in which Maya and Viraf…

It was strange how she found out. One moment she didn’t know; the next minute she did. One moment her mind was as blank as the desert; the next minute the snake of suspicion had slithered into her thoughts and raised its poisonous head. And now she must live with the earth-shattering knowledge that Viraf Davar was the father of Maya’s dead child. While she, Bhima, had looked suspiciously at every youth and middle-aged man in the slum, while she had humiliated herself before those sneering boys at Maya’s college, while she had foolishly imagined her granddaughter in a kitchen with shiny pots and pans, it had never occurred to her to look for the snake under her very nose.

But perhaps I am wrong, she thinks. Perhaps her suspicions themselves are made of sand and one good wave would knock them down. If so, she longs for the waters of oblivion to come and wash
away the misgivings that are gnawing at her heart. But even as she prays for this, certainty hardens like cement.

By her side, Maya fidgets. “Come on, Ma-ma,” she says. “I want to go home.”

“There is no home in our future,” Bhima says enigmatically. “There is no resting place for the wicked sinners of this world. For your sins, I will do endless rounds in this miserable world. So I may as well start practicing. No, come on, I am needing to walk some more.” Maya’s face flushes, and her eyes widen as she stares at her grandmother’s bony face. She opens her mouth as if to protest, but Bhima has begun walking toward the shoreline, and after a second, the girl follows.

They walk in total silence. But this silence is screaming, screeching, and filled with sounds—the thudding of Bhima’s heart; the clawing, tearing fear that is choking Maya’s throat; the scraping sound that Bhima’s feet make as they dig angrily into the sand. Inside this silence the two women walk, afraid of touching its contours, because to break the dam of silence would mean to allow the waters of anger, rage, fury to come rushing, would allow the tidal wave of the recent past—the past that they have ignored, aborted, killed—to come roaring in to destroy their tenuous present.

But quiet, like love, doesn’t last forever.

And so Bhima speaks. If that choked, animal-like sound that she makes can be called speaking. “Why?” she groans. “Why him?”

Maya looks at her grandmother uncertainly, as if she is unsure whether Bhima is addressing her or some invisible deity who is floating above the waters of the Arabian Sea, laughing at them. She stares out at the vast, endless water.

Maya’s lack of response infuriates Bhima. The woman thumps her hard on the back, so that Maya rocks forward for a moment. “I asked you a question, shameless,” she says, but still Maya says nothing.

“Ashok Malhotra, hah?” Bhima taunts. “First, you tempted a de
cent married man, and then you lied to me to throw me off the scent of your shame. Pissing in the pot you have been eating out of. Betraying the trust that the whole Dubash family had in you. That boy’s wife, Dinaz, has been like a daughter to me. How will I ever face them again? Namak-haram, every letter that you know to read, every stitch of clothing that you wear, every grain of salt in your mouth, it all comes from Serabai’s generosity.”

Maya’s face is a battlefield on which conflicting emotions rage. Bhima braces herself for the girl to deny the identity of the father of her dead baby, to pretend that she doesn’t know what Bhima is talking about. But the time for pretense is over, and the weary resignation on Maya’s face is the final confirmation Bhima needs.

But before Bhima can speak, Maya does. “That’s incorrect, Mama,” she cries out. “I was learning how to read and write before I came to Bombay. My parents were sending me to school in Delhi. Serabai just wanted to believe I was a dum-dum she could save. And as for my clothes and food—for that I am grateful to you, not to her. It is your sweat and hard work that produce them, not Serabai’s generosity. If you stopped going to work for a month, let us see if she would send you your salary in the mail.”

Bhima stares at her granddaughter openmouthed. “Look at her,” she says softly, as if speaking to herself. “Just listen to the sinful words coming out of the mouth of this ungrateful wretch,” she says. “Pissing on the woman who has built her life. And all because she has gone and done her ugliness with Serabai’s son-in-law and now she must cover up the stain of her guilt. My Pooja, God bless her, must be shedding hot-hot tears of shame at this monster she gave birth to.”

They have stopped walking and stand inches apart, ignoring the warm waters lapping around their feet, oblivious to the openly curious stares of inquisitive passersby. “Why are you so fast to blame me for what happened, Ma-ma?” Maya says, her chest heaving with
emotion. “Why this rush to make your granddaughter into the only sinner here? What about what he did? Or must every member of his family remain a saint in your mind? Is it only your family that you must curse and blame for every act of wickedness and shame?”

Now Bhima hears the hatred in Maya’s voice and recalls how the girl had tensed up when they heard Dinaz baby call their name. At that time, she had assumed that the reason Maya stiffened and refused to greet Dinaz was shame. After all, Maya had acted strange around Serabai even on the day of the abortion and had refused to visit the Dubash residence ever since. Bhima eyes her granddaughter cautiously. “Did he—did Viraf baba—hurt you?” She chokes back the murderous rage that accompanies the thought.

Maya shakes her head impatiently, as if Bhima’s question is a fly buzzing around her ears. “You just assumed that I was the one who did the evil deed. Why, Ma-ma? Why do you love their family even more than you love your own?”

Bhima swallows guilt that burns like molten lava as it goes down her throat. “Never say that,” she whispers. “How can you say that when you are my whole world? Why, for you I would…” She shakes with emotion, unable to complete her thought. She walks back to where the sand is dry and looks for a spot away from the other people who sit on the beach. She lowers herself onto the sand, pulling Maya down with her.

For a few minutes they listen to the lapping waves in silence. Then, Bhima turns to Maya, and her face is kind and drained of judgment and anger. “Tell me what happened, beti,” she says gently. “Tell me the whole story.”

So Maya tells.