The Space Between Us (26 page)

And Serabai, tall, fair, a sentry who stood at the gates of hell and tried to keep Bhima from being snatched away by the infernal fires. Sera, who had saved Gopal’s life, who had tried to give Maya a different life by sending her to college, and who had presided over the taking of an unformed life because she believed it was in Maya’s best interest.

And now their destiny is in Bhima’s hands. These scarred, callused hands that have combed Pooja’s hair, that have washed hundreds of dishes, chopped a thousand onions, these hands now hold the reins to Sera’s and Dinaz’s happiness. One jerk and happiness could gallop away from them forever.

And now at last Viraf looks at her, carefully, cautiously. “Bhima,” he says. “We must all find the strength to go on.”

She is unsure of what he means but knows that she will not ask. This is how it will stay between them, she thinks, unresolved, unsatisfactory, a long, thin, barren silence that will replace the joking, teasing manner of the old, untainted Viraf. She has a sudden flash of prescience in which she sees Viraf as a jowly, white-haired man, fat and old before his time, a long-ago guilt making his eyelids droop and the flesh under his chin grow. He will not age well, this one, she thinks. He will look more like his father-in-law than he now imagines.

As if he can read her thoughts, Viraf’s hands tighten on the wheel and he steps on the accelerator. A young woman with two small children steps out onto the street and avoids his car by inches in the casual, thoughtless way all Bombayites do. But today, Viraf is in no mood for such irresponsible behavior. “Dumb fool,” he yells, rolling down the window. “How you going to raise those children if you can’t even look after yourself?” He mutters to himself as he rolls up the glass. “This city is getting impossible to live in, just im
possible. Motherfucking imbeciles everywhere. Driving here is a damned nuisance, not a pleasure.”

Instinctively, Bhima pulls away from his anger. She has seen Viraf angry before, has overheard his quarrels with Dinaz, but those were coated with his amused love for his wife. Now there’s a vindictiveness to his anger that makes it dangerous. She has unmasked Viraf, forced him to face his own shadow, peeled back the handsome, gentle face to reveal the bloody, wormy mess of contradictions and corruptions that lie beneath. Bhima tries to imagine the clammy fear Viraf must feel at what she might do next, at whether she will expose him and make him stand naked before his wife and mother-in-law. He must feel like a man sitting on top of a pile of gunpowder, she thinks. And the horrifying truth is that the woman who could light that pile, who could set off the explosion that would blast his life and family into bits, that woman is a mere servant, an old, illiterate woman, thin as a stick, ugly as a gnawed-over chicken bone. Suddenly, Bhima feels an irrational but irrepressible urge to giggle, but before she can do so, Viraf is asking in a choked voice, in a voice that sounds as if it has swallowed a liter of the diesel fumes around them: “How is Maya?”

How to answer such a question? To answer correctly, she would have to go back at least to her great-grandmother’s time, would have to explain how every female member in her family has worked as a domestic servant in someone else’s home, would have to tell him of how hurt she was when her own mother left her home sick to go take care of other people’s homes and children. How to make him understand that when Maya left for college in the mornings, she used to feel as if everything that she had ever gone through in her life—every deprivation, every insult, every betrayal—was worth it if she could provide her grandchild with a life better than what she and her mother and her mother’s mother had known. Above all, how to tell him that the simple act of abor
tion did not erase the past, did not set back the clock, did not allow Maya to casually pick up the strands of her life and return to college. Yes, that was her own fault; she had blocked that road for Maya in her rush to confront and persuade Ashok Malhotra to marry her granddaughter, but what could she have done? She had been bewitched by the vision of a kitchen with gleaming pots and pans and a neat, tidy little boy running around the house.

So she says nothing and stares at the car mat beneath her feet, and after a second Viraf clucks his tongue in frustration. They are almost at the marketplace now, and he slows down to look for somewhere to drop her off. “Almost there,” he says, and she hears the relief in his voice.

She is fumbling with the lock on the door when she hears Viraf say, “Look, that is, I mean…Do you all need anything?”

She feels her face hardening to stone. “We are all right,” she says stiffly. “We are poor, but every grain of rice that we eat we have earned.”

Viraf exhales loudly. “All right. Okay. God, why is everybody in this city so damn dramatic and noble? All I was saying was…”

She is out of the car now and into the blessed commotion and heat of the street. This is where I belong, she thinks. Among the vendors and the cart pushers and the fishmongers and the ragpickers. Not in air-conditioned cars. “Thank you for the lift, Viraf seth,” she says.

She sees the hurt on his face. He has noticed that she addressed him as “sir” instead of her usual, affectionate “baba,” which in the way she uses it with him, means “boy.” She feels a pinprick of satisfaction at his disappointment.

“No mention,” he says curtly. “And listen. Tell Dinaz and Sera mummy to have lunch without me. I’ll be home a little late today.”

I
t has been a long day, and the house is quiet because Viraf and Dinaz are out. Bhima is almost ready to leave, but Serabai asks for a cup of tea and she feels compelled to make it for her. Serabai is different when the children are gone in the evening, Bhima realizes, more pensive and solitary. She needs her daughter and son-in-law here to make the house lively, Bhima thinks and feels a twinge of pity for the younger woman. She remembers the months after Feroz seth passed away, how Serabai sometimes forgot to eat lunch until she, Bhima, nagged her to eat, and how, once or twice, she also forgot to bathe during the day. Once she had walked into the living room to find Serabai sitting in the dark and muttering to herself while she rubbed her arm furiously. Bhima wasn’t sure who had been more startled, though Serabai had, of course, turned the tables on her and grumbled about the lack of privacy and how people should not sneak up on other people. But the sight of the usually elegant, dignified Sera sitting in the dark like some caged animal, looking like one of those mad old Parsi women—like Banubai, for instance—had shocked and dismayed Bhima. The next time Dinaz baby and Viraf baba came over for their Saturday lunch, she had made it a point to say something to Dinaz. “Mummy is lonely,” Bhima had whispered as Dinaz brought the dirty dishes into the kitchen. “Forgets to eat-drink at times and sits alone in the house without the lights turned on.” After years of
protecting Serabai, of keeping her secrets and respecting her silences, it felt strange to tell on her. But the concerned look on Dinaz’s face was the affirmation she needed. “I’ve been wondering about that,” Dinaz said softly. “Thanks for telling me, Bhima.”

No, it’s a good thing Dinaz baby offered to move in with her mother, Bhima thinks. Having the two young people here has been good for Serabai. Bhima has known of too many Parsi women who aged before their time, who took to their beds for seemingly no reason and used a potty chair instead of walking to the bathroom, and who refused to leave the house except for the occasional funeral. Mrs. Motorcyclewalla, who lived on the fifth floor three buildings down, was one such person. But then that woman had three screws missing even years ago. After Gopal’s accident, Bhima had taken on a second job, washing dishes for Mrs. Motorcyclewalla. Each afternoon the woman would stand and watch intently while Bhima worked over the kitchen sink, not saying a word but sometimes imitating the sound of the pigeons that sat on the ledge outside her window. The sound made the hair on Bhima’s hands stand up. Why doesn’t she wash the dishes herself if she has the time to stand here and watch me with a face like an owl’s? Bhima grumbled to herself. Still, she needed the money, and Mrs. Motorcyclewalla always paid on time. But after a few months Bhima noticed that the woman was cooing at the pigeons even when none of them were sitting on the ledge. And one day, when Bhima got ready to leave, the woman turned to her with fierce eyes and said, “Did you pege paro the bati before leaving the kitchen?”

Bhima stared at her mutely. “I’m not understanding, bai,” she said finally.

Mrs. Motorcyclewalla’s voice grew shrill. “I’m asking you whether you paid your respects to the oil lamp that’s burning in the kitchen, under the portrait of Lord Zoroaster. No one should leave the kitchen without touching the light.”

“But I’m not a Parsi, bai,” Bhima said carefully. “I’m of Hindu jaat and not even a Brahmin.” In most of the Parsi homes she had been in, the rules were the opposite. Banubai, for instance, went out of her way to make sure that Bhima’s shadow did not fall over the bati that burned day and night in the kitchen.

For whatever reason, this was the wrong thing to say. The woman flew into a tirade. “Nobody is allowed to leave this house without paying their respects,” she said, clamping her hand down on Bhima’s wrist. “Otherwise a hundred years of darkness will fall on this house.” She fairly dragged Bhima back into the kitchen, where Bhima followed by rote whatever motions the woman wanted her to make, touching the tip of her fingers to the oil lamp and then touching her forehead in a sign of respect. “Okay, bai, I must go,” she said. “Serabai must be waiting for me.”

Bhima saw a new flame of madness leap into the woman’s eyes at the sound of Sera’s name. “You tell that Sera to come over here with you tomorrow with some sandalwood sticks. We must purify this house. The pigeons have been telling me for weeks that something was wrong, and now I realize you were the culprit. From now on, you must kiss our Lord Zoroaster’s picture before leaving, understand?”

“Achcha, bai,” Bhima said, backing out of the front door. “I’ll tell Serabai.”

It was the memory of Mrs. Motorcyclewalla, who several years ago had taken to her bed and refused to get out of it although her doctors found nothing the matter with her, that had made Bhima tell Dinaz about her mother.

And now, for the first time, Bhima wishes she had not intervened. If the children were still living in the suburbs, Viraf would probably not have been at Banubai’s house the day Maya was there. Yes, Sera would have spent many more evenings like this one, walk
ing around the house as if she were seeing ghosts, but at least Maya would’ve been saved, at least her grandchild would…

Sera walks into the kitchen. “Don’t forget to add the mint leaves,” she says. “And make a cup for yourself, too.”

Bhima goes to the corner where she keeps her things and takes out her glass while Sera pulls a mug from the cabinet for herself. The steam from the tea creates a wavy barrier between the two women as Bhima pours. Each picks up her own cup, and they walk into the dining room to assume their usual positions—Sera perched on a dining room chair, Bhima sitting on her haunches on the floor. They sip their tea in silence. Then Sera sighs. “Good tea,” she says. “I swear you make the best tea in Bombay.”

“House seems quiet this evening without the children here,” Bhima says. She still can’t get herself to say Viraf’s name out loud.

“I know,” Sera says. “But it’s good that Dinaz went out with her friends. Poor thing, she’s having such a miserable time with her pregnancy these last few days that she almost canceled this morning. Says she hardly slept last night. But Viraf persuaded her to go. God knows, once the baby is born she’ll have no time for friends-schends. And the girls from her office were so anxious to take her out.”

“He didn’t go with her?” Bhima asks casually, hoping Sera won’t notice her reluctance to say Viraf’s name.

“No, it’s a girls only party. Just as well—that boy is working much too hard and needs some rest.” She made a face. “Not that being over at Banu mamma’s house is rest. But he should be home soon. He just went over to settle the month’s accounts with the nurses and to put Banu’s papers back. Stayed up till eleven last night doing her accounts. How many sons-in-law would do that? And even if she were aware of it, that—my mother-in-law—would not be grateful.”

Bhima feels a moment’s panic at the thought of Viraf being over there alone with Nurse Edna. What if he tried any of his vileness with that poor woman? She shakes her head to get rid of the unwelcome pictures forming there. Edna is a grown woman, married with children. She would know how to handle Viraf if he tried any of his badmaashi on her. And besides, men like him probably preyed on young, fresh meat like Maya. What interest would he have in a tired-looking woman with a husband and children? No, Viraf and his like needed to stain something pure, like a drop of ink in a glass of milk.

“Bhima, stop scowling.” Sera laughs. “My God, you look like you’ve seen a bhoot or something. What dark thoughts are you thinking?”

If only I could tell you, Serabai, Bhima thinks. But it would be more merciful to stab you with a knife than to kill you with the poison of my thoughts. Aloud, she says, “My whole life is a dark thought.”

Sera sighs. “I know what you mean,” she says. She visibly struggles with her emotions and then forces herself to sit up straight in the chair. “But Bhima, we can’t give up. We women, we live for so much more than just ourselves. You for Maya, I for Dinaz and, now, the new baby. You know, I’ve often thought that men can afford to take more risks, fly higher and crash harder, because they always have suicide as a way out. If things just don’t work out for them—bas, at least they have that final option. When I was younger, I was so jealous of men for that. You know, I had two cousins who offed themselves. Both male, of course. But women don’t live for themselves. And once you have children—forget it. I don’t know why we still even have bodies to walk around in once we’ve had children. Then you’re living totally for another person. Arre, forget children even. I even worry about Banu mamma, can you imagine?
Now, with Feroz gone, I often wonder what will happen to her if she outlives me.”

“Why would she outlive you?” Bhima says fiercely. “It is not your time, Serabai, and I pray it won’t be for a long time.”

Sera smiles. “I pray it won’t be, too,” she says shyly. “With the baby about to be born…Can you imagine, Bhima? For the first time in my life, I really want to live. Before, I could honestly say I didn’t care one way or the other. Even when I was a young woman, I don’t know what was wrong with me but I just didn’t care that much about life. All the things you had to do just to keep living seemed too complicated to me, hardly worth the effort. But now, I’m so anxious to see how my Dinu’s child will grow up. And I want to be there for—”

The doorbell rings and Bhima makes to get up from the floor, but Serabai stops her. “I’ll go,” she says. “Must be Viraf. I’m almost done with my tea.” She takes a long final sip before leaving the mug on the table for Bhima to clean up later.

Bhima sits sipping her tea, wondering what to do with Maya this evening. Ever since running into Viraf at Chowpatty, Maya has refused to go to the seaside. The evenings at home now seem long and oppressive. Bhima misses the soft evening air, the smell of the water, and the closeness between Maya and her as they walked the length of the beach. She misses the pageantry at the seaside—the brightly dressed men and women in big cars, the beggars with no legs wheeling themselves on skateboards, the burly Sikhs with their red turbans, Muslim women in burquas, old Parsi couples sitting arm in arm on the stone benches, call girls in high heels looking to be picked up by guests at the nearby hotels, large groups of loud teenagers from nearby colleges. Bhima had loved leaving behind the grim isolation of her hut in the basti and melting into this amorphous, fluid crowd. Sometimes, she felt as if she didn’t have to lift
a muscle, didn’t have to put one leg in front of the other; that, if she just stood still, the movement of the crowd would propel her forward, like the wind, like the waves…

She realizes with a start that Viraf is saying her name, and her brow begins to crease with anger. Time for her to go home, and the stupid boy probably wants her to run another errand. She is about to wonder what he wants from her when her mind stops going down this track, arrested by the peculiar tone of Serabai’s voice. “Impossible,” Sera is saying. “You must be mistaken, deekra.” Her voice sounds emphatic, worried, hurt, and defensive, all at once.

There is a silence, and then Viraf’s voice, low and deep, fills the silence, like the scuttling sound of mice as they race across her hut at night. “I tell you, I saw it with my own eyes,” he says, his voice higher and stronger than it has been.

“Bhima.” Sera’s voice, still carrying that peculiar quality, calls for her, and she rises from the floor with a groan and waits a moment for her creaky bones to settle themselves.

Viraf and Sera are in the living room, sitting close to each other on the sofa. Sera’s face is flushed, and it has an urgent look, a stark contrast to the pensive, reflective expression from a few minutes ago. Whatever this boy has said or done has upset her greatly. For a quick second, Bhima wonders if Viraf has told her about Maya, but she quickly brushes that thought from her head.

“Ah, Bhima, good. You’re here,” Sera stammers. “Seems as if Viraf baba has a problem. There’s er, um, there’s apparently some money missing from Banubai’s cupboard.”

Bhima stares at Sera blankly, unsure of why this involves her. “Is it a large sum?” she asks finally. And when no one replies immediately, “Has it been missing for a long time?”

“Well, see, that’s the thing. According to our Viraf here, that is—”

“The money was there day before yesterday,” Viraf interrupts.
His face is damp with sweat, and a muscle moves in his jaw. “I put it there myself. Then yesterday I told you to go get the checkbooks for me. I told you to get me the one envelope but leave the other, remember?”

“It was there at that time,” Bhima says triumphantly, glad to be able to help. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Did you open it?”

“That I did not do. There was no need to. I could tell which one had the slip books, just by feeling them.” Bhima wonders if she did something wrong by not checking each envelope.

There is an awkward silence, and Sera glances at Viraf helplessly, hopefully. “Well, so, it’s a mystery,” she says lightly. “And thank God it wasn’t a large rakam. Just seven hundred rupees.”

“That’s not the point.” Viraf’s words are sharp as darts. He focuses his dark eyes on Bhima. “You said you brought the cupboard keys back to me right away, correct? You didn’t give them to Edna or anyone else?”

Does this boy think I am a total loss? Bhima wonders. She has been going over to Banubai’s house for years before this Viraf began to take care of her money with his slip book this and deposit book that. She has carried large sums of money from one house to another, has deposited bearer checks from Feroz into his bank account, has handled bunches of keys for both houses. “Nobody had the keys except me, seth,” she says sullenly.

“Well then, there’s only one logical explanation. Between the time I placed the money there day before yesterday and when I went over there today, you were the only one who handled the cupboard. So you took the money.”

Sera lets out a cry of—outrage? Anger? Refutation? Hearing the cry, Bhima mutely looks at her. She wants Sera to slap the man sitting next to her, to put her hand over Viraf’s mouth and force his blasphemous words back down his throat. Sera catches Bhima’s
look, and it seems to shake her out of her stupor. “Viraf, that’s rubbish,” she says weakly.