The Space Between Us (3 page)

T
hey are sitting in the dining room, sipping tea, Sera out of the blue-gray mug Dinaz had bought for her from Cottage Industries, Bhima out of the stainless steel glass that is kept aside for her in the Dubash household. As usual, Sera sits on a chair at the table while Bhima squats on her haunches on the floor nearby. When Dinaz was younger, she used to prod her mother about the injustice of Bhima not being allowed to sit on the couch or a chair and having to use her own separate utensils, instead of the ones the rest of the family used. “You tell all your friends that Bhima is like a family member, that you couldn’t live without her,” the teenage Dinaz would rail. “And yet she’s not good enough to sit at the table with us. And you and Daddy are always talking about those high caste Hindus burning Harijans and how wrong that is. But in your own house, you have these caste differences, too. What hypocrisy, Mummy.”

“Now, Dinaz,” Sera would say mildly. “I think there’s a slight difference between burning a Harijan and not allowing Bhima to use our glasses. Besides, have you ever noticed the foul odor of the tobacco she chews all day long? Do you want her lips to touch our glasses?”

“But it’s not just that, Mummy, and you know it. Okay, if it’s because of the tobacco, why won’t you let her sit on the sofa or chairs? Or does Bhima have tobacco on her backside, also?”

“Dinaz.” Sera was genuinely shocked. “Watch your language, please. You know Daddy would have a fit if he came home one day and found Bhima reclining on the sofa.” Despite themselves, both women giggled at the image, at the look of horror on Feroz’s face. But Dinaz was not done yet. “It’s probably a moot point anyway. As if poor Bhima ever has a minute to sit down and rest in this house.”

Sera raised her right eyebrow. “Speaking of which, I heard you inciting Bhima the other day to ask for a raise. Listen, Dinaz, no matter what you think, you belong to this family, not Bhima’s. I think when all is said and done, the Dubash family treats its servants better than almost anybody else we know. Money does not grow on trees, darling. Your daddy works very hard for everything we have. It’s not right of you to turn Bhima against him. Remember, charity begins at home.”

Now, watching Bhima sip at her tea, Sera shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Since Feroz’s death, she has occasionally toyed with the idea of asking Bhima to join her at the table. Sure, some of her friends would be scandalized at first, and the next time a servant in the building asked her mistress for a raise, the woman would automatically blame Sera Dubash for setting a bad example. “Sera has made that Bhima sit on her head, not just on her sofa,” the neighbor would say. “Next thing you know, these servants will be forming a trade union.”

But surely all that would blow over. And really, what difference did it make to her what the neighbors said? It is not their salt she eats, and now that Feroz is dead, she feels free from the fear that had haunted her for so many years—that they would gossip about her marriage. Or worse: that the sharp-eyed ones among them would notice the occasional bruises that clothes and makeup couldn’t hide and they would pity her, would tsk-tsk behind her back. Now that Feroz is dead, she no longer has to fear their pity.

And yet…The thought of Bhima sitting on her furniture repulses her. The thought makes her stiffen, the same way she had
tensed the day she caught her daughter, then fifteen, giving Bhima an affectionate hug. Watching that hug, Sera had been seared by conflicting emotions—pride and awe at the casual ease with which Dinaz had broken an unspoken taboo, but also a feeling of revulsion, so that she had had to suppress the urge to order her daughter to go wash her hands. Which is surprising, Sera now thinks to herself, recalling the incident. She herself had on numerous occasions declared that Bhima was one of the cleanest people she knew. “Bhima wouldn’t know deodorant from chopsticks, but I tell you, I have never so much as smelled this woman,” Sera had once told her friend Mani. “I don’t know how she does it, given the lack of privacy and the lack of running water in her slum. But she does.” And ever since Sera had known her, Bhima had taken a fifteen-minute break at 4:00
P.M
. to wash her face with the soap that she kept in her own soap dish in the kitchen, to pour Pond’s talcum powder under her armpits, and to tidy up her hair, which had grown increasingly scant over the years. Her daily ministrations compelled Sera, who then became aware of her own sour-smelling body, to stop whatever it was she was doing and freshen up.

But despite all this, there is this reluctance, this resistance to let Bhima use the furniture. As they sit in companionable silence sipping their tea, Sera tries to justify her prejudice. Part of it is the damn tobacco she chews all day, she thinks to herself. It just makes me feel sick and dirties everything else about her. Also, having seen where she lives, I can imagine the conditions in the slum—what kind of water she uses to bathe in and, well, how effectively she is able to clean her nether regions.

Lost in her own hot, guilty thoughts, Sera realizes she has missed part of what Bhima has said.

“Oi, Bhima, say the last part again. Sorry. I didn’t hear you properly.”

Bhima sighs impatiently. And starts her story again.

“I’m Maya Phedke’s grandmother,” Bhima declared.

Ashok Malhotra looked at her expectantly, blinking rapidly. He leaned forward when she didn’t say anything else. “Yes?” he said.

The two of them stared at each other in silence, as if each one was expecting the other to continue talking. Finally, Ashok reacted. “I’m sorry…am I expected to…I mean, do I know this Maya lady?”

Bhima’s voice wavered. “Maya,” she said, as if describing her granddaughter to a stranger. “She’s a second-year student. Long hair. Tall, with light skin.” She stopped, paralyzed by the incongruity of having to remind this uncaring brute what the woman he’d impregnated looked like.

Ashok sailed to her rescue. “Oh, Maya,” he said happily. “Of course I know Maya. I guess I never knew her last name, though. Sorry.”

Bhima stared at the handsome face in front of her. Not a flicker of guilt or worry on it, she marveled. And what was with these children of today? They had relations with each other without learning each other’s last names? In her time, knowing a person’s family name mattered more than knowing their first name. After all, it was the family name that told you all you needed to know—what caste the person belonged to, where they came from, who their ancestors were, what their occupation was, and what their khandaan, their family background was like. And here was this boy blithely acknowledging that he hadn’t bothered to learn Maya’s last name.

“Anyway, how is Maya?” Ashok continued. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her in many-many days.” His face suddenly darkened. “She’s okay, isn’t she, aunty?”

Bhima shook her head. “She is not. Maya is not all right.”

“Oh no,” Ashok cried. “What is it, malaria or something? Two
of my friends have it right now. But listen, tell Maya not to worry. I’ll pass on all my class notes to her. In fact, that will be an incentive for me to stop bunking classes and spend my time in the lecture halls instead of in this stupid canteen.” He smiled his dazzling smile.

For the first time it occurred to Bhima that behind Ashok’s handsome, clean-shaven face, there hid the brain of an imbecile. Was this boy really half-brained? Or was he deliberately acting dumb, trying to appear innocent and deflect responsibility? Ah, so that was it. The more Bhima stared at Ashok Malhotra’s wide-eyed, open face, the more she understood the game he was playing.

Well, she would not let him get away with it. That was the reason she was here, in this strange, unfamiliar environment, to claw at this young man’s denials and make him face up to his responsibility. Bhima leaned forward in her seat. “It’s not malaria, beta,” she said, willing her voice to remain steady. “You know exactly what is wrong with Maya.”

Ashok blinked. “I…I do?” he said.

There was another silence as they stared at each other. Then, Bhima shook her head impatiently. This boy was not making this easy at all. He could afford to sit here in this canteen playing his games all day, but she could not. She was old and tired and had the long ride back home and dinner to cook when she got there. Besides, there would be a scene when Maya found out about her visit to her college. There would be tears, recriminations, and Maya would look at her with her big eyes and say, “How could you do this, Ma? I trusted you with my secret.” As if a pile of books had struck her on her head, Bhima suddenly felt her sixty-five years land with a thud. Every bone in her body sang out its woes, every gray hair twanged its misery, each muscle quivered and trembled with pain. She eyed the smooth-skinned, dark-haired boy with bitter envy. She took in his clean fingernails, his starched kurta, the
well-trimmed hair. She noticed the glow of youth and health on his face, the white, unbroken teeth, the unblemished, unwrinkled hands. This boy had all the time in the world. Prince Ashok they had called him, and it was true. This boy could spend, no, could squander time as if it was a devalued, worthless currency. While she, Bhima, had to hoard time, had to make each second of her day count, this boy could rake his hands aimlessly through time, spend it like ten-paisa coins.

Some of the cheated fury she was feeling must have shown on her face, because Ashok Malhotra was looking at her in alarm. “Aunty, are you all right?” he said. “Would you like a Limca or something?”

“Listen, Ashok, I have no time for this. I’m an old woman, not many years left. If for no other reason, take pity on my years and don’t play games with me. This is not easy for me either, beta.”

The expression on the boy’s face changed. Removing his elbows from the Formica table, he sat back in his seat, so as to put as much distance as he could between himself and Bhima. “I am Ashok Malhotra,” he said carefully. “Are you sure I’m the Ashok you’re looking for?”

Bhima let out a sigh that sounded more like a hiss. “Look, baba. I know everything. No need to pretend with me. Maya has told me everything. I’m not here to blame anybody. I just want to—”

“What? Maya has told you what?”

Finally, they were getting somewhere. “Ashok, Maya is pregnant. She is not sick with malaria. She is pregnant.”

Ashok gasped. “Pregnant? That’s impossible. I mean, aunty, I’m shocked.”

Bhima’s voice was gentle now. “I know, beta. We all are. This is not the life I had in mind for my grandchild. Still, who knows the mysterious ways in which God works? Maybe—”

“No, I mean, Maya of all people. I didn’t know her well, but I
really respected her. I always thought she was a sensible girl, not like some of the other girls I know.”

Bhima stared at him openmouthed. This boy was something else. Shameless. Sitting in front of her, talking about the other girls he knew. Did this mean that he had made other girls pregnant also? That there were—God forbid—other little baby Ashok Malhotras running around? A wave of despair and grief struck her.

Still, she had to try. For Maya’s sake, she had to make this boy forget about all his other girlfriends. “What’s past is past,” she said. “The question is, what will happen next?”

Ashok shrugged. Seeing the shrug, Bhima gripped the edge of the pink table to keep her hand from flying up to his face. Her Maya was in serious trouble, and all this philandering, impudent son of a whore could do was shrug at her problems.

“Listen to me,” she said, not even waiting for the anger to drain out of her voice now. “I know everything. Maya has told me everything. About you and her. And if you’re going to be a father, then the least you can—”

“What? What?” Ashok had risen to his feet, and there was a new note in his voice. “What did you say?”

So he hadn’t known. Noticing the quizzical looks the other students were throwing their way, Bhima cursed herself for not having chosen a more private place to break the news to him. “Hey, Ashok, is everything okay, yaar?” called out one of the boys whom Bhima had earlier displaced from Ashok’s table.

Ashok’s face was white and his chest was heaving. Inexplicably, Bhima felt a sudden urge to giggle. The scandalized boy in front of her was acting as melodramatic and outraged as one of those Hindi film actresses whose virtue had been called into question. But then she noticed the hateful look that he was casting her way, and her laughter died an aborted death inside her. “Beta, sit down,” she pleaded. “This is hard, I know, but—”

“Did she say that?” he hissed. “Did she say that I was the father of her baby?”

Unable to meet his eye, Bhima shook her head yes.

“The damn liar. The damn, dirty, filthy liar. How dare she? Bleddy slut. Whore. Just goes to show, you can’t trust a woman. Ever.”

It took Bhima a second to realize he was talking about Maya. And in that moment she knew—she wouldn’t want Ashok Malhotra for a son-in-law if he were the last person alive. For a split second she saw into the future and saw the consequences of that realization, saw the shredded innards of a dream. There would be no kitchen with shiny pots and pans for Maya, no loving husband who would provide her with all the fine things that she, Bhima, never could. Instead, there would be an abortion and a lifetime of furtive shame and secrets. But even that was preferable to forcing this foulmouthed creature to marry Maya. Serabai was always reading out loud newspaper stories about bride burnings and dowry deaths. Bhima shuddered. Some of the things these men did to their wives, you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. Say what you wanted about Gopal, even when the alcohol had turned her husband into a hollow man, he had never insulted her with the kind of language this young devil had just used toward Maya.

The realization that she did not want Ashok Malhotra to be part of their family set Bhima free. “Shut your mouth, you. Don’t you ever talk about my girl in this way. Remember, even if I’m dead, I’ll come back from my grave to chop off your tongue. My Maya is a good girl, worth ten of you. It took a filthy animal like you to corrupt her. As for asking you to marry her and make an honest woman out of her, I must have been—”