The Space Between Us (16 page)

As Aban hands out small paper plates, Jaya trails behind her, offering the cutlets to the guests. “Leave the tray on the table,” Aban directs her when she is done. She rolls her eyes behind the girl’s back as Jaya sets down the tray.

“See how she walks, swaying her hips and all?” Aban says after the maid is back in the kitchen. “I tell you, such nakhras this girl does. Even if I tell her to run down to the bakery, she won’t leave the house until she has her kaajal on. And she wants a new pair of clothes every Diwali. Better than my own children I treat her.”

“Well, God, Aban, she is just a child,” Sera says. “What do you expect?”

Aban shrieks with laughter. “What did I tell you, what did I tell you?” she yells. “Oh, Sera, you’re too much. I swear, I think you’re a Communist or something.”

“Ae, speaking of Communists and other thugs, listen to this,” another guest says. “This happened to the old woman living in my building. About a month ago, someone rings her doorbell, and the poor woman opens the door. Three goondas, big, tough fellows, push her aside and enter the flat. This is at three in the afternoon, mind you. Before she can say anything, they are asking her only one question—Where are the biscuits? So this poor innocent woman thinks they are hungry and takes them to the kitchen. There, she climbs on a stool and pulls down a packet of glucose biscuits. But for some reason, this makes the thugs even more angry. They slap her a few times—an eighty-year-old woman they are slapping, can you imagine?—and tie her to a chair. Then, they turn her whole house upside down, top to bottom, looking for something. When they are not finding it, they slap her two-three times more and leave.”

The questions pile up on top of one another:

“What happened to the woman?” someone asks.

“What were they looking for?”

“Did the poor thing die?”

“Stop, stop, I’m telling you, na,” the man says. “Well, it turns out they got the building number mixed up. Seems that there was a smuggler who had cheated someone else out of gold biscuits—you know, bars of gold. So that bugger had hired these goondas to go to the smuggler’s house to recover them. Instead, this poor woman got stuck in the middle. Only reason she survived was her neighbor, who brought her dinner every night, knocked and knocked on her door and finally let herself in. She found the poor woman strapped in the chair. Seems she had even done soo-soo in her knickers.”

“Bastards should be hanged for their actions,” another guest says.

“They deliberately target Parsis, I tell you,” someone else cries. “They know we are small in numbers, so they pick on us.”

“Well, in this case, it was not deliberate,” Sera murmurs.

“Okay, but generally speaking, it’s true,” another woman says fiercely. “They know we are a peace-loving community, so they target us. Let them try such nonsense with the Muslims and then they’ll see. They wouldn’t dare—”

“Arre, yaar, we should start our own organization. Like a Parsi Shiv Sena.”

Aban giggles. “And who will be our Bal Thackeray?” she asks, referring to the ferocious head of the right-wing Hindu organization. “That’s our trouble, you know. My daddy always used to say, the problem with Parsis is that everyone wants to be a general and no one wants to be a soldier.”

Sera sighs to herself. She has heard some variation of this conversation her entire life. She is both amused and irritated by the people around her; even as she is appalled by their chauvinism, she feels affection for their lofty ideas and bombastic dreams. And besides, she reasons with herself, they’re basically good people, you know that. A little soft in the head maybe, with all that interbreeding and stuff, but lovable in their own way.

One of the younger male guests, who Sera knows is married to a Catholic girl, speaks up. “Ah, what does it matter anyway? They say there’s less than hundred thousand of us. We’ll all be extinct in a few generations, tops.”

There is a sudden, brittle silence in the room. The unspoken message—Yes, and by marrying outside the community boys like you are hurrying up that day of extinction—hovers in the air. Sera shifts on the sofa, feeling acutely the young man’s discomfort. To break the uncomfortable pause, she speaks with uncharacteristic
gaiety. “Well, while we’re still all here, all the more reason to live life to the fullest, no?”

“Hear, hear,” Pervez says, raising his glass. “Well said, Sera.”

Viraf has walked back into the living room. “Here’s to extinction,” he says. “But before that, here’s to Toxy and Darius’s long and happy marriage, and may Aban and Pervez be grandparents soon.” He lifts his glass higher, swaying slightly on his feet. “In fact, here’s to many, many Parsi babies—toward which effort, my wife and I will soon be making our own little contribution.”

A tall, bearded man standing next to Viraf thumps him heartily on the back. “Congratulations,” he says. “This is exactly what our Parsi com needs, young, healthy men like you.”

Viraf grins. “And women, like my wife,” he says lightly. “Let’s not forget the women.”

“Of course, of course,” the tall man says, turning hurriedly toward Dinaz. “I meant no offense, my dear.”

Dinaz glares at Viraf. “Don’t pay any attention to my husband,” she assures the man. “He’s just being a joker, as usual.”

Across the room, Aban squeezes Sera’s hand. “So sweet, your Dinu and Viraf are.” She sighs. “Can you imagine, Sera? I mean, when we were first working at Bombay House, who could have imagined that someday we would have all this?”

Sera feels a rush of warmth toward Aban. She and Pervez have had a tough life, she knows. It could not have been easy, raising three children on their salary. Plus, Pervez came from a poor family and also helped support his parents while they were alive, Sera remembers. Then there was Aban’s mastectomy a few years ago. But despite their humble lifestyle, Aban and Pervez have succeeded in building a life together. Their apartment is old and shabby, but all three of their children have finished college and now have good jobs. She would’ve traded her life with Aban’s, Sera suddenly real
izes. She would’ve given up the prestige and the wealth that came from being Feroz’s wife to have had the devotion and love that Pervez felt for Aban. She would’ve preferred to slave at a job, ride the crowded trains daily, and come home exhausted and sweaty at the end of the workday rather than to live in the splendid isolation Feroz had imposed upon her.

As far as Sera knows, there are no dark secrets in Aban’s life. Looking at her old friend now, Sera sees a childlike purity and clarity in her eyes that she knows comes from not living half her life in the shadows. At times, Aban had complained to Sera about the injustice of having to provide for Pervez’s old parents. But in the same breath she would talk about how grateful she was for her in-laws, how well they treated her and took care of her children when she was at work. During those times, Sera would bite down on her tongue to keep from revealing how wretchedly Banu treated her. Or she would enthusiastically sing the praises of her father-in-law and hope that Aban did not notice her silence about her mother-in-law.

Now Sera takes her old friend’s hand in both of hers. “You’re right, Aban. We were so young then. How could we have ever imagined all this? I mean, your little Toxy getting married. God, I remember the day she was born.”

Aban lowers her voice. “Every sad or happy occasion of my life, you have been part of. Don’t think I will ever forget your many kindnesses toward my family. What I would have done without you, I don’t know.”

Sera is shocked. They have been friends for decades, but she has never felt that close to Aban. Still, she is absurdly moved by Aban’s words. “Same here,” she says, hoping Aban doesn’t hear the insincerity in her voice. “I feel the same way, dear.”

Jaya comes up to Aban. “Bai, dinner is ready,” she says.

Aban gets to her feet. “Attention, attention,” she says. When the chatter in the room has died down, she gives the familiar cry that announces dinner at Parsi weddings. “Jamva chaloji,” she says with a grin. “Come on, let’s eat. It’s buffet style—the food is awaiting you in the kitchen.”

“Well, that was a fun evening,” Viraf says during the drive home. His hands on the wheel are steady, and he drives swifly through the uncharacteristically deserted night streets. “An evening filled with typical Parsi chauvinism, the usual bullshitting by drunken Parsi gentlemen, and of course, let’s not forget the oily, aggressively nonvegetarian food. So much for our diet.”

“Wonder which one of the guests will drop dead of a heart attack tonight,” Dinaz adds.

“Oh no, dear, that won’t be until the actual wedding feast, when they eat the full, cholesterol-filled, five-course dinner,” Viraf replies promptly. Dinaz and Sera both giggle.

“Children, children,” Sera protests weakly. “Stop being so mean. Aban is my oldest friend.”

“Oh, no offense to Aban aunty,” Viraf says. “She’s a darling, a dear, and a lamb. In fact, we’re planning on running away to Switzerland first thing tomorrow morning. She’ll be waiting for me at V.T. Station. We’re taking the train to Switzerland.”

Dinaz smacks Viraf on his thigh. “Stop with your koila jokes, yaar,” she says. “I swear, your sense of humor is going from bad to worse.”

But Viraf is unstoppable. “She has promised to educate me on the superiority of Parsi culture during the journey,” he continues. “Did you know that the Parsis invented honesty?” Glancing at Dinaz, who is trying her best not to laugh, he says, “It’s true—ask
anyone. On July sixteenth in the fourth century
B.C
., the Parsis—or I should say the Zoroastrians—invented honesty. The next day, they invented goodness and charity.”

Sera groans. “Okay, Viraf, okay…”

“Wait, I’m not done. Aban aunty also wants to discuss with me the possibility of starting a movement to lead the Parsis back to their ancestral home in Iran. The great Persian empire will rise again. Hey, if the Jews could claim Israel, why not we Iran? So, who knows? We may give up Switzerland and go directly to Iran. Today, Bombay. Tomorrow, Iran. Repeat after me: Tomorrow, Iran.”

Dinaz turns back to face Sera. “I swear, if this gadhera ever drinks again in front of me, I’m going to kill him. I just hope our baby doesn’t inherit his father’s stupid sense of humor.”

Viraf grins happily. “Scoff as much as you want, my dear,” he says. “I’ll send you a postcard from Iran.”

Sera closes her eyes. It has been a long day, and she is exhausted. She is amazed at how drained she feels. Either I’m catching a cold or I’m just not used to these big parties anymore, she thinks. Dinaz has often told her that she has become reclusive since Feroz’s death, but until tonight, Sera had not really thought much about the subject. She knows it is one of the reasons Dinaz insisted that she and Viraf move into Sera’s home. During those six months after Feroz’s death and before the children moved in, Sera had found little reason to leave the house other than to go check on Banu. Finally, Dinaz and Viraf had stopped by one evening and made their offer. “Our little flat is too far from our jobs, Mummy,” Dinaz had said. “The rush-hour commute is just getting to be impossible these days. And you seem so alone in this big house since Daddy has been gone. So we were wondering—how would you feel if we moved in with you?”

She had been careful to control her first reaction, which had been one of undiluted joy. Having Viraf and Dinaz living in this
house! Having their youthful presence chase away the ghosts of the past. Not having to spend her days unconsciously awaiting Feroz’s footsteps and then feeling that strange blend of guilt and relief when she realized he was not coming home. It would be lovely to have something to look forward to at the end of the day, to cook the children’s favorite meals for them and watch in satisfaction as they ate with her in the dining room.

But the memory of those wretched years in Banu Dubash’s home stopped her from shouting out her joy at their proposal. “It’s not easy for adults to live with each other,” she said. “You know, your granna really made my life hell when I lived with her. I would hate to find myself acting like her, ever. And you are young and haven’t been married for so long. You need time to build up your marriage. If things were to go wrong between us, I would never forgive myself.”

“Sera mummy, stop it,” Viraf said, laughing. “Please, you are nothing like Banu granna. Even seeing her now, I can imagine what a tyrant she must’ve been. And anyway, Dinaz worries so much about you. Besides, you would be doing us a favor—the commuting to work is too much for us, really. Still, it’s your house, so you—”

“It’s not my house,” she interrupted. “Whatever is mine belongs to both of you, you know that, Viraf. It’s not like I have six other children. This house is yours, Viraf, don’t ever feel that—”

“In that case, it’s settled,” Dinaz said. “We’re moving back into our own house.”

“Just think about what I’ve said,” Sera argued. She sighed. “Of course, it would be lovely having you two living here. Still, this is not an easy decision. Give it some thought, deekra.”

Slumping in the backseat, Sera gazes drowsily at Dinaz and Viraf in the front. Thank you, God, for my children, she whispers. The joy these two have given me is my reward for staying with Feroz all those years.

The car turns onto Banu Dubash’s street, and as always, Viraf slows down. “The light’s still on in the flat,” he says. “The night nurse is still up.”

“Granna is probably throwing one of her tantrums,” Dinaz says. “The poor nurse—I don’t know how anyone can put up with the old lady.”

You said it, Sera thinks. I certainly couldn’t.

F
our years into her marriage, Sera had woken up one morning to feel something hot and sticky in the back of her throat. For a minute, she thought it was the start of another sinus infection, but when she swallowed cautiously, her throat did not hurt.

It was hate. Hate that was lodged like a bone in her throat. Hate that made her feel sick, that gave her mouth a bitter, dry taste. Hate that entered her heart like a fever, that made her lips curve downward like a bent spoon.

It was a beautiful December day. A pigeon sat on Sera’s windowsill, cooing its mindless melody. There was a slight chill in the air, a welcome respite from the hot Bombay sun. But lying there awake, Sera could not participate in the beauty of the day. She felt dull and blackened, as if hate was corroding her body. She stayed in bed, exhausted. She couldn’t remember another time in her life when she had loathed anybody. But now, hate dripped in her throat, thick and ugly, making her feel diseased.

She tossed the cotton sheet off her body and leapt out of bed. Gathering up her clothes in a rush, she went to the crib where Dinaz lay sleeping and shook her tiny body until her daughter’s eyes finally flew open and her little mouth widened in a yawn. “Come on, wake up, Dinu,” Sera whispered. “You and I are going on an adventure today.” She went into the bathroom, turned on the hot wa
ter geyser, and adjusted the plastic bucket under the pouring water before she hurried the child into the bathroom with her. “We are going to take a bath together today,” she said.

They were both dressed before they emerged from the bedroom. Leaving Dinaz in the living room, Sera went into the kitchen to find her mother-in-law. “I’m taking Dinaz out with me for the day today,” she said, averting her eyes from Banu’s penetrating ones. “We’ll be back later.”

“Going out of the house in the morning? What about breakfast for baby? And the lunch we’re cooking? You can’t waste my Feroz’s hard-earned money…”

Sera felt the thickness in the back of her throat. She was afraid of looking Banu in the eye, afraid that her face would reflect the loathing she felt for the older woman. “I’ll explain to Feroz myself,” she said. “I have to leave now. I’ll be home this evening. Bye.”

Resolutely ignoring Banu’s dark mutterings, steeling herself against the barrage of harsh words that questioned her motives, her upbringing, and her morality, Sera grabbed Dinaz’s thin arm as if it were a chicken wing and pulled her toward the front door. She exhaled loudly as soon as the door shut behind her. Still, she kept up a fast clip as they headed down the hallway toward the elevator. At the last minute, she swerved. Instead of waiting for the elevator, they would take the stairs. She forced herself not to look back in fear, to see if Banu was following them. “She’s just a silly old lady,” she kept saying to herself, but the feeling in her stomach was identical to the one she got when watching a scary movie in a dark theater.

Once on the street, she realized that it was only 9:30 in the morning and she had no idea where to go. She thought briefly of stopping by to see Feroz at work and was shocked at the heaviness she felt at the idea. She wondered whether to drop in on Aban but the thought of her friend’s endless chatter made her feel claustro
phobic. And surely Aban would read something on Sera’s face, surely she would pry and want to know what was wrong.

No, she would take Dinaz and go visit Mummy and Daddy. They would be glad to see them, and they wouldn’t ask any questions. Sera suddenly longed for the cool sanctuary of her old bedroom. Also, she had not visited them in several weeks, and she knew that her absence hurt their feelings, although they were too decent ever to say so. Yes, she would go visit her parents. Her mind made up, she abruptly changed direction and started toward the taxi stand, pulling Dinaz along. “Mummy, slowly,” the girl said, and with a start of guilt, Sera slackened her pace.

She felt her heart slow down as soon as she was in the cab and had given the driver the address. She watched the streets fly by and wondered why she had not done this earlier. She was suddenly so anxious to be at her parents’ home that she almost urged the cabdriver to go through the amber light. Her entire body leaned forward, propelled by a fierce desire for speed. She wanted to keep moving, keep running, put as much distance as she could between herself and Banu’s gloomy, life-draining house. But the cab stopped at the light. Almost immediately, a swarm of beggars appeared at her window. She looked away, afraid that any eye contact would encourage them to linger. Dinaz tugged at her blouse. “Mummu, money,” she said. Sera sighed. Dinaz was such a sensitive child. Already she knew better than to harass her father to give alms to beggars. Feroz often said that he did not believe in encouraging beggary and would prohibit Sera from tossing a coin into a waiting hand when they were out together. “Saala, lazy bastards,” he would say. “I’d like that, too—lazing around all day, making easy money.”

Digging into her purse for a few coins, Sera suddenly laughed out loud at a memory from Feroz’s birthday earlier that year. Dinaz had watched as her grandparents made Feroz stand facing
east, put a red tilla on his forehead and a garland of flowers around his neck. Then Banu had gone to the coffee table and returned with an envelope of cash. “Happy birthday, my dear boy,” she said, embracing him.

Suddenly Dinaz, who was sprawled on the couch, sat up. “Saala, lazy bastard,” she yelled. “Making easy money.” Her intonation so perfectly imitated her father’s that for a second Sera thought the words came from the ever-present Polly.

Feroz’s cheeks puffed, and he looked as if he was ready to chastise Dinaz for her language. But Sera was making a strange sound, and it took the rest of them a minute to figure out she was guffawing with laughter. Feroz’s lips quivered, and he looked uncertain as to whether to scold his daughter or join his wife in her laughter. Sera helped him decide. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she went up to Dinaz and put her arms around her. “You naughty, naughty girl,” she said, squeezing Dinaz to her side. “You mustn’t talk like that, understand.”

By this time, all of them were laughing. “This girl is going to follow in her grandpa’s steps and become a lawyer, I tell you,” Freddy said. “Will bring the High Court to its knees, this one.”

Now, as the cab took off, the smile lingered on Sera’s face. She glanced down at Dinaz, and her heart twisted with love. She is the only bright spot in my life anymore, she thought. She and, to some extent, Freddy pappa. The rest of them—Feroz and his mother—they have ruined my life.

At six that evening, Sera’s mother, Jehroo, glanced at her husband and then turned to Sera. “Sweetheart, we have a dinner to go to this evening. Should we cancel? Or are you going to your home soon?”

She was about to tell them to go ahead with their plans, she and Dinaz would be leaving soon, when she realized she was not leaving. She was not going back to Feroz’s house. The knowledge took
her breath away, as if her mind was just catching up with what her body had already known. She stared at her mother, wondering how to put this in words that would reveal just enough, words that would conceal the full extent of the dread she felt at the thought of returning to Banu’s house. “I was wondering,” she began. “That is, I thought Dinaz and I would stay here tonight. I mean, you and Daddy go to your dinner. But I thought, Mummy, that we would be here when you returned.”

Jehangir Sethna looked as if he was about to say something, but his wife flashed him a warning look. “Sure, Sera,” Jehroo said smoothly. “You know this is your house, darling. You’re always welcome here. But are you sure Feroz won’t mind sharing his lovely wife with us?”

Again, that hot drip at the back of her throat. Sera swallowed hard before replying. “I think he will manage okay, Mummy. But you and Daddy should get ready for your party.”

“Hey, if my darling daughter and granddaughter are staying here, I don’t want to go to dinner,” Jehangir said promptly. “I’m sure the Pundoles will understand.”

“No, no, Daddy, don’t cancel your plans, please.” And seeing the familiar stubborn look come over her father’s face, she added, “Actually, I…I need a little privacy to…think about things.”

Jehroo nudged her husband and blinked repeatedly, averting her face from her daughter so that only he could see her. “Come on, Jehangu. Let’s keep our engagement. We can come home a little early if you like. Then you can stay up and talk to your daughter till your stomach is full.”

After they left, Sera phoned the Dubash residence. Please let Feroz answer the phone, she pleaded. Please, please.

“Hello?” Feroz’s crisp voice sounded so clear on the phone that, for a second, Sera forgot the speech she had prepared.

“Feroz? It’s me. Listen, I was just calling to say—”

“Where the hell are you? We’ve had dinner ready for the last hour, waiting for you to get home.”

“I’m at my parents’ home. Feroz, listen. I was thinking I might stay here for a few days.”

She heard the harsh intake of his breath before he fell silent. Say something, she pleaded silently. Say something and remove this taste of mothballs from my mouth.

The silence held. “Hello?” she said finally.

“I’m here.”

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

This time, she heard him gritting his teeth. “What’s there to say? You leave the house without any warning this morning, you don’t come home this evening while we sit around like chootias, waiting for you while the food gets cold, and now you tell me you’re staying at your mummy’s house, for no rhyme or reason. What should I do? Come crawling on my knees and beg you to come home? You’ve picked the wrong man for that, Sera.”

For a second, she almost saw it his way. She imagined him coming home tired from work and asking for her and Dinaz; pictured the smug look on Banu’s face as she told him that his wife had been gone since morning and had taken his daughter with her.

“Do…do you want to say good night to Dinaz?” she asked tentatively.

“How long are you planning to keep my daughter away from me?” he asked. “And you mean to say, your parents are encouraging you to neglect your duties?”

“Feroz, it’s not like that. I didn’t even plan any of this. I don’t so much as have a pair of underwear or a sadra with me. I don’t know how long I’ll need to stay here. It’s just that things at home are so tense right now between me and your mummy—”

“Bullshit.” The word came down the phone line like a punch and
set her ears ringing. “Don’t blame Mamma or anyone else in my family for your hysteria. You have made your bed, now lie in it.”

She stared at the phone in disbelief, not registering the fact that Feroz had hung up on her. Still holding the receiver, she sat down heavily on the couch. Was it possible that they had gotten cut off, compliments of the inefficient Bombay telephone company? But even as she thought about the possibility, her heart told her that Feroz had deliberately slammed down the phone. She debated whether to call him back, but she knew that his pride would not let him pick up. And if Banu answered the phone, her humiliation would be complete.

Two weeks went by without any communication with Feroz. At first, Dinaz asked for her father and grandfather, but soon the questions ceased and she appeared to have adjusted to their new life. But was it a new life? Or just a temporary respite from her old one? Jehroo Sethna practically asked that question of her daughter one day. The two of them had gone shopping at Colaba, leaving Dinaz at home with her grandfather. “Let’s pick up some more knickers for baby,” Jehroo said as they passed a narrow shop that sold children’s clothes. Then she stopped and looked at her daughter intently. “Or should we not?” she added gently. “It’s so hard knowing what to do about her clothes and all without knowing—the future.”

Sera knew immediately what her mother was asking. She looked away, unable to bear the gentle pity she saw in her mother’s eyes. Without being aware of it, they had stopped walking, so that the other shoppers gave them dirty looks before walking around them. Sensing a captive audience in the two women, the vendors in their booths raised their nasal cries to frenzied proportions, their voices drowning one another out: “’Allo, ladies, what you looking for? Cassettes, perfume, soaps, Kraft cheese in cans fresh from Australia. Chocolates, too—Nestlé, Toblerone. Arre, take a dekho, this
is aasli maal, madam, the real stuff. All foreign imported stuff, come on, good cheap price I’ll give you.”

Lost in their private communication, Sera and Jehroo ignored the restless rustlings their still presence was generating among the desperate vendors.

“Come on,” Jehroo said, pulling Sera by the hand. “Let’s go to the Irani restaurant and have a cold drink. And then we can talk.”

At the restaurant, they each ordered a Thums Up and a plate of chicken sandwiches. They sat in a companionable silence for a minute. Then Jehroo turned toward Sera. “For two weeks, I’ve kept my mouth shut. Two weeks, hell, for two years now I’ve kept my mouth shut. What, you don’t think I’ve noticed the dark chakars under your eyes, the way you never smile anymore? Deekra, I’m your mother. I carried you in my stomach for nine months. I know every inch of your skin. If a mosquito lands on you, I feel the sting.”

Sera smiled. “I feel that way about Dinaz,” she said.

“Exactly. The menfolk can remain blind to what’s under their noses. But we women, we see everything. And so I’m asking you, Sera—what is going on with your marriage? All these months I’ve minded my own business, told myself you are now your husband’s property, no longer ours. But now I cannot bear to watch my only child look so miserable. So I’m asking you—why are you at our house? And why hasn’t Feroz called even once or come to take you home?”

He beats me, she wanted to say. And his mother makes my days a living hell. The words formed on her lips like foam at the edge of a beach and then died away. She could not burden her mother with this. She did not wish to take the dark circles from under her own eyes and place them under her mother’s. She had no desire to unburden her own heart by packing her grief on her mother’s back. Besides, there was no telling what her father would do if he found
out about what Feroz did to her behind closed doors and in the dark. How sometimes it was just an appetizer—a quick but hard pinch, his thumb and index finger in a scissorlike grip that pulled at her flesh and made it ache days later. How, at other times, it was a full-course meal, a banquet that included punches, slaps, and an occasional kick—a meal that left her so full she had to spend hours the next day deciding which long-sleeved dress to wear and how to explain the bruises on her face. What was worse than the actual beatings was the speculative, triumphant look she saw on Banu’s face the morning after. In some way, those beatings joined her and Banu, gave the older woman an inroad into the broken, littered streets of Sera’s heart.