The Space Between Us (20 page)

Gopal turned around slightly, and his and Bhima’s eyes met over the boy’s head. “That is an early Diwali present,” Gopal said deliberately, his eyes never leaving Bhima’s stricken face. “Open it.”

Amit’s eager fingers tore open the envelope, and the bundle of ten hundred-rupee notes fell on the floor. “Hah,” the boy gasped. He had never seen so much money at one time. He turned to his father in confusion. “What is this, baba? So-so much money.”

“You know what this is, beta?” Gopal said. His face was as feverish as that day in the hospital. “This is your baba, inside that envelope. This is how much your baba is worth. This is the price for—”

“Chup re.” Bhima swooped into the room and shot Gopal a warning glance. She focused her gaze on Amit’s bewildered face, and something about his confused innocence irritated her. “Stupid boy,” she said, whacking him hard on his shoulder, “pick up that money at once. Asking stupid questions and annoying everybody.” She smacked him again, this time on the back of his head.

“Ma,” Amit howled. “Stoppit. What did I do?”

“Stop beating the child for your sins, woman,” Gopal said to her softly so that only she could hear.

This infuriated her even more. “What did you do?” she screamed at the boy, who was rubbing his head. “Whiling away the evening playing cricket like a mawali, along with all your other good-for-nothing friends. Whereas I come home tired from work and still—” She choked on her words as if they were pieces of hot coal. But the anger and fear still bubbled in her chest. “Spending our hard-earned money to send you to school while Pooja and I slave all day. And what do you do, you shameless namak-haram? Playing cricket with the neighborhood goondas.”

Amit’s face sparkled with outrage and defiance. “But, Ma, you
only told me it was okay to go downstairs to play. And anyway, those are my friends, not goondas.”

Suddenly her anger flickered and then died down, like the blue flame on the Primus stove. She stared at her son in pity and sorrow. “Go wash your face,” she said gruffly. “Dinner will be ready soon.” She turned to where Pooja was standing. Bhima had a feeling that, despite her calm exterior, the girl was cowering in fear inwardly. She sighed to herself. It was the special curse of parents, to know the insides of their children so well. “And, you, chokri,” she said, her voice deep with the brew of emotions she felt, “you better go wash your face, too. Must be tired to the bone after working all day. That mistress of yours should be the head of the police force, the way she bosses you around.”

“Actually, today she was nice to me. Gave me a piece of chocolate with my lunch,” Pooja said. Out of habit, Bhima glanced at Gopal, and for a quick second, there was the old communication as they exchanged knowing looks. They both knew that Pooja was an instinctive peacemaker and that she often exaggerated or lied about things to make her parents feel better.

“Chocolate is good, but next time tell her to give you more money,” Bhima grumbled, but her tone told Pooja that her mother was teasing. She smiled and quickly went into the kitchen to use the sink.

As Bhima picked up the envelope and looked for a safe place to hide the money, she could feel Gopal’s eyes watching her every move. She felt the sweat run down her back, but she steeled herself against his mocking gaze. With this money she could pay the rent for a few months plus buy groceries. God knew how long it would be before Gopal could find a job. With his income gone, they needed to save every paisa that they could.

The next day, Bhima felt hope stir in her chest as she walked to work. She would tell Serabai about the accountant’s deceit, she resolved. With one or two well-chosen words, Serabai would set that accountant right.

But Sera’s face was grim when she entered the kitchen a few hours later. “I just spoke to Feroz on the phone,” she said. “He says it’s a closed case. By putting your thumb impression on that paper…I’m afraid nothing can be done, Bhima,” she added gently.

Suddenly, Bhima’s open palm flew toward her wide forehead. She began to strike herself repeatedly with the base of her hand. “Stupid, dumb woman,” she cried out between the blows. “Noose around your husband’s neck. Destroyer of his life. I curse the day you were born. I curse my mother for not sending me to school. As a child, I had such a desire to read books, Serabai.” As Sera watched appalled, Bhima resumed her self-flagellation. “May you repeat endless cycles of misery in this cruel world, to pay for this one sin. May your children’s children never forgive you for this crime.”

“Bhima. Bhima, stop,” Sera shouted. “This is not the time for hysterics.” She waited until the servant stopped beating on herself. “What’s the use of blaming yourself, Bhima?” she said. “How could you have known of the fellow’s treachery? It’s true what my mother used to say—sometimes serpents walk around disguised as people.”

That evening on her way home, Bhima stopped by the small shrine to Lord Krishna that someone had built inside the trunk of a tree that stood between a bakery and a clothing store. She placed some coins at the feet of blue statue and then stood staring at Krishna’s happy, peaceful face. Ever since she had met Gopal, Bhima had been drawn to Krishna because something about the god’s playful, mischievous manner reminded her of Gopal. Now she watched the deity’s beatific face with envy. “Bring my old Gopal
back to life,” she whispered fervently. “Bring my Gopal back and I will distribute three kilos of pedas to all the street urchins around here, I promise.”

Gopal made love to her for the first time since the accident on the day his bandages came off. All evening long, Bhima kept glancing at the stubs where her husband’s fingers had been. The skin near the nubs was pinkish, lighter than the deep brown of the rest of his hand. When Gopal accidentally hit his ruined right hand against his metal plate as the family sat eating dinner, the pain was so sharp that he let out a yelp. Since the accident he had learned to eat with his left hand, but it took him so long to scoop the rice and daal with his fingers that Bhima often wondered if that was the reason he was losing so much weight. Now, as the waves of pain crashed against his battered hand, he dropped his food and got up from the floor. “I can’t eat any more,” he said abruptly.

“But, baba, you haven’t even eaten anything,” Amit protested. But Gopal flashed him a look of such venom that the boy fell silent. The three of them ate quickly and quietly as Gopal went to lie down on his cot.

But that night, Bhima felt her husband’s stubby fingers running down her back. She stiffened at their unfamiliar coarseness and fought the revulsion that rose in her stomach. As if he had read her discomfort, Gopal whispered, “Does my fingerless hand disgust you, wife?”

“Of course not,” she said quickly and turned around to face him. Taking her own hand, she caressed his thin, handsome face, tracing its outline with her index finger. “So much sorrow on a face so young,” she whispered. “And so thin and frail.”

He buried his head in her breast and, unbuttoning her sari blouse with his left hand, sucked on her breasts. She felt the famil
iar fire and ice run through her body, felt herself melting and burning in the same moment.

But something was wrong. They did not seem to fit together in the same easy way as before. With every motion they made, every thrust and arch of their bodies, they seemed to be aware of those three missing fingers. When he tried to loosen the knot on the drawstring of his pajamas, Gopal’s severed hand rubbed up against the cloth and he clenched his teeth in pain. While he was holding Bhima’s face with his left hand, Gopal’s other hand fluttered and fell by his side, helpless as a ruptured wing. When Bhima arched her hips toward him, Gopal could not seal that motion of intimacy by grabbing her buttocks as he usually did. They tried; they sweated and grunted and rubbed against each other. But they kept missing each other, like dancers out of step. Finally, Gopal stopped in midrhythm and gave up. Just before he turned on his side, he said bitterly, “It seems you’ve forgotten how to receive your own husband.”

The words stung like a slap, but Bhima was too tired and disappointed to respond. Unlike most of her married friends, she and Gopal had always been compatible in bed. Ever since her wedding night, when they had fallen into each other’s arms, giggling and sweating and nudging and snuggling, there had been an ease to their sexual relations that Bhima knew eluded many of her friends. Gopal had never tried to conquer her like she was a mountain; rather he had swum in her as if she was a river. Like a river and its fish, they had existed side by side, flowed along the same charted course, both needing each other and neither seeking dominion over the other.

But suddenly, Gopal had something to prove. Suddenly, she was a river that had to be dammed, her power controlled and checked. Now that Gopal was missing three fingers, he had to convince himself that he still had that other, important digit intact. And so, night
after night, he wrestled with her until their sex became humorless, mechanical, uninspired. She remained patient, aware of his pain, knowing instinctively how important this was to him. But in time, her patience turned into passivity, and Gopal, who for so many years had been so attuned to her moods and thoughts, realized this. Wanting to move her into response, his lovemaking became more desperate, relentless, and violent. He dug his stubby fingers into her stomach, feeling electrified as the pain shot through his body like a drug; he kissed her breasts and then bit them like they were lemon rinds; he thrust his penis deep into her like a sword. She tried to fool herself into mistaking this desperate lovemaking for passion, but the grim, fearful look in Gopal’s eyes prevented her from this self-deceit.

And then, the lovemaking stopped. When she came to bed that night, Gopal was already asleep. Bhima eased into the narrow cot, afraid of waking him, but his breathing remained steady and rhythmic. She lay awake for a few hours, torn between wanting to sink into a blissful sleep and being afraid that he would touch her as soon as she let her guard down. Finally, exhausted, she slept.

The next evening Bhima returned from work and immediately caught the strange, unfamiliar smell. “Smells like a daru shop in here,” she joked. But the smile on her lips died a swift death as she took a few steps toward Gopal. “You’ve been drinking,” she cried, her tone equal parts surprise and accusation.

Gopal’s face became guarded, as if someone had slammed shut a window. “So?” he said defiantly. There was a crudeness in his demeanor, a swagger that he had never had before. “If I want to have a drink or two, whose business is that?”

She looked around. “Where’s Amit?” she said.

“Playing downstairs with the boys.” And then, as if he had read her mind, “Don’t worry, he didn’t see me come up the stairs. Our darling little Amit has no reason to be ashamed of his own father.”

“You’re drunk,” she said, as if to herself. “Baap re, Gopal, you’re drunk. You, who hardly ever touched the stuff once we got married.”

He flung his arms wide open. “That’s before I got liberated,” he said, slurring his words. “Before I stopped being henpecked by my wife.”

The following morning, Bhima stopped Feroz before he left for work and asked him to find Gopal a job.

Feroz chewed on his lower lip. “Nothing comes to mind immediately,” he said. “But let me give it some thought.”

Gopal began to drink daily. He claimed it helped with the pain. “You have no idea what this demon pain is like,” he told Bhima one day. “It’s as if someone is sticking knives into my hand. And here the doctor is telling me there’s no treatment for that. The only thing that gives me a few hours’ peace is this brew.” His face crumbled like a cheaply built wall. “Everything else has been taken from me, Bhima—my hands, my employment, my pride. Please, don’t take this one thing away from me. I’m not like those other drunken fools. I know when to stop.”

When Feroz at last told her he had found a job for Gopal, Bhima went home happy but apprehensive. But to her great surprise, Gopal looked pleased. Three days later, he started at the new place. Bhima woke up early that morning and made him his favorite things for breakfast. She also placed some fried okra inside two chappatis and gave him those to eat for lunch.

He came home that night so pale and weary that, for a second, she thought he was drunk. But it was fatigue, not alcohol, that was making him slur his words, she realized. That night, after the children had gone to bed, she massaged his back, untying the knots of tension that ran down his neck and shoulders. As she undid the knots, she also loosened his tongue. “I was slow, so slow,” he said softly. “And so clumsy. All the other loaders staring at the cripple
who is trying to do their job. I felt like telling them, ‘You should’ve seen me just a few months ago, chootias. The pace at which I worked then, you would still be starting your engines while I got to the finish line.’ But of course, nothing to do or say except to keep learning how to carry this material against my chest, using only my left hand. The boss, Deshpande, he himself is a good man. Very patient. But I felt so ashamed, Bhima.”

Love and indignation formed like a lump in her throat. “Nothing to feel ashamed of, Gopu,” she said stoutly. “Only shame is in sitting at home and not taking care of your family. Trying to earn an honest living—no shame in that.”

“I know,” he said. “Those are the words I said to myself, only. But Bhima, there was also the pain. At times it was so strong I thought I would faint. It’s funny—I was not using my right hand at all, and you’d think if either hand had the right to complain it would have been the left one because it was working so hard. But it was the useless right one that hurt so. Constantly reminds me of its presence with its messengers of pain.”

Still, when he brought home his paycheck that Friday, Gopal looked happy if sheepish. “It’s nothing compared to what I once made, hah?” he said. “But slowly-slowly, as I manage to work faster, I will make more, Bhima.”

Her eyes welled with tears. “We can manage with anything that you earn. Just to have you home with me and you happy at your job, that’s enough.”