never enquired after their health or children.
It was sinful for a woman in her situation to behave so unrepentantly.
So the neighbours gossiped about the men who came to Carlaâs house. Someone saw Carla kissing a bald man in a taxi; someone else saw her holding hands with a hairy man in a movie hall, while she was also spotted outside an infamous âclinicâ with a fat man.
Carla, on her part, appeared unaffected by her infamy, which only worsened it.
Bhanu had never found the courage to ask Genevive about her father. But one evening, after school, Shardabai did. Genevive stuttered in her broken Hindi, âMy Papa is a big banker in London. He really loves me. And he is coming very soon to take me away with him. Very soon.â Then she burst into tears. It was the only time Bhanu remembered scolding Shardabai.
~
Three months after Carlaâs death, Bhanu shifted Genevive into her house, moving her bed next to her own. Bhanuâs family was pleased to have Genevive around, especially once Bhanuâs marriage was fixed with a young Marwari man, Mohan. A helping hand in a wedding household was always welcome. Bhanuâs marriage didnât stop the two friends from meeting; since Mohan lived just four buildings away, Bhanu would often visit Geneviveâwho had moved back to her own houseâbringing her food, praying with her for her motherâs soul.
Soon after, Genevive met an Iranian man, Afshin, a model in one of the shampoo ads that she was helping direct. He moved in with her and within a few months they got married.
But it was not to be. Afshin was a gold smuggler, Genevive learnt, when the police came to her house to arrest him. She was not spared either; they hounded her and harassed her until they were convinced that she was not an accomplice to her husband. Genevive didnât see Afshin again, despite her repeated visits to Arthur Road Jail, where he was imprisoned. It was the police who informed her that Afshin had been deported back to his country and that sheâd probably never hear from him again.
Genevive was broken.
Once again Bhanu came to her best friendâs rescue, helping her weather a meltdown, alcohol binges, visiting her at all times, throwing out her liquor. Eventually, Genevive healed, and with a new job as an ad-film director, she was back to her old self.
~
Genevive is still watching her. She says, âYour tea is getting cold.â
âI donât want tea,â Bhanu snaps. âWhy donât you have it?â
âIâm not allowed to drink tea, remember,â Genevive replies. Of course Bhanu remembers, for despite herself she had taped a list of dos and donâts on Geneviveâs fridge so she wouldnât brush aside her pregnancy, like she did all serious things. Yet, apart from her bulging stomach, itâs difficult to tell that Genevive is eight months pregnant. Sheâs lost weight, though her neck seems bloated and her hair has thinned from frizzy to straight.
Bhanu looks at her own stomach, ghastly in its flatness. After having to abort her first baby due to a positive CVS test, she had gone to three specialists and theyâd all told her that her uterus wasnât strong enough to carry a fullterm pregnancy. She couldnât try again and if she did, as sheâd insisted she would, then the chances of her bleeding to death were high. Why, even her Mohan sided with the doctors and refused to give it another go.
Bhanu can never be a mother.
And then there is Genevive.
Bhanu had asked her a few years ago: how do you feel about having children? And Genevive had said that since her apartment was located directly below the lift shaft, she heard the lift make all sorts of unearthly sounds, day and night. She lived in fear that at any moment its creaky chains would snap and the lift would come crashing down, crushing her house, and the life out of her. This, she had said, was how she felt about children.
In
It was sinful for a woman in her situation to behave so unrepentantly.
So the neighbours gossiped about the men who came to Carlaâs house. Someone saw Carla kissing a bald man in a taxi; someone else saw her holding hands with a hairy man in a movie hall, while she was also spotted outside an infamous âclinicâ with a fat man.
Carla, on her part, appeared unaffected by her infamy, which only worsened it.
Bhanu had never found the courage to ask Genevive about her father. But one evening, after school, Shardabai did. Genevive stuttered in her broken Hindi, âMy Papa is a big banker in London. He really loves me. And he is coming very soon to take me away with him. Very soon.â Then she burst into tears. It was the only time Bhanu remembered scolding Shardabai.
~
Three months after Carlaâs death, Bhanu shifted Genevive into her house, moving her bed next to her own. Bhanuâs family was pleased to have Genevive around, especially once Bhanuâs marriage was fixed with a young Marwari man, Mohan. A helping hand in a wedding household was always welcome. Bhanuâs marriage didnât stop the two friends from meeting; since Mohan lived just four buildings away, Bhanu would often visit Geneviveâwho had moved back to her own houseâbringing her food, praying with her for her motherâs soul.
Soon after, Genevive met an Iranian man, Afshin, a model in one of the shampoo ads that she was helping direct. He moved in with her and within a few months they got married.
But it was not to be. Afshin was a gold smuggler, Genevive learnt, when the police came to her house to arrest him. She was not spared either; they hounded her and harassed her until they were convinced that she was not an accomplice to her husband. Genevive didnât see Afshin again, despite her repeated visits to Arthur Road Jail, where he was imprisoned. It was the police who informed her that Afshin had been deported back to his country and that sheâd probably never hear from him again.
Genevive was broken.
Once again Bhanu came to her best friendâs rescue, helping her weather a meltdown, alcohol binges, visiting her at all times, throwing out her liquor. Eventually, Genevive healed, and with a new job as an ad-film director, she was back to her old self.
~
Genevive is still watching her. She says, âYour tea is getting cold.â
âI donât want tea,â Bhanu snaps. âWhy donât you have it?â
âIâm not allowed to drink tea, remember,â Genevive replies. Of course Bhanu remembers, for despite herself she had taped a list of dos and donâts on Geneviveâs fridge so she wouldnât brush aside her pregnancy, like she did all serious things. Yet, apart from her bulging stomach, itâs difficult to tell that Genevive is eight months pregnant. Sheâs lost weight, though her neck seems bloated and her hair has thinned from frizzy to straight.
Bhanu looks at her own stomach, ghastly in its flatness. After having to abort her first baby due to a positive CVS test, she had gone to three specialists and theyâd all told her that her uterus wasnât strong enough to carry a fullterm pregnancy. She couldnât try again and if she did, as sheâd insisted she would, then the chances of her bleeding to death were high. Why, even her Mohan sided with the doctors and refused to give it another go.
Bhanu can never be a mother.
And then there is Genevive.
Bhanu had asked her a few years ago: how do you feel about having children? And Genevive had said that since her apartment was located directly below the lift shaft, she heard the lift make all sorts of unearthly sounds, day and night. She lived in fear that at any moment its creaky chains would snap and the lift would come crashing down, crushing her house, and the life out of her. This, she had said, was how she felt about children.
In
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