What do you think?
Rate this book


352 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 10, 2005
“Bhima smiles. “Beti, the past is always present,” she says. “No such thing as bringing it up. The past is like the skin on your hand—it was there yesterday and it is here today. It never goes anywhere. Maybe when you’re older you’ll understand this better.”Bhimi is a servant in contemporary Bombay. She works for Sera Dubash. The class divide between them is vast. Yet there are similarities to their lives that bind them across these lines. Bhima is an old woman with calloused feet, mildewy armpits and an affection for chewing tobacco. She is raising her granddaughter, Maya, by herself, her daughter and son-in-law having died of AIDS, her husband having left with their son, Amrit, many years back. Maya, a promising collegian, has dropped out of school on finding that she is pregnant. Seraba Dubash is relatively well-to-do. Her children are faring well in the world. A child is on the way to her daughter Dinaz and her husband, Viraf, but this one is welcome. In learning of the history of the two central women we see that they have both suffered. Both had abusive husbands. Sera married into a family in which her mother-in-law was a maniac, constantly criticizing her when she lived with her husband’s family. Her husband turned out to be a true child of his mother, shielding his cruel side from her until after the marriage. Gopal, Bhima’s husband was the light of her life in the beginning of their marriage. But after an accident took three fingers and an unscrupulous company accountant tricked her into signing away all his rights, drink, depression and rage overcame him and he became a dark force, abusing her, blaming her for his misfortunes and ultimately leaving.


“All the tears shed in the world, where do they go? she wondered. If one could capture all of them, they could water the parched, drought-stricken fields in Gopal's village and beyond. Then perhaps these tears would have value and all this grief would have some meaning. Otherwise, it was all a waste, just an endless cycle of birth and death; of love and loss”