I’m in the middle of the tent in my underwear. I feel fat at my thighs, cold and exposed. ‘That also,’ the guard says. ‘All of it.’ Even upright she reaches my chin, not more. I unhook my bra and pad slowly to the chair over which my salwar-kameez is strewn. I drop the bra on the bundle and slide off my panties.
Sapna must’ve known. She must’ve known they’d do this to me. The guard takes her security wand between my legs and gently hits the inside of each knee until I stand with my legs apart. A colleague brings a pair of medical gloves. Then her fingers begin working. She starts with my hair, practised fingers streaming through the strands, over the crown, behind my ears. She pats my neck and shoulders and arms. Moves to the torso, dancing her hand beneath each breast in case I’ve taped something underneath the flesh. She brushes my hips and lightly pinches the folds of skin at my thighs. Now she goes around, so she’s behind me. My legs are trembling, knees losing strength. Nothing, this is nothing. Your daughter needs you. The guard squats heavily, with a strained breath, knees popping like corn, she puts either palm on the cheeks of my buttocks and prises the mounds apart. For a second nothing moves. There is no sound. Think only of Leila. The guard’s hot breath against the tender skin makes me shiver. Each exhalation seems to enter me, burrowing. Still she searches. She puts her hand to the lips of my vagina, slides rubber fingers inside and deep and once all the way around, a rough forefinger over the tiny, soft ridges. Then she’s out. She nods at the other two and walks away. I see her surreptitiously sniffing the gloves before peeling them from her hands.
*
A servant leads me down the driveway. From the first bend you see the mansion, beyond a broad ledge of lawn, a fountain and ice-blue pool and neat rows of potted palms. It looks inspired by the desert palaces: custard yellow, a vast domed cupola straddling the roof, elephants at its four corners with trunks uptwirled, filigreed sandstone balconies. How did Sapna become this? My chest begins to hurt once more.
‘How long has Madam lived here?’ I ask the boy.
‘Many years, didi. Before I started working here.’
‘It’s very big. Does she have a big family?’
The boy spins around with a puzzled expression. He decides against saying anything. We’re standing between a row of low-slung sports cars and one of grey-black luxury sedans. A few feet away begins a dual staircase that sweeps up, like opposing brackets, all the way to a huge oak door. This is where I think we’re heading but the servant leads me past the steps without a second glance.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask. The boy remains quiet. He’s figured out I’m not a typical visitor. We walk on a segmented stone path all the way around the manse. A tennis court in the rear is being used as a nursery, with rows of plants in green plastic holders. Crunching through the fading old clay of the court, past sprightly yellow and white gerberas, adeniums, shevanti, some cacti, we come to a matchbox house, the same garish yellow, a two-storey unit previously hidden behind the trees. I can see into the house because the ground floor has a large living room with French windows. And suddenly there’s Sapna, unmistakable, though everything about her is so different. She’s sitting on a white leather couch with legs folded under her, smiling at something on her phone. She wears a long black batik skirt. Furry bathroom slippers lie carelessly at her feet. She is alone. The boy strides to the window and taps. I put on an eager smile, so she knows that I know she’s in charge.
‘I was just counting. It’s been sixteen years.’ That is the first thing Sapna says. She moves back from the French doors with a fixed smile. These past few days, I told myself two things. Don’t rush into any demands. Don’t be surprised by anything. But Sapna’s voice is cultured. Beneath spaghetti straps her shoulders are copper and lightly burnt from a beach holiday. She has acquired the wariness of wealth. She’s trying to figure out what I want.
‘How well you speak,’ I say. I have misread Sapna. What thirst in her to improve, to learn our language, our ways. It’s a reminder of how I have lived, like a ship that’s been grounded a ways from shore.
‘I had a good teacher,’ she replies. She returns to her couch and points to a facing chair. The inside of the house gives a strong impression of whiteness – the cool marble floor, much of the furniture, the high walls and ceiling. Jags of orange and bright brown on the modernist paintings only contribute to the effect. I start to feel giddy, like I might vomit. The life I was meant to have. She has taken it all. Sapna is staring at her phone. ‘Get us some water, won’t you?’ she tells the boy without looking up. She turns to me. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
I use my dupatta to dab the sweat above my lip. ‘Water would be nice,’ I say.
‘You know, this is the first time we’re sitting face-to-face,’ Sapna says, with authority. ‘Such strict rules you had about the furniture in your house. Sit there, don’t sit there.’ She gives a short laugh. ‘I was allowed to sit on the floor.’
I look down. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. But there is bitterness in her voice. ‘See when Chotu comes back. We also follow the rules. It’s tradition, isn’t it? No one’s fault.’
Chotu enters as if on cue. I quickly drink the water. I’ve been served in a disposable plastic cup, Sapna in a tapering crystal glass. She affects not to notice. Now it is I who carry the traces of the outside, in my sweat, in my spit. Did she instruct Chotu before? Did he make up his own mind after seeing me? ‘You have a beautiful house,’ I say. ‘It’s amazing, actually. How is it … how did you convince …’ She watches with a thin smile, waiting for me to finish. ‘How did you come into the political sector? To Officer’s Circle?’
‘We don’t belong here, is that it?’
‘That’s not what I meant, Sapna. Please.’
‘You’re right,’ she laughs. ‘Let’s not make this harder than it is. You remember my husband, Ashish?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I didn’t know you two got married.’
‘That mansion you saw, Mr Joshi lives there. From the Council. Ashish is his Man Friday. When Joshijee became such a big person, he promised Ashish he’d take care of him. He saved my family from the Slum. All of us.’
‘You have children?’ I ask. My voice is shaking. Breathe.
‘One daughter. Lakshmi.’ Did her lashes flutter, her eyes lower, just for a second?
‘How lovely,’ I say, in an even tone. ‘How old is Lakshmi?’
‘Lakshmi is the one who taught me English. She’s very good in studies.’
‘I’d love to meet her.’ I look around the living room. ‘There are no photographs of her anywhere.’
For a few seconds Sapna has a shrewd, narrow look. ‘You must be so angry, Shalini,’ she says. ‘Is it okay if I call you Shalini?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Please do.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, nodding. ‘You must be so angry. All this that has happened. The Council, the Repeaters. These people ruined your life.’
‘No, not angry,’ I say. ‘I understand now that it was inevitable. I learnt at Purity Camp. We invited trouble, the way we lived.’
‘You mean to say the Council is right?’
Forgive me, Riz, my handsome darling. You were always too good for me. ‘They were right all along,’ I say. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot. It took some time to accept, of course.’ There is an inch of water remaining in my cup. I drain it before going on. ‘At Camp they taught us how to look at things. To understand that everything has an order, a place. When they first sent me to the Towers I couldn’t sleep at all. So I would walk at night. Sometimes a pack of dogs would come along with me. They’d walk until a certain distance, then they’d turn back and walk away. I began to realise how much like them we are. They know the limits of their land. They know what will happen if they exceed, it’s imprinted somewhere in their brains. The problem is that our brains are more capable, more complex. That’s why one part of our brain is forever conceiving things like cars and planes and letters and phones, things that pull us together, while another part
of our brain – the safety-first part, the part that keeps us alive – that is trying its best to keep us apart. It’s telling us we’re too close to one another, the world outside is too complex, too frightening. There are too many people, each one a potential threat. We have to find order in the chaos. We need to break into groups or our brains will freeze from fear. We haven’t changed. We still think like animals.’
Sapna scratches her nose. ‘I know you think you have to say all this, Shalini. But you can tell me why you’re really here.’ She stands up and goes to the French windows. Two Repeaters are patrolling the path to the nursery. She taps the windows and they both turn. They march to the porch, snapping to attention a few feet from her, the closed window between them. ‘Yes, go on. Tell me why you’re really here.’
‘It’s about that night, Sapna. I have to know what happened.’
‘What’s the point? Why dredge up these things?’
‘I have to know what happened to her. Leila was with you. What did they do to you?’
‘I ran. We all did, all the maids. Those men were very scary.’ She is still by the French windows, her back to me. The Repeaters are beyond her. I can see their chests expand with each breath. ‘Now they’re my friends. They do whatever I say.’
‘But they found the other children. It was only Leila they didn’t find. Where did you hide her? Where did she go?’
‘I didn’t hide her anywhere. They must’ve taken her away that night. Put her in one of the schools.’
I jump to my feet. ‘Don’t say that!’ I shout. The Repeaters tense up, staring at me with new curiosity.
‘What do you want me to say?’ Sapna asks. She taps the window once. The men relax, then saunter away. She walks to the couch and sits down once again.
‘You played with her. You were fond of her. You wouldn’t leave her like that.’
‘I did my job. Nothing more. You were the one who was always worried I was overstepping.’
Deep breath. Do it now. ‘How old is your daughter, Sapna? What class?’
‘She’s just finished her school. Eighteen.’
‘But you didn’t have a daughter sixteen years ago, Sapna. I know that. You weren’t even married.’
‘You’re remembering wrong.’
‘I know what you did. I know how you did it. I want her back.’
‘You need to calm down. Sit!’
I realise with a start that I am standing over Sapna, my hands balled into fists. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’ I take a few steps back. ‘Just one second please. I need to take my medicine.’ Sitting down, I pull out one of Iyer’s pills from a handkerchief in my handbag, swallowing it with a couple of drops that have clung to my cup, the bitterness swamping my mouth. Sapna stares with her mouth open. For some time we don’t say anything. I stretch my legs and lean all the way back in my chair. A soft wave rises from my feet. Sapna is asking me to follow her somewhere. I feel a cold breeze on my face, against my arms. When I come to my senses, we are standing in a tall white gazebo.
Sapna has a slice of white bread in her hands. She tears it into pieces and tosses them into a concrete channel. Huge orange fish break the water’s blackness with their grubbing mouths, starting a storm of bubbles. Her shoulders are shaking. Black streaks on her cheeks. I see the tears dribbling down her face.
We aren’t alone. Riz is sitting on the wooden railing of the gazebo, directly behind Sapna’s back. He makes me so angry I begin to shout. ‘How could you, Riz? All of this is your fault. You did this. Had to be a tough man in front of your fucking friends, fight everyone. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Now I have to face all this alone. Sixteen years alone.’
‘Don’t give up, Shal. You’re almost there,’ Riz says softly. He climbs down from the railing and comes to me. ‘You’ll see her before you know it. I promise.’
‘Liar! Don’t say things you can’t guarantee. You were supposed to keep us safe. Your daughter. Me. You couldn’t even stay alive.’
‘Stop it, Shalini!’ Sapna says, though not loudly. I turn to her. ‘Do you know you’ve been muttering things to that pillar for five minutes?’ Sapna asks. She squeezes one hand in the other, her face anguished. The tears flow slower now. ‘What did they do to you, these people? They’ve taken your mind.’
The gazebo is bounded on three sides by a tall hedge. Repeaters stand in separate clumps beyond the hedge. I can’t think of what to say.
‘Turned you into a junkie,’ she goes on. ‘God knows you had your problems, but you didn’t deserve this.’
‘These pills are nothing. I can stop them anytime.’
‘They’ve given you the wrong idea, Shalini. You’re very confused. About times, dates. About your daughter. Lakshmi has nothing to do with you. She’s my own daughter. You didn’t know about her because you never cared to ask.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say. My head goes side to side very fast, an involuntary gesture. ‘It’s just not true. I know you have her.’
‘Will you be quiet?’ she hisses. ‘You really don’t understand what you’re doing.’ She looks around once again, staring intently through the leaves of the hedge surrounding us for any sign of movement. A group of Repeaters chats less than twenty yards away.
‘I’m very sorry, Sapna. I lost my cool inside. But don’t deny me this. Please. For her sake.’
‘Just stop, Shalini. Stop all this right now. Do you realise what happens if anyone hears? They will launch an investigation. We’re in the heart of everything here. The centre of power, of the city. The top of the pyramid. There can be no question of impurity. Even the hint of a suggestion that my daughter is a girl like Leila and my husband won’t be able to do a thing. They would take her away immediately. I’d never see her again.’
‘Sixteen years I’ve looked for her. Please don’t do this.’
‘You’ve looked for someone else! You’ve gone crazy! Why can’t you understand? Leave my daughter and me out of it. You’ll get us both into trouble.’
‘Can I talk to her? Just a few words.’
‘She’s about to leave for her tennis class. What are you going to say? She’s my daughter. What could you possibly say that would do her or you any good?’
I fall at her feet. In old movies, when the once-arrogant hero does this to the penurious girl’s father, reconciliation begins. ‘Please,’ I sob. ‘Please.’
‘You’re making a scene. You have to leave.’
I touch my forehead to her feet, weeping still.
‘You’re only making this worse.’ Sapna kicks out her right foot, firm enough that I have to raise my head. ‘Stand up. Everyone is looking. They’re going to wonder who you are. If my husband finds out I let you come here I’ll be in huge trouble. Stand up. Stand up at once.’
She barks out an order. Two Repeaters march to the steps of the gazebo. One puts his fingers softly on my elbow, like he’s carrying something dirty. ‘Will you reconsider?’ I say, soft as I can manage. ‘Sapna, please.’ She has turned her back. The Repeaters lead me down the gazebo steps and into the garden. We reach the nursery. Now the plants all droop. As we cross the green-lattice shelter, I wrench my elbow free and spin around. The gazebo is empty. Sapna has gone inside. All I can see, tucked behind trees, is her two-storey house.
For some seconds I stare. The world absolutely still, no leaf or limb astir. Suddenly the silver glint of a window pulling open. On the first floor, framed in the perfect square, there is a girl. Her mess of black curls lifting lightly in the wind. She is perhaps a hundred yards away, but I can see she’s wearing a white, collared shirt, a tennis shirt. The Repeaters have hold of me again, one on each arm. I’m struggling, snapping, trying to bite. They won’t let go. They’re dragging me away. The girl doesn’t seem to hear or see. At just that moment the sun comes out from behind clouds and the distance between us falls to nothing. Like a dawning light her face becomes visible. Her nose is broad at the bridge. Eyes like dark emeralds. She has large, squ
are incisors and skin the shade of butternut. She’s beautiful. Her smile crinkles her face at the cheeks, bracketing the almond tips of her lips with two majestic arrowheads. Double dimples, dimples unlike any other, dimples like my mother and I have. What’s that she does now? She no longer looks out the window. Is she practising a tennis stroke? Is that a wave? She is swinging one brown arm, a white sleeve riding up her shoulder. She keeps making that gesture. She is calling me.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
MJ Akbar, Zarine D’Monte, Louisa Joyner, Imogen Pelham, Dharini Bhaskar, Mukulika Akbar, Shonan Purie Trehan, Raoul Bajaj. Each gave generously of their time and talent when I needed it most. I will never forget their kindness.
My mother Mallika was my first reader, sending patient, thoughtful critiques of chapters that it must’ve been clear would soon be discarded. Her empathy and insight have always guided my work. She pushed me to go further into Shalini’s plight, to hunt for beauty in her sadness. This story is far richer because of her.
It was my great fortune to work with Shruti Debi, an extraordinary editor and first-rate agent. In precise, devastating emails she would indicate where I had gone wrong. At each stage she seemed to understand my intention better than I knew how to express. She was vital to turning this effort around.
Shanta Rana Akbar walked with me each step of this road. She read everything, took every setback and fillip with characteristic calm. She has filled my life with a happiness I could not have imagined.
About the Author
Prayaag Akbar was born in Kolkata in 1982. He studied economics at Dartmouth College and comparative politics at the London School of Economics. His award-winning reporting and commentary have examined various aspects of marginalisation in India. He works as a consulting editor with Mint, a leading Indian newspaper. He lives in Mumbai.
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