by Amita Trasi
I thought I could hear the tiredness in her voice. And I was sure she would cry, but she laughed instead. The sound of her laughter echoed through the room for a while. Then the room became silent; maybe everybody there was as bewildered as I was.
“Don’t worry. This is the last time I will laugh. They will not keep me alive for too long,” Jasmine chuckled. “That is why they put me in with all of you—the new girls—so all of you know what happens to anybody who tries to escape. They will kill me in front of all of you as a lesson. You watch.”
Someone sobbed softly, and then another joined in. Soon the sobs rose to wails.
“Shh, shh,” Jasmine said. “That doesn’t mean you can’t escape. That is what I want to tell you. Don’t give up hope. Sometimes one act of bravery is better than a life lived as a coward, as a slave.”
The sobbing continued. But her words echoed in my ears. Her strength poured into me as if a dying plant had been watered, and I told myself I would remember what she had said, remember the strength in her voice, the way she had said it.
In the morning, rays of light were filtering through openings in windows covered with black paper, pouring through cracks in the walls. We could see each other now. Around me, there were many girls looking weary, hungry—some handcuffed to a pipe, some to the bar of a window. Only one girl had her hands untied. She sat with her hands around her knees, wrapped in a red silk sari, her face thickly painted with makeup, her kajal dripping from her eyes, and I knew as soon as she gave me a smile she was the girl whose words had rebounded in this darkness for me. She was Jasmine—whose face, like the flower, smelled of hope.
“I don’t have the key to your handcuffs or I would help,” she said to me. She smiled again, and I knew it was an attempt to hide the pain digging deep into her eyes. One of the girls squinted in the light. Her wrists were handcuffed like mine, and she whimpered either in pain or hopelessness. Hunger pangs had set-in, and even in that brightened room, everything seemed bleak.
“Are you hurt?” Jasmine asked her.
She shook her head. There were two girls sitting next to Jasmine. One of them had a gash on her forehead with dried blood that had oozed out of it in a straight line down one side of her face. Neither of them couldn’t have been more than twelve, about three years younger than me. To me, they looked quite identical.
“They are sisters. Their father sold them. We are like vegetables—all of us—ready to be sold the day we are born. Have you seen potatoes being sold in the market—five rupees for two kilos? We are those potatoes, we are—” Jasmine’s words erupted into laughter again. She didn’t finish what she was saying, just kept laughing nervously.
“Bas, keep quiet,” another girl yelled at Jasmine. “You are frightening everyone. Stay calm. There will be a way out of this. Let’s think. My mother used to say to me, ‘Neerja, we can always find a way out of difficult situations.’ Maybe we can escape.”
“Yes, yes, try and try . . . keep trying and trying.” Jasmine burst into giggles again.
The twin girls huddled in the corner, staying close to each other, tears pouring from their eyes. Despite my alarm, I wanted to reassure them and distract them from their agony. I was about to open my mouth when the panel of light from under the door got broader and broader as the door opened. I could make out the silhouette of a woman with two men following her. She stood for a while in the dimly lit room, blinking her eyes several times to become accustomed to the darkness, then looked around at all of us, beaming with pride at our conquered spirits.
“Jasmine is of no use to me. You can take her away,” the woman said to the two men behind her. Jasmine giggled deliriously.
The woman bent down to look at the two twelve-year-old girls, held their faces in both her hands, and said, “Virgins cure many diseases. You will be very useful to me.”
The two girls whimpered and erupted into sobs.
She walked towards me and brought her face closer to mine. I lurched back, the handcuffs leaving their mark on my flesh.
“Remember me?”
Her eyes had the same bitterness, the same venom, I had seen years earlier. Five years ago she had sat in our living room, slurping the tea Amma had served. “Do you know how much money you can make if you come with me to Bombay?” she had asked me.
Madam was older now, yet her smile was still sly. I could smell jasmine flowers mixed with sweat and a sweet smell of supari, just like I had years ago. It reminded me of times when Amma was still alive, when I would prance behind her as she took me into the village.
“You didn’t think you would be able to escape, did you?” She glared at me. I turned away and focused my eyes on Jasmine. The men had pulled Jasmine to her feet and were still standing there with her.
“What are you waiting for? Take her away,” Madam admonished them.
They hurriedly dragged her away. Jasmine turned sideways to glance at me and gave me a smile as if she didn’t fear what was coming. I will always remember that smile, how her eyes knew no fear, and for years I would wonder if I could ever have the courage she had.
Madam stood up straight, addressing all of us, “See, this is a lesson I want all of you to learn. There never will be an escape from this place. Look at Jasmine—you live here or you die here.”
It didn’t take them long to dump Jasmine’s body next to us. You’d think it would be easier to see a dead body after I had seen my own mother die. But it wasn’t. I was the first to crawl next to Jasmine’s body. I wanted to think Jasmine was in a deep sleep, would wake up any time, and start giggling all over again. My hands were still tied together but I shook her body. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but there was no life inside them. I lurched back with a scream and slipped in the water on the floor. I scraped my elbow, and my head hit the damp floor; my tears came thick and strong. Any day now, this would become our fate. Neerja, who had previously been unhindered by our plight and spoke so bravely of finding a way to escape, cried the loudest. Locked up in that room that night, in the darkness with Jasmine’s body beside us, I don’t remember how long we cried . . . or vomited.
By next morning, a man obediently followed Madam and dropped a plate before us—a few rotis and pieces of potatoes—and put a jug of water beside it. We must have lost touch with reality because all of us put our hands into that plate and grabbed whatever food we could with both hands. It was the only meal I’d had in days. In that moment, we didn’t think of what was coming our way; we didn’t fear or worry about our fate or our lives; we just ate. It was only afterward I realized I hadn’t stopped to look as they had carried away Jasmine’s body. As I stuffed my mouth with food, I didn’t even bother bidding her a goodbye. I kept chewing even as they dragged the two wailing, twelve-year-old girls away. What had happened to me? I didn’t cringe at their tears; I didn’t fear for them. Suddenly, for me, someone else’s life had become cheaper than mine.
“You have until tomorrow to clean up,” Madam announced to everyone. “I have given a lot of money to whoever sold you. It is time to pay your debt now. As for you, Mukta, you didn’t think that ceremony at the Yellamma temple would come free, did you? Or did you think your debt could get repaid that quickly—with just one night with a zamindar? That was just the beginning. It was because Ashok Sahib decided to take you away that I had to keep quiet. He would have raised hell in the village if I had said something. They listen to Ashok Sahib too much—those villagers.” She twisted her face. “If the villagers stood against me, they would not sell me girls from that village. They’d never allow me in. But I don’t accept defeat. Nobody gets away from me. I have a reputation, you see. I made it my personal mission to search for you. I had all my men searching for you. But they couldn’t find you in this city, and I thought Ashok Sahib, the smart man that he was, had sent you away. After five years of futile search, I thought I had lost you. Then one of my men saw you entering that building in Dadar the other day. To think you were in Bombay all this time, right under my nose. Fin
ally.”
She left, closing the door behind her.
I realized I was struggling to keep my eyes open. All the other girls must have been drowsy, because nobody said a word. They had drugged us again. I drifted off to sleep. That night I dreamt of Tara.
We are holding hands and walking on soft sand. It’s a beach. She is sitting beside me on the warm sand, both of us looking at the calm sea in front of us, the wind blowing on our faces. I think to myself, it must be her presence beside me that is making everything look so radiant. She smiles at me, tells me she will take me with her wherever she goes. And when I turn to look, there is no one beside me. Tara is walking away from me. “It’s because of you my Aai died, isn’t it?” she asks me. Her words echo around me.
Another dream—my father, my Appa, pulls me onto his lap and tells me stories. We are sitting outside my house in the village; in the distance the forest is looking at us. Amma is feeding the chickens in our yard, watching us with a smile on her face. It is so safe here, nothing could ever harm me. Sakubai hands me a glass of milk— it looks so pristine sitting in my hands, nothing like me. Remember, she points out to me: you will always be dirt; you couldn’t even save your own mother.
“Wake up,” said the gruff voice of a man. I felt like I’d been kicked. My back hurt. Perhaps I was in another dream.
“Get up,” the voice again. I opened my eyes to see the peering faces of two men. “You can’t sleep all day. Earn us some money,” said one, and the other laughed behind him.
The room stank of our vomit, our waste—what else were we to do tied up? They took us out of the room onto the terrace. There were six of us there, trying to open our eyes and look at each other. After being in that dark room for so long, the sun was scorching hot and unwelcome. They made us walk for a bit in the sun to get rid of our drowsiness.
I was still dazed when they took me to a room. I heard someone say, “This one doesn’t have any windows, no escape.” My eyes were still closing on me when a girl walked in, changed my clothes, painted my face, and left me in that room. There was a slow whirring ceiling fan above me, and a light bulb flickering above the doorway, making me nauseous. Soon there was a man standing in the doorway, smoking a beedi and blowing rings of smoke into the room. Even in that dazed state, I could feel his eyes on my body as he looked me up and down.
“You are more beautiful than they said you would be,” he said, flicking ashes mid-air and strolling towards me.
I remember breaking into a cold sweat, standing up, and taking a few steps backwards as he advanced, but there was a wall behind me and nowhere to go. He came close—so close I could smell the smoke on his breath. Without hesitating, he grabbed my hair and yanked it so hard my head hit the wall. He pinned me against it with one hand. I screamed and shivered as his other hand slid down my back and went lower and lower until it was pulling at my skirt.
“No, no,” I gasped, but his hand was on my thigh now.
He loosened the drawstring of his pajamas and let them fall around his ankles. His body pressed against mine as he thrust himself into me. The pain was intense. My voice became a rasp as I gripped his shoulders, my nails digging into his flesh, but he didn’t flinch. Even in my drug-induced state I could feel his unshaven face pressed against mine, his breathing fast and vicious. I closed my eyes and wandered to the memories of better times: sitting on the terrace with Tara, listening to the tales she told me, cooking with Amma, skipping behind her to the village.
When he was done, he slumped next to me. For a while, I could hear our breathing slow down, my heart still beating wildly. Then he yanked my hair again and banged my head on the wall repeatedly. All I could hear was the repeated thumping, the whimpers that rose from my throat seemed like some other girl’s distant cries.
When he let go of my hair, I sank against the wall. He gave a throaty laugh as I stroked the back of my head and brought out bloodied fingers.
“All you whores deserve it,” he said.
He disappeared, leaving me behind in that smoky room. I don’t remember what he looked like. I have wondered what his eyes looked like—were they calm and composed as he hurt me? But now there are too many men to remember, faces that come and go, merge into one another.
How quickly we had tried to escape from the pain, as if running away from it, moving to another country, allowed us the luxury of leaving behind the memories.
-TARA
Seventeen
2004
That evening, walking back home, I was surprised to see the door to the neighboring apartment open.
“Tara?” a man inside the apartment called out. He scanned my face.
It was Navin. His eyes still held that mischievous sparkle. His shoulder-length hair covered his wide cheekbones, and a ridiculous looking goatee stood on his chin.
“Navin! You look so different.” I gave him a grin.
“And you?” He smiled. “You look so much like your mother. I could almost swear it was her.”
I smiled. The memories of Aai came flooding back.
“Come in, come in,” he waved me inside. “The neighbors told me you were back from America. Daddy and I just got back today from our village, after more than six months away.”
“My wife and child are still back there,” he continued. “Daddy wanted to stay in Ganipur where he grew up. Just for a while—fresh air, good food, you know.” Navin chuckled. “How long have you been here?”
“About four months,” I said.
It had been four months—four months of lingering unsuccessfully at the police station and the detective’s office, four months of forgetting that the rest of the world existed.
“So what brings you here?” He pulled up a chair and urged me to sit.
“Papa died . . . a few months ago.”
“Oh, I—”
“He . . . committed suicide . . . hung himself,” I said. I didn’t know why I wanted to tell him this.
“Oh.” He looked alarmed. “Why? What happened?”
I shrugged, lowering my eyes.
“I wish I knew,” I said. “When he was lying there . . . you know, at the funeral . . . I was wondering what must have been going through his head to do something like that.” I blinked back my tears. It felt good to tell someone.
Navin let out a sigh. “I-I don’t know what to say, but I’m sorry to hear that, sorry to know you had to go through all that. Bhagwan rest his soul.”
“Thank you.” I nodded. “So . . . I came here to disperse his ashes and . . . and I came to look for Mukta. She is alive, you know, or at least I think she is.”
“That child your Papa brought home? Your friend? She . . . she is alive?” He looked nervous and wiped his hands on his shirt. “How . . . how do you know?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you someday. So how’s Anupam chacha?”
“He’s . . . you know . . . ” he gulped, “he’s sleeping right now, but he would really like to see you. Let me get you something to eat.” Navin disappeared inside.
I looked around me. This apartment took me back to when we were children—Navin and I arguing and chasing each other in this apartment. I used to love watching him play the sitar. “Do you still sing, play the sitar?” I asked Navin as he brought me a plate of snacks.
“No, I left that a long time ago.” He smiled wryly, his eyes seeming to remember the friendship we once shared.
“Hello beta, there you are.” Anupam chacha waved to me from a wheelchair in the doorway. I couldn’t have imagined the man I knew once—Papa’s best friend, the man who once ran five miles every day—to be in this condition.
“Look at you Tara,” he said, his breathing noisy and strained, “all grown up. You were so young when you left.” He paused and coughed hard.
I watched his tired, pale face, which had been robbed of its youth. His scalp showed through splotches of hair; his eyes looked as if they were sinking under their own weight.
“Cancer . . . it’s a slow killer,” he said
, giving me a feeble smile. “Everybody looks at me that way.”
“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“Daddy, you need water?” Navin asked as he poured everybody a cup of tea.
Anupam chacha waved him away. “Arre, because I am sick you people treat me like I am some child.”
Navin retired inside. I sat beside Anupam chacha, the tea cup warming my hands.
“Don’t worry about him. You can always catch up with him later, you know, after I am gone,” he chuckled, as if it was a joke. “I am lucky—my son and daughter-in-law take care of me. Tara, tell me all about America. Is it true what they say about the land, that . . . everybody is . . . rich; that . . . everybody has . . . cars?” His breathing was more erratic now, his speech halting at intervals.
I felt guilty for not having kept in touch, for not having known he had been suffering so gravely. “I am sorry Papa and I couldn’t call when we were in America. Sorry that—” The tea cup rattled in my hand.
“Everybody has their reasons,” he interrupted and gave me a gentle wave of his hand and a wobble of his head. “Forget that and tell me, are you married?” He spoke between coughs now. “I hear it is okay . . . to keep a boyfriend . . . there without . . . being married.” He attempted to laugh. A picture of Brian flashed through my mind, strumming his guitar, a new girlfriend filling the space I had left.
“No, I didn’t marry,” I said and tried to take a sip of my tea.
“So you didn’t marry haan? If your . . . Aai was here . . . she would have been throwing a fit.” He laughed. “Of course . . . your Papa would have . . . supported you in anything you ever did. You were . . . the apple of his eye.”
I made an effort to smile, to hide the dismay I felt at the mention of my dead parents.
“So . . . have you been to . . . your village yet?”
