by Amita Trasi
But there were the older, more experienced ones who admonished us for believing in such fantasies.
“I don’t believe in love,” Rani would chuckle, “we all just use one another. Call it love, hope . . . call it whatever you want, it isn’t true.”
“It is better to face the truth,” Sylvie used to tell us, “than make up stupid stories. There will only be more disappointment later.”
Rani was what we used to call a moophat—someone who kept mouthing off no matter how much trouble she got into. She intervened when the younger girls got beaten and took the beating herself. We all knew she had a good heart—she would be the first to clean the wounds on the younger girls and console them. But she never showed it in her words, seeming afraid something that rolled off her tongue would betray how sensitive she was. There were rumors her lover of three years had promised her marriage, but one day he had just disappeared.
Sylvie was a practical and grounded woman. She spoke when she saw an opportunity. She drank and smoked, standing with one hand on her hip, the other holding a cigarette, telling us, “I have been here longer than you girls have.” It made us smile. She was smart though. Unlike the other girls, she would ask the men—her customers—for favors like foreign cigars, a radio, or jewelry she kept hidden in a secret place. Nobody knew of this secret place, and nobody so much as whispered about it. She wore fancy shoes with heels so high they were forced to announce her arrival. It reminded me of a cat with a bell. I used to like her chalaki—her cunningness— she knew how to get what she wanted.
Sometimes, I told stories to the younger girls—stories I had read—and they listened to me in rapture. I told them love stories of Nala Damayanti, of Lord Krishna and Radha—all stories I had read in the books Tara got for me from the library. I remember how the little girls with painted faces giggled. I hoped the stories cocooned them at night; after all, we were waiting for the love in those tales to become real for us.
I didn’t resist or fight like many of the girls who were brought here. I knew that many generations of women in my family had been in this trade, and I didn’t struggle against it. So I was spared the brutality many of the girls endured. Even then, I must admit that the thought of escaping crossed my mind. When the street was quiet, all the girls in the brothel were sleeping, and the security guards had dropped their attention and snored outside the doors, I would think this was the time I could escape. I found this strange courage rising in me. I grabbed my things, bundled them up, and then lay on the bed wondering about this daring move I was about to make. I don’t know why I didn’t escape. Perhaps I needed answers to questions like: Where will I go? What will I do for a living? What if they find me and beat me to death? By the time my mind finished searching for answers, the din of the brothel had already begun and the opportunity to escape had passed. I felt like a mouse with the stupidity to think it could battle a cat.
Other days, I’d remind myself what Amma used to tell me—the color of our sky will be bright again so I shouldn’t lose hope. But watching the younger girls, especially those who were too young to understand any of this or know what they were getting into, filled me with deep sorrow. For a long time, I thought there was nothing I could do, that there was no escape. Then a simple encounter with a girl changed my mind.
It was a blazing summer afternoon, and I was reclining on my cot, trying to take my afternoon nap. Outside the voices were distant, muffled. The heat was at its height, and I had reached out for a cloth to wipe the sweat from my neck when a girl came running inside my room. This girl, no more than twelve, sat down beside me.
“Hide me, hide me,” she said, her eyes darting from the doorway to me, hoping I would find a way out for her. I sat up and opened my arms to her. She flew into them, sobbing on my sleeve.
“Don’t let them take me away,” she whispered.
She didn’t know the hug I was giving her was all I had to offer, a temporary solace from what was to come. It didn’t take long for the men to arrive and snatch her away from my arms, leaving me with her tears on my sleeve. How tiny she looked as they took her away. I could hear her screaming all night. Intermittently some men laughed. I never saw her again.
“What do you think happened?” I asked Sylvie the next day when we were washing clothes.
“Who knows? She must have died. They must have thrown away the body. There is only so much a tiny girl like her can take.”
I knew the casualness in her voice was a mere mask. And I told Sylvie I didn’t want to think of it that way. I would not let myself imagine that the girl I’d held in my arms was dead. But Sylvie didn’t respond and merely smiled at me as if I didn’t know a thing. She was right. This little girl was the first I had seen. There were many after her, and as girls came and went, you could smell the sadness stripping the strength of each one, bit by bit.
I knew then that I couldn’t live like this anymore. I had to think of a way to escape, but it wasn’t going to be easy. I had to bide my time, wait for the right opportunity. And that day would come, I told myself. My only respite in those days was thinking of my time spent with Tara, hoping the life she had was many times better than this. I wanted to think she thought the same about me, but I didn’t know if she had forgiven me. If only I could meet her once, I could explain to her again that I wasn’t responsible for her mother’s death. I knew she would understand. Or at least, I hoped she would. Maybe someday I would gather enough courage to escape from this place and be able to see her again. No matter what, no matter where we were, I wanted to think that Tara and I lived in each other’s hearts.
Do we all hide things from people we love? Worry that if they find out what we have done, who we really are, they’ll just stop loving us?
– TARA
Nineteen
The scenery changed quickly from the bustle of Mumbai city, from the slums and the high rises to the greenery of the countryside, as the train went through the Western Ghats. For a minute I thought I could already see the village of Ganipur in the pleasant light of day—the village where Papa grew up.
I thought long and hard before finally deciding to make a trip to Papa’s village. The conversation with Anupam chacha had persuaded me to go to a place I had only heard of in Papa’s stories. So I had asked Anupam chacha for my grandmother’s address and set out that weekend. Raza said he knew somebody at the village who could guide me. So he arranged for everything—the train tickets, somebody to pick me up at the train station, and an alternative place to stay at the village in case I wasn’t able to meet my grandmother. I felt anticipation, a hope that the village was the way Papa had described it. Somehow, I was sure Salim had not brought Mukta back to this village. But what if there was a slight chance I could get some information about Mukta?
The station was more of a corrugated shed, a far cry from the railway station we had left behind in Mumbai. It didn’t have a roof, just an elevated square mound of earth that served as a platform with a track running beside it. Passengers got down, walked the platform, and disappeared from my sight. I was the only one who stood there, not knowing which way to go. In the distance I could see a man waving at me. “Tara Memsahib,” he called out, as he walked toward me.
“Sorry, I am late. Chandru, my name,” he introduced himself and helped me carry my suitcase from the platform onto a tonga waiting outside the station.
I watched Ganipur—Papa’s village—as it passed by me. The temple bells rang loudly, and women cooked outside houses with thatched roofs. The sunlight shimmered off the water in the village pond where women washed clothes and whispered to each other as we went by. Cows grazed in the swaying green farm fields as I took in the air from this village. Half-naked children ran alongside my horse-driven carriage in excitement, and Chandru, my driver, made a futile attempt at shooing them away. The world of my imagination opened up before me, as if my childhood had returned and Papa was whispering the stories of his life in my ear all over again.
This was where Mukta was born a
nd had lived her childhood. Why did she never tell me about her childhood in this village? I wanted to meet my Papa’s mother, understand why Papa had lied to me about so many things.
“Don’t mind my saying,” Chandru interrupted my thoughts, “but you look so much like a girl from our village. Karuna her name was . . . she ran away with the zamindar’s son years ago.”
“She was my mother.”
He looked behind at me astonished, his whip mid-air, the horse slowing down. “You are Ashok Sahib’s daughter? So that’s why you are staying at the zamindar’s house? Malkin is your grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“Malkin will be delighted to see you.” In his excitement, he whipped the horses, making them go faster.
Chandru stopped outside the gates of a sprawling mansion. The brick walls that ringed the house didn’t seem to stop. I couldn’t really see the house; only the roof was peering out at us. I got down from the carriage and stood outside, uncertain of what I was about to do, about what I was going to say to my grandmother whom I had never met.
“You wait, I will call a servant from inside,” he said as he knocked on the door. There was no reply.
“Malkin must have stepped out to the market with the servant,” Chandru said, “or else the servant would have opened the door. She will be back soon.”
I sat under the shade of a nearby banyan tree, waiting. In the distance, I watched a car come to a stop. A woman stepped out, her face barely visible behind the car door. Her servant stepped out from the other side and followed her, carrying bags of vegetables in both his hands. I watched as she asked the driver to run another errand, and he drove away. She put her key through the lock and unlocked the gates.
I could see her now, standing by the gates. Her face resembled Papa’s, and her eyes were just like Papa’s eyes—kind and warm.
“This . . . ” Chandru motioned to me to come closer, “this is Tara Bitiya, Ashok Sahib’s daughter.”
She squinted in the sunlight and stared at me as I came closer. Her wiry, white hair was tied in a bun and the wrinkles on her forehead bunched together when her eyebrows rose.
“Hi . . . I’m . . . I’m Tara,” I said, looking at her, uncertainty churning in my stomach. I shifted my suitcase from one hand to the other. For a second everything came to a standstill, all of us rooted to our spots not knowing what to say to each other.
Then she smiled kindly. “Yes, yes. I know. It’s . . . I never thought I would be able to meet you,” she said, opening her arms, her eyes welling up. I let the suitcase fall to the ground, and let her take me in her arms.
“Your father . . . he used to send me photographs of you when you were a child. I used to wait for his letter just to be able to see your photograph. Every year you would look so different, growing up away from me, in a different city.” Her voice reduced to a sob. “Anyway, there is a lot we have to talk about, isn’t there? Come in, come in. You can call me Ajji. How long have I waited to hear those words?” she asked, squeezing my shoulders.
Meeting my grandmother was confusing, like a dream that had suddenly become real. She led me into her home—a mansion. The courtyard was as big as the apartment complex in Bombay. The garden looked well tended. Roses—white, red, and yellow—flourished in every corner. A peepul true stood in the middle of the yard. This is where Papa had spent his childhood. In all of his stories, I had never expected a house so huge. Suddenly, I felt betrayed. Papa had stolen a piece of my childhood.
“Come let’s go to the living room,” Ajji said.
The servant walked in with tea and placed it on the table. She patted his shoulder and he folded his hands in greeting to me. “This is Shyam. He has worked for me ever since his father died. His father was a loyal servant; he made Shyam promise he would take care of me in my old age. We don’t have as many servants as we had at one time. Your grandfather was ailing for a very long time. The zamindari suffered in that time. I have two more sons, but they too escaped from this place—they couldn’t take your grandfather for too long. Your Papa— he was the eldest, and he always stayed in touch. He wrote me a letter every month. Then a few months ago, the letters stopped coming. Something happened to him, didn’t it?” she asked, her eyes filled with concern.
“Papa . . . he died.”
She looked at the ground, fighting off tears, then nodded as she rubbed her knees. “It’s a mother’s worst dream you know, not knowing if her son is alive or not? What happened?”
“He . . . he committed suicide . . . he . . . hung himself.”
She looked away, her eyes filled up, but she quickly wiped them away. “What could I have expected? After all that happened? He was suffering deeply. I . . . always knew . . . something like this . . . ” Her voice broke, and she ran inside.
I sat in silence, not knowing if I should run after her and console her. Shyam brought a tray of biscuits and set it on the table. I gave him a worried smile, and he hurried inside. I looked around. The ceilings were high in this aristocratic old house. The chandelier was like a colonial era lighting piece. There were many pictures on the walls of men and women in their traditional zamindari attire. There was a man who looked just like Papa. He had a regal moustache, and his eyes seemed to blaze with anger even in the photograph.
“That’s your grandfather.” Ajji pointed to the large photograph of the man who looked so much like Papa. I hadn’t noticed her returning, but now she was standing beside me. “And all those other photographs—they are your forefathers. It isn’t what it used to be,” she sighed. “I am glad at least you could come back here. I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
“I would have come a long time ago, except Papa told me that you were—”
“Dead. Yes, I told him it was better that way. Your grandfather was very . . . let’s say not many got along with him. He was strict and careful about following all the rules. He would not have allowed you or your mother to set foot in this village. And if you did,” she sighed, “it’s not the same for women, you know. In this village when a woman elopes with a man, she and her children will be killed.”
“Aai used to tell me that. She never wanted me to come here.”
“I understand,” Ajji nodded and sighed.
“Well, actually, I came to Mumbai to search for someone,” I said.
“Who?”
“I don’t know if you know, Ajji, but Papa brought a girl, Mukta, with him to Bombay a few years ago.”
“Ah, Mukta. Yes, of course. She never spoke then, with all that happened. I was the one who persuaded your father to take her along with him. You must have been about eight then? She was a local prostitute’s daughter. Her mother was a beautiful woman, a caring woman, really. But when you are born where you are, as a prostitute’s daughter, your fate is pretty much written the day you come into this world, isn’t it? They are known as Devdasis here—temple prostitutes—it’s like an affliction in villages like this.”
“Temple prostitutes?”
“Yes, these girls are traditionally married off to the Goddess and function as prostitutes to the zamindars. Your grandfather and his father—my father-in-law—helped perpetuate the myth, encouraged it, and why not? They were getting to enjoy women on the side. But I often wondered what happened to the girls, the eight and nine-year-old girls who were dedicated to the temple and devoured by this tradition.” She shook her head and sighed.
“Eight or nine-year-old girls? They are dedicated to become prostitutes? There is a tradition like that?”
“Yes, it still exists. Mukta was a carefree, inquisitive young child. When I saw her, I thought of you. Her mother went about saying that Ashok was Mukta’s father. You must already know all this now. That’s why you’ve come to search for her but . . . ”
Suddenly the words, as she spoke, rose from her lips, broken and exhausted. “. . . of course, we could never find out if she was your half-sister. There was no way of finding out back then. Sometimes I couldn’t help but wonder if she was my grandchi
ld.”
She stopped and watched my face intently.
“You didn’t know,” she whispered.
I walked to the window. Outside the banyan tree stood majestically watching over all that had happened. When I looked up I could see the sun sparkling in the sky. It struck me then—was this place the one Mukta had talked about? The place where she had waited with her mother all through the night, waited for her father—my Papa—to walk through the gates of this mansion? I watched the sunlight streaming from behind the trees outside, clouds appearing intermittently—playing a game of hide and seek with me. I plopped on the sofa behind me. I felt paralyzed.
“It wasn’t your Papa’s fault, you know…" Ajji sat beside me, "In his youth, your father fell for Mukta’s mother—the temptation of beauty. It wasn’t meant to be anything, he told me later, but like a thorn, it pricked his conscience. Then he met your Aai, and before I knew it, he said he was in love and was eloping with her. Your grandfather didn’t know until the day after he eloped. He was mad with rage and told me if your father ever returned, I could never see him again. For years I begged and pleaded with my husband to let me see my son, and six years later he agreed. He came to see me a few times after that, always bringing with him the stories of the city, pictures of his family, of you, and I would wait—”
“Did Papa know Mukta was his daughter?” I interrupted, impatient to know more about Mukta.
She sighed. "He did not think she was his daughter. That was the problem. He had always known that Mukta’s mother had been waiting for him, that she went around saying Mukta was his child. Your Papa refused to believe it. Mukta can’t be my daughter, he used to say. Besides, he didn’t feel for Mukta's mother the way he felt for your Aai. Your Papa was madly in love with your Aai. If he tried to help Mukta he would have to tell your Aai. And he didn’t want to hurt your Aai by telling her about his time with a temple prostitute. How could he do that to her?” she sighed. “As for Mukta, she suffered deeply. They did with her what they do with the other girls, got her married to the temple in a ritual and then they raped the child—those bastards, they hurt her. I was too late, the news got to me too late. By the time I reached there, the damage was done, and I had to call your father from Bombay. He was in a dilemma. He told me he wasn’t sure she was his daughter. ‘How will I ever know if a prostitute’s child is mine? She could have another father. Mukta’s mother could lie,’ he told me. I wouldn’t listen to any of his arguments. I convinced him to take her with him anyway. There was no other way to save Mukta.”
