by Amita Trasi
“You are special to me,” he told me, his reflection in the mirror smiling at me. His words didn’t seem to alter anything in me. I told myself it would take many such attempts to be like Sylvie, to try to find happiness in empty words and frills. In the days to come, Arun Sahib showered me with earrings, saris, shawls, bangles—but it never happened; it couldn’t fix what was broken in me.
One morning Madam walked into my room, stood before me, and smiled. These days, she took great effort to speak sweetly. She wasn’t very good at it; it wasn’t something she tried much in her life. I looked at her suspiciously. Her smile seemed against the law of nature.
“You still have debts to repay. All these banarasi saris and silk shawls, these earrings, this necklace will go towards repaying your debt. You understand, don’t you?” She kept her smile as she tightened the necklace around her neck, gazed at her reflection in the mirror, then turned around and whispered to me, “Don’t worry If Arun Sahib asks. Tell him you have left all this with me for safe keeping. Remember, it will free you of your debts.”
I had been here for years, but I had never asked her when my debts would be repaid. Madam opened a book every month, and all the women in this brothel would sit before her hoping the day they would taste freedom was in sight. But that day never came, and we were too afraid to ask. So I let her keep the gifts, hoping someday I could convince Arun Sahib that Madam had taken most of his gifts to clear all my debts. He was the only one who could free me from this place. And if I was smart about it, maybe I could gain my freedom.
Soon Madam moved me to a better room—a room with more space.
“This room is for the more experienced of us. Don’t think you are one of them. This is all because Arun Sahib insists on treating you like a queen. God knows what jadoo you have done on him.”
As days went by, Arun Sahib warmed up to me and started talking to me, telling me about his life back in the village, about his wife and kids who lived in an apartment in Mumbai. Some nights Arun Sahib narrated his tales of travel to me, talked about places like Dubai and America as if they were in our neighborhood; he conjured images in my mind that were prettier than the pictures I had seen in books.
“One day I will take you there,” he said, his voice warm with genuine affection. Of course, I knew that would never be possible. Every man spoke like that when he wanted something.
“Do you think I will be free one day?” I dared to ask when he was in a good mood.
“Maybe one day I will just let you go . . . ” he whistled, imitating a bird flying away. He laughed loudly, and I knew he was only humoring me. But even that helped give me hope.
There were days when he talked about the moments we could have together—traveling the world, walking down the streets of Bombay hand in hand, and I wondered why I did not see those moments the way he saw them. And I knew that in his own way, Arun Sahib had come to like me, perhaps even love me.
“Have you ever truly loved anyone?” he asked me once, scrutinizing my face, searching for the color of love.
I had a glimpse of Sanjiv then, sitting beside me and playing the tape, but that was years ago, and by now, I had learned to comfort myself in silence and never show how I felt. I looked into Arun Sahib’s eyes and knew I could never experience the feeling of belonging I had found in Sanjiv. For me, Arun Sahib would always remain just one of my customers, an anchor keeping me afloat in the madness of this brothel.
Then I fell sick; the doctor who came to see me announced that I was pregnant. Sylvie shrank to the door in terror. Why hadn’t the pill worked? Why was I pregnant? Madam stomped into my room, yanked me off the cot, and hit me repeatedly. “How do you think you will earn me money now, haan? You can’t have this child. You hear me?”
I begged for mercy and pleaded with her, but she wouldn’t listen. I didn’t tell Madam that the last abortion had made my body very weak, and the doctor had told me if I tried to have another abortion, I might lose my life. Death should have been preferable to the life I was living. It would make me free, but here I was —hanging on to hope, wanting to bring another life into this cruel world.
“Let her have the child.” The voice came from behind Madam; it boomed across the room. I actually thought I could see the clothes on the clothesline quiver, but it was only the breeze. Arun Sahib was standing in the doorway. It was a Thursday evening, and both of us had forgotten it was his time to visit me.
“What if I tell you it is my child?” He looked at Madam and blinked at her calmly.
“I-I . . . ” Madam stuttered.
“I want her to have this child. You shouldn’t have any problem with this.”
“Yes, Dada, I am sorry.” She walked out of the room, leaving me staring at him.
“Don’t look at me,” he said to me, putting up his hands, wiggling his head. “Don’t expect me to provide for the kid. Do you know whose kid it is?”
I shook my head. I knew the child in my belly belonged to him. He knew it as well. What was the point in telling him anything? I was afraid he might get enraged, refuse to protect me. Who would believe a prostitute who sleeps with so many men? So I let it be, stifled the truth, and heaved a sigh of relief instead.
I examined myself in the mirror every day of every month, caressing the growing bulge in my belly, noting the changes in my body—the flesh that had begun to line my body, my face that appeared fuller these days. I felt like a dainty plant becoming the trunk of a tree. Arun Sahib never caressed my belly or asked me how I was doing, but with time, he began inquiring about the child as if he knew this was his baby.
“If it’s a boy, he can join me in my business,” Arun Sahib kept telling me. I knew the fate of children born to mothers such as us. At the most the boy would join him as a pimp, bringing other girls into this trade, forgetting that his mother was once in this dirt. I never asked him what he would do if the baby was a girl. I feared to think about it. All I could do was wait and hope this life inside me found a better life—the dream my Amma once had for me.
In the darkness that lingers around me, I rely on strangers to show me the way out.
-TARA
Twenty-three
Raza stood by the kitchen door in my apartment while I made tea. He had been in here many times in the last week, arriving at my doorstep to find out if I was doing all right. I had come to expect those few words of comfort he offered me every day.
“I came by to tell you I think I know of someone who can help. I spoke to Dinesh yesterday. He and his wife rescue women from brothels, ones who have been forced into prostitution.”
“You think they will be able to find her?” I turned around expectantly, the tea simmering on the stove behind me.
“I . . . I don’t know,” he shrugged, “but we have to try. Also, now that we know the kidnapper wasn’t Salim, I can help you hire an investigator if you want to know who the kidnapper was.”
“I’ve had enough of them,” I said. I felt too tired to argue with Raza over Salim’s whereabouts that night. I had always known, and still believed, Salim to be the kidnapper. In any case, I was the one responsible for Mukta’s kidnapping. No matter what anybody said, one scream from me that night would have been enough to save her.
“What are you thinking?” Raza asked.
“Nothing. Yesterday I read an article about girls who were sold into this trade, and I tried to understand what Mukta’s life must be like, what she would be going through. I read that they beat these girls if they refuse to do what they are told, even kill them. Do you think Mukta . . . ”
I swallowed hard; I couldn’t say the words. The tea on the stove boiled over behind me. I was still unable to bring myself to tell anybody that Mukta could be my half-sister, my own blood.
“It is difficult, but all we can do is try hard to find her,” he said softly, coming closer.
I nodded and felt the warmth of a tear run down my cheek.
The drive was long; the roads were filled with potholes, and clouds of dust l
oomed large over the streets from the construction nearby. Raza had hired a car to take us to meet Dinesh and Saira. The driver was a man in his early twenties who occasionally glanced into the rearview mirror and chatted with Raza as if he knew him.
“Memsahib,” he said to me after a while, “if Raza Sahib not helping me, me lying in a gutter somewhere.”
Raza laughed. “I just got him a job, nothing else.”
“But me grateful or all those harami people making me sell drugs. I having no choice.”
Raza leaned forward and patted his back. My heart softened just a little bit as I, too, began to respect all Raza did. The distance between Raza and me was decreasing with time. I took comfort in having him next to me, helping me, and he seemed to be well aware of it.
“They are a couple hours away from the city, but the work they do here with the victims is remarkable,” Raza told me as the driver deftly maneuvered the car around passing pedestrians. “They have another office in the city, but I want you to see this center they have built for the girls.”
I lowered the car window and watched the downpour mercilessly drive the people of the streets into cold corners to huddle together. The rain drops felt cool against my face as the sky roared from dark clouds. It had taken a week for the news to sink in. For several days I had dismissed it, I couldn’t imagine a life like that for Mukta. Now, as I watched people walk down the shiny, wet streets, holding umbrellas that swiveled in the breeze, I knew somewhere out there, on those streets, amongst all those people, I had to find Mukta, because I was the one who had ruined her life. The streets looked blurry now—whether from my tears or the downpour I didn’t know.
We’re almost there,” Raza pointed out.
It looked like a house with a huge courtyard. As we neared it I could see a couple of swing sets and girls playing hide and seek in the courtyard. The wide open space of farmland around the center allowed the wind to howl around us. We left the car, opened the gates, and walked inside. The girls stopped playing and watched us with interest.
“Arre, Raza Bhai, how are you?” The man at the center folded his hands as he walked toward us. “Welcome Tara Madam, I wouldn’t have asked you to come so far, but this week we are at this center to look over some things and check if the girls need anything.”
“That’s all right. Thank you for giving me the time.” I smiled and folded my hands in greeting.
“Dinesh,” he introduced himself. “Let’s go to my office.”
Raza told me about the girls as Dinesh led us to his office.
“Did you know these angels not only rescue girls but also look after them for a few years, give them training in any vocation of their choice—teach them sewing, arts and crafts—so they can have a decent profession after they leave the center? And they provide legal help if they want to prosecute the ones who kidnapped them.”
Raza and I sat in their office that afternoon, on that muggy day, trying to recount my efforts to search for Mukta. Dinesh nodded and sighed as he listened. A short man with a bald pate and eyes that spoke volumes from experience, he explained to me that it wasn’t going to be easy. His wife, Saira, sat beside him, draped in a blue sari with her hair tied in a bun. From the window behind them, I could see a group of girls doing yoga under the guidance of an instructor, the trees swaying in the breeze around them.
“I would suggest that you understand the way we work,” Saira said to me as she nodded to a woman who placed tea on the table.
“Yes, yes.” Dinesh nodded, picking up the glass of tea. “You must understand that usually kidnapped girls end up being sold to brothels. And then they are often moved from brothel to brothel. There are many brothels in Kamathipura, and we don’t know which one she could be in,” he said as he looked at me. “It has been eleven years since the kidnapping, so the girl in question may be too far lost in that world. It sounds cruel to say this, but we have to be truthful to ourselves from the very beginning.”
I heard the wind rattle the windowpane and clutched my purse closer to me. “So I . . . I may never know what happened to her?”
“Yes, there is that possibility, which you need to be prepared for.”
“The way we work—we have a number of employees, men who go undercover as customers and meet such girls, give them money, clothes, food so they trust us. These girls have been through so much. They are sold to brothels for as little as 4000 to 5000 rupees. . . . uh . . . about 100 dollars? They are kept in dark, windowless rooms and beaten regularly. They are scared.”
Behind Dinesh and Saira, through the window, I could see the girls now—girls as young as twelve in a statue-like yogic posture, the smiles on their faces cleverly masking their anguish.
“Once we have gained their trust, we try to explain to them that we can give them a better life. Then we, along with the police, carry out raids. Some of these girls are hidden in crates or behind secret doors—hidden so well it is difficult to find them. Sometimes they move the girls from place to place, between Mumbai and Kolkata for example. Anyway, this time we will keep an eye out for Mukta. We will keep you informed about these raids.”
“I would like to go with you on these raids,” I said.
“I don’t think that is a very good idea,” Dinesh said. “It is difficult to—”
“But I have to go. I have to see this place,” I interrupted.
My eyes must have looked desperate, even vulnerable, because Dinesh searched my face for a few seconds then sighed, “You seem quite keen to search for a village girl. You were close?”
I nodded.
“I will let you know when we plan the raid,” he relented. “Raza, you can come too. Now, if you want to see the center and meet the girls, it will give you an idea of the work we do here.”
After we thanked Dinesh and Saira, Raza and I walked through the center. I walked from room to room watching the girls as they studied in one room, sewed and knitted in another. Their expressions were calm and affable, and they smiled at me. I thought of Mukta—had she suffered like them? Did she have the same wounds? I hoped she was one of the lucky ones and had been rescued. As we left, the swing the girls played on creaked and the giggle of young girls began a rhythm of memories inside me. I wished that wherever she was under the sprawling wide sky, she had found something to smile about.
I went along on the first raid. There were constables and police inspectors, social workers, and rescue teams—cars and jeeps parked a distance away.
“No, not a good idea,” Dinesh told me when I insisted on walking through the lanes.
“Please, I have to,” I persisted. “I have to see where she lives, and the place she has been for all these years, the room she has lived in—”
“It should be all right, don’t you think?” Raza interrupted. “There are so many of us here.”
Dinesh sighed, walked to the rescue workers, told them something, whispered to the inspectors in the jeep, and then walked back to us.
“We will walk down the lane so you can observe the place. The others will follow slowly. I will give them a call when we are ready.” Dinesh told me, “We don’t want to frighten the pimps or the brothel owners or they will hide the girls in crates. Now, Tara are you sure you want to come inside the brothel? Many people find it difficult at first, to see such . . . hmm. I am just warning you.”
“I am sure she will be fine,” Raza said, looking at me. I nodded.
Raza, Dinesh, and I walked through the dimly lit, narrow alleys of Kamathipura. Some parts were swathed in yellow light from the streetlights and the stores lining the alleys. We crossed puddles of water left behind by a leaking faucet and passed garbage strewn on streets. The three-story buildings were old and dilapidated, looking ready to fall, and clothes swayed in the wind while scantily clad women peeked over them, watching us with interest. Was Mukta one of them now? Those scantily clad women with the flowers in their hair and that face paint . . . waiting, hoping . . .
My heart began crumbling with anguish, disg
ust. I had never seen a place like this before. Men loitered on streets with bloodshot eyes, women stood at corners in garish outfits and heavy makeup, some twirling their hair and beckoning passersby. Hijras dressed in saris smoked outside pan beedi shops, staring at us, letting out their torment in circles of smoke. Movie posters stuck on walls behind them depicted a life different than this. Bollywood music streamed through the area cleverly masking the apparent anguish that ran rampant here. Children defecated on the streets while some men were having a bath nearby. There was a man doubled over near an overflowing garbage can, muttering something to himself. The stench was becoming unbearable.
“Wait here,” Dinesh whispered to us. “The rescue workers are right behind us, and the police will be coming shortly. I have given them a call.”
We stood in a corner and watched. The place became chaotic as the police sirens came close, the shopkeepers hurriedly pulled down the shutters of their shops, and people began running away, throwing bottles on the streets so it would be difficult for the police to follow them. Raza and I were asked to sit in Dinesh’s jeep and wait for the chaos to subside. Within moments, police barged into the old buildings and brought the women outside, herding them into police jeeps.
“We have to go in to see if they have hidden anyone. I don’t think you should come in,” Dinesh told us. “My team is trained to do this, to get the women and children out safely.”
“I have to,” I said, getting down from the van. Raza followed me.
The doorway was barely lit. Sweat lingered in the unventilated, dark pigeonholed rooms we passed, the corridors slippery and damp from broken water pipes. Yellow light bulbs flickered in corners on the bare walls, the bunk beds in those rooms appearing to be reserved for prisoners. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned around and rushed outside. It was only when I was standing by the van, my arms tight against my chest, trying to breathe, that I noticed Raza next to me.
