The Color of our Sky: A novel set in India

by Amita Trasi

  “Are you all right?” he asked. I nodded.

  I could hear the calmness of his breath. He shifted as if suddenly becoming aware of his closeness to me, fished a cigarette from his pocket, pushed a match against the matchbox, and lit the cigarette.

  “They’ll be out soon.” He smiled at me, blowing smoke away from me.

  “Why are you always here for me?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Nobody is helping me. Why are you?”

  “Because Tara . . . maybe I know what it is to be all alone . . . we all need someone when we feel alone,” he said, flicking ashes to the ground.

  I looked away not knowing what to say. Things had calmed down around us. This lane had suddenly become deserted and silent. Dogs rummaged in rubbish; cows sat peacefully on the street. The women in the police jeep had begun to speak quietly. I scanned their faces, watching, hoping for a familiar face hidden behind a coat of face paint, those green eyes I had once left behind. But all I saw were their careful expressions never crossing the border of a smile, the pain in their eyes lingering somewhere between a child and an adult—lost—as if they don’t know who they were anymore.

  “We should go,” Saira suggested, and Raza drove us back.

  We waited at the center for Dinesh to arrive with the girls. Saira, Raza, and I had gone ahead. I watched the volunteers help women and girls out of the jeep. Dinesh walked inside.

  “We had 43 prostitutes who were arrested today—12 of them want to stay with us,” he told Saira.

  “What do you mean? Only 12?” I asked.

  “Some stay, some go back,” Raza explained.

  I ignored him and continued to look at Dinesh for an answer. “Go back? Why would anyone want to go back to that place?”

  “Not all of them are forced into this,” Dinesh told me. “We rescue only those who are forced into prostitution. But then, some of the girls are blackmailed into staying. They are afraid their parents in the village would be slaughtered if they came with us. Others—they don’t know any other life, no matter how much we try to convince them there is a life other than that, they don’t believe us. They have lost the ability to trust anybody.”

  “Oh,” I said, still looking at him as if he hadn’t answered my question.

  He lowered his gaze, “No, none of them match Mukta’s description.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said and marched to the room where the women were asked to wait.

  “Wait,” Raza shouted behind me,” you have to let Dinesh and Saira do what they are doing. They have been doing this for a very long time.”

  “Don’t try to stop me,” I shouted back at him as I entered the room.

  Dinesh and Saira followed me in.

  “Do any of you know this girl?” I asked, flashing a photograph of Mukta and me at the Asiatic library. Those closer to me shook their heads and the others just watched me with alarm as I went bursting toward them. I had folded the photo in half to hide my face and focus on Mukta’s face. But even as I thrust the photograph in their faces, not one of the women showed any sign of recognition. And the end of it, everyone—including Raza, Dinesh and Saira—were staring at me. I stood in that room full of women—silence and sorrow enveloping me.

  “Don’t give up hope,” Dinesh said finally as he led me out. “We’ve only raided a couple of the brothels. There are more, and finding someone who was kidnapped years ago is going to take time. You must have patience.”

  Have you ever stared into the sunset—so hard that you feel a deep connection with it? Felt the warm tingle of love, that overwhelming joy that crept inside you? That is what I felt when they placed my baby in my arms.

  –MUKTA

  Twenty-four

  2003

  The brothel was quiet today. It was the first day of the Diwali festival and the men must have been at home celebrating with their families. From my window, I watched the fireworks burst into the night sky, spreading their colors everywhere, traveling beyond the horizon into a world where Tara probably could see them too. Whenever I looked at the sky painted in so many colors, I always thought of Tara and wondered about what part of the world she might be in and if she still watched the sky like we once used to. I thought of that moment when my child would be born and put into my arms—I was sure I would have a daughter—and I would name her Asha. Only Tara would know as soon as she heard that name. It was a memory shared only by the two of us.

  I thought of that day, back then. It was another day of Diwali—just like this one. Tara and I were teenagers. The air was filled with our laughter and giggles. I had drawn a beautiful rangoli outside their apartment, lit diyas, and painted those earthen lamps with designs. That morning, Tara and I were taking a plate of sweets to one of Tara’s mother’s friends who lived across the street. Everything around us was lit up, buildings painted and decorated; people waved at each other and said, “Happy Diwali!”

  On our way, we saw a small crowd gathering at the side of the street. Out of curiosity we nudged our way to the front of the crowd. It looked like a doll had fallen to the ground—fragile and small, wrapped in a white cloth. Mud on the side of the street formed a mound. There were paw marks on the side of it where a dog had dug the bundle out, pulling it with its teeth, unraveling it to reveal a face. There was a stench around this place, and I thought it must have been from the construction site not very far from here. The workers left the place dirty with leftovers from their lunch, and of course, there was the stench of their open toilets.

  Tara wanted to pick up the doll so she walked ahead to touch it.

  “Don’t touch, don’t touch,” a woman shouted. Tara and I took a couple of steps back. A man pulled us back firmly.

  “What?” Tara protested. “It is only a doll.”

  “Shh,” the woman cried, her eyes tearful and still focused on the doll. Another lady stood beside her and put her hands in the air, wailing like someone had died. We looked at her as if she had gone mad. More and more people had begun gathering around us, some sighing, some whispering, “Who would do such a thing?”

  I watched their sad faces, thought about what they were saying, and stared at the doll for a brief moment. It took me a while to see what the others were seeing. It wasn’t a doll at all. It was a child, an infant not more than a few days old. Before long the police came in their jeeps, shooed us away, and closed off the area of the construction site.

  On our way back home we were silent, and I knew Tara was worrying about the baby as much as I was. That night I sat down in the kitchen, hoping the baby had found its way back to heaven. I wondered what it felt like to leave a world she had barely arrived in, to not know her mother the way I had known mine. Had she been glad to go away because she was a girl and her parents did not want her? In many ways, she was just like me. If she were alive, she would have known how difficult it would be for her father to love her, that the reason—the plain and simple truth—was that he did not love her.

  Tara came to the kitchen that night, and I knew she couldn’t sleep because of it.

  “You can’t sleep either?” I asked.

  She shrugged and pointed to the sky. “Do you think we will find her there . . . the baby?”

  “Of course, look there is a new star.” I pointed.

  “Do you think this happened to her because she was a girl?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you think she had a name?”

  I shrugged.

  “I’d name her Asha, Hope.” Tara paused and looked at her feet, “if she were mine, and I’d never let her die. I would look after her.” In the distance we could still hear the firecrackers bursting at this time of the night. We watched her—the baby in the sky looking down at us—until we fell asleep.

  I thought of that baby all through my pregnancy. And of Amma. It was incredible how much I thought of my Amma during my pregnancy. Her face, soft and delicate in my dreams, would smile at me and talk to me in her melodious voice. Her words were lilting,
comforting. During this time I was crazy with joy, and my heart surged with love. Creating life had melted the iciness in my heart. Everybody could see it in the shine of my skin, in the rhythm of my movements.

  But in the last few months, everything changed. My skin had become itchy and dry, flaking off like paper. The baby inside me didn’t let me sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan that whirred above me. I would get up and let my fingers trace the outline of a water pipe that jutted out of the wall in my room. I stood on a stool to reach the window and watched the shadows lounging in the dark alleyway below my room. The more I became aware of the weight of this new life inside me, the more thoughts sprouted in my mind.

  “You are concerned what will happen to the baby if it is a girl? But how are you so sure that it is going to be a girl?” Sylvie asked.

  I shrugged and didn’t reply. That was something I was sure of but couldn’t explain. The burden of my thoughts was heavy, and I carried it with me wherever I went. I remember those last days of pregnancy. I had awful mornings of being nauseous and when I had to go down the stairs to the bathroom, the girls in the brothel gave me bitter looks.

  “Make way, the queen is here,” one of them would say, spitting on the floor as I passed.

  “She thinks she is very lucky,” another would remark.

  “Why? She has Arun Sahib wrapped around her fingers. She can do anything she wants,” still another would say as I passed.

  Their words resounded in my ears. I must admit, at such times, I felt I was betraying them, refusing to partake of the pain we all had encountered together for so many years. In any case, the girls were right—I was lucky to be allowed no customers even if it was for a few months. No other girl could have afforded the luxury of privacy given to me.

  I shudder to think what would have happened if Arun Sahib hadn’t been in my life. Madam didn’t like it that I was left to do nothing on most nights. So I was put to work sweeping and scrubbing the floors of all the rooms in the brothel, squatting beside the water pump downstairs, washing clothes, rinsing and wringing them while all the girls of the brothel piled their dirty clothes beside me. Then she stood over me, reminding me I had debts to clear. I didn’t mind the hard work; it was way better than the life I had before I got pregnant, when the only thought in my head was how many customers would I have today?

  “You should tell Arun Sahib that Madam mistreats you. It is not good to do so much work during your last few months of pregnancy,” Sylvie warned.

  It wouldn’t have helped. I had heard Arun Sahib was an astute businessman, and Madam ran the brothel very well, earning him more money than the other brothels he owned. So at the most, Arun Sahib would have given her a warning, and that would have left Madam fuming. It wasn’t a wise thing to do.

  One night something stirred inside me. I could feel it while I slept. I could smell jasmine flowers, the smell of fresh earth after a pleasant rain wafting to me from outside the window. I could hear the baby’s gurgles, see the innocence in its eyes. It was a dream because I woke up drenched in sweat. A dull ache had begun to surround my stomach; a throb had begun in my back. I stood up and inched towards Sylvie’s room, the radiating waves of pain engulfing me as I doubled up outside. My pain synchronized with the throb of the music coming from her room. I looked inside. She shared this room with another girl, a curtain standing between their beds, a witness to what happened on either side. Sylvie found me lying on the floor and helped me up. She led me to a narrow, unventilated room that looked like a passageway. It was one of the many rooms I had my abortions in. This time I would be bringing another life into one of them. Sylvie asked me to lie down on a worn tattered mattress, the red of it weathered over the years. I waited for the wave of pain to come again while Sylvie assured me that the midwife was on her way.

  The midwife was new and inexperienced. I feared for my baby and thought Madam was deliberately trying to harm it by bringing in someone new. But the midwife was calm and collected, a woman with a round bindi on her forehead and eyes so warm they could melt your heart. I no longer worried. Instead I concentrated on the trickle of water on the walls of this room, on the paint peeling and falling to the side, and on the dampness inside. Sylvie got rags and water the color of dirt.

  “I’ve boiled the water,” she assured me.

  My thoughts drifted to Tara. Would she be having a baby? I imagined an attentive husband standing by her, escorting her to the off-white walls of a hospital, the nurses and doctors hovering over her, assuring her it would be a healthy baby.

  “You must push,” the midwife told me as another wave of pain embraced me. I clutched the sides of the bed, took a big breath, smelled the dust in the air, and pushed.

  This went on for several hours. Madam came by and asked Sylvie to get back to work. Soon it was only me and the midwife waiting in that lonely passageway to welcome my child. I must have screamed and wailed all night, waiting for the baby to emerge. She came kicking and screaming in the early hours of the morning, surrounded by the orange glow of dawn. She was so tiny when she was handed to me, her eyes barely open, her mouth constantly opening to let out cries from the shock of leaving my safe womb and arriving into this difficult world. That was the moment when the shock at what I had done set in—I had brought an innocent life into a world that wouldn’t treat her well. I had thought about this, but the dismay at my decision was apparent to me only when my child was born.

  Holding my baby, wrapped up in that bundle of cloth, I had flashes of that Diwali evening when Tara and I had watched that fragile child wrapped in white cloth—the one who had died—being buried for being a girl. It was only now that I truly understood the mother who had let her own child die. I understood how she must have decided it was best for the little girl, despite her inner turmoil and the guilt of her dangerous decision. I thought of the name again—the name Tara would have wanted for my baby.

  Tears fell from my eyes—from the fear of that memory or from the love that suddenly sprang in my heart for this little one in my arms, I didn’t know, but I wept like I had never wept before. And I knew I could never be like that mother. I could never harm my child.

  “What do you plan on naming her?” the midwife asked me, jolting me from my memories.

  “Asha,” I said. My hope in this life. My only hope.

  I read somewhere that one must keep walking against the strong winds of despair; waiting patiently on the high rocks of hope . . . as if it were that simple.

  –TARA

  Twenty-five

  2006

  I shouldn’t have been here in the first place. It wasn’t safe. It was a bad idea. Yet, despite all my fears, I managed to stand on this busy street, about to enter the Kamathipura area. Cars and buses honked behind me in the evening rush hour. Hawkers urged me to buy street food from their carts, and pedestrians rushed past me. I took a few steps away from that bustle and stood in a narrow lane between two buildings. If I continued down this road, I would find myself in the labyrinth of lanes they called Kamathipura. It was a dangerous, violent area filled with pimps and drug-addled men. Dinesh had warned me several times not to attempt to come here by myself. But it had been two years since my return to India, and after many brothel raids over these years, I was tired of waiting for the next one to happen, tired of the hope that surged through me when the women were being rescued, and most of all, tired of the disillusion that assaulted me after not finding Mukta among them.

  If Mukta lived here, she went into hiding during the raids. I hoped that if I came alone without the NGO or the police, and without the chaos they brought along, there would be a small chance Mukta would see me, recognize me, and not feel the need to hide anymore. It might have been a foolish naïve plan, but it was a chance I wanted to take.

  Above me, the orange rays of sunset scattered along the sky, and in the distance, I watched the paan beedi shops open for the evening. Young girls, as young as ten, were slathering makeup on their faces, getting ready for their
night’s work. One of them—a girl about twelve with bright red lipstick and a red dress—seemed to notice me and began walking toward me. When she came closer I realized she wasn’t looking at me at all but walking toward a pimp who stood a distance away. He was wearing a dirty white T-shirt with crumpled jeans. His unkempt hair fell over his shoulders. He glanced sideways but didn’t look at me. I hid behind the building. Sweat rolled over my temples onto my neck. Had he noticed me here? I told myself to breathe. In the distance, I could still hear the hawkers peddling their goods. I could run out of here into the busy street and never look back. It was my way out.

  I peered around the corner and watched the girl reach into her blouse and scoop out a few notes. She handed the money to the man. He stood there, his back leaning against a wall, and counted the money without lifting his head, while the girl returned to her place under an unlit streetlight. In the last two years during each brothel raid, I had navigated these lanes along with Dinesh and Saira’s team, looking into the eyes of pimps and brothel keepers. I knew this place; I knew the escape routes. But what if I couldn’t escape? Nobody knew I was here. I hadn’t told Raza or Dinesh. They would have dissuaded me.

  Standing there on that street, I knew this was something I had to do—if I could walk into danger to get Mukta kidnapped, I could definitely walk into this place to rescue her. Without giving it any further thought, I began walking toward it. The pimp continued counting his money and didn’t look at me as I walked past. The Bollywood music got louder, and children giggled as they played tag with each other, circling women who sat on the verandah, making dinner on the stoves. Thick smoke rose from the stoves and mingled with the smell of country liquor and the stink of garbage. The women became silent as I passed by and continued to stare at me. The pimps had to be nearby, hiding in corners where I couldn’t see them. All I wanted to do was walk around this place so Mukta could notice me, recognize me. I didn’t need to talk to anyone here, just keep my head down and walk through the area. At least that was the plan. Then I saw a woman who stood by the building, nonchalant about my presence. One hand was on her hip and in the other she held a cigarette. She looked at me, and then looked away. There was something about her look, about the way she hid her urge to ask for help. I found myself approaching her.