An Unrestored Woman

by Shobha Rao

  Night was falling. The wall of the building opposite loomed as the light thinned. A dinghy, I decided. They would have to be asked, I would have to hear. And in due course, steps would have to be taken. But for now, as if each layer of life had its proper place, everything beyond the asking was a blur.

  I let Jenkins help me to my feet. We were the same height and something about this detail made me lean over and kiss his cheek. “Let’s get married,” I said.

  He laughed kindly. “Before we do, shouldn’t I at least know your name?”

  “It’s Anju,” I said. “Anju, like un-leashed.”

  Jenkins led me to the elevator. He held my hand, and not until the doors slid open again on the ninth floor did he let go.

  BLINDFOLD

  Bandra wasn’t in the market for a girl but when she saw Zubaida she knew, even with a girl so young, that she would grow up to be beautiful. She had an eye for these things. She asked the driver of the horse cart to stop. “Where are we?” she yelled up to him. “Doran Pur,” he said. Bandra stepped out of the cart. The village of Doran Pur was small, just a sprinkling of low, unadorned huts. Farmers and shepherds, Bandra thought. And then she thought, Impoverished. She moved closer to Zubaida to get a better look. The girl was hardly four or five years old; she took no notice of Bandra. She was busy collecting firewood, kindling really, which was all her tiny hands could manage. But she was determined. She broke off branches from trees, the lower ones, the ones she could reach. She scoured the ground for stray pieces. She had a basket tied to her back in which she carefully placed each piece of wood. Bandra watched her with interest, and then turned to look for a mother or a sister. There was no one in sight. When she turned back, Bandra gasped. The girl had picked up a stick with something hanging. Something moving. It took a moment but then Bandra saw it: a snake. She nearly yelled out, ran to her, but before she could, Zubaida calmly picked up the snake behind its head—gray, with a brown threaded pattern to its scales—and held it. Its body coiled, its mouth yawned open, hinged and menacing, its head angled upward. Bandra thought she would fling it away, but instead the girl turned the snake around to face her and opened her own mouth wide. What was she doing? Bandra held her breath. Around them was a stillness, a quiet. Bandra heard the whine of mosquitoes. She’s challenging it, Bandra realized slowly, she’s challenging a snake. After a moment, there came a shout from one of the huts to hurry up and bring the wood, and when the girl heard it, she tossed the snake into a nearby bush and hurried off toward the village. Bandra watched her, and it was then that she decided she wanted her for the brothel.

  Bandra gave the girl’s father a silver coin to hold her, a down payment of sorts, with a guarantee that he would sell to Bandra when the girl was older. Eleven was the agreed-upon age. Four silver coins was the agreed-upon price.

  * * *

  Bandra was thirty years old, or so she guessed. Her mother had told her that she was born the year of some great Indian mutiny against the British. That was in 1857, or maybe 1856, and would put her at thirty or thirty-one. It didn’t matter; she was worn out. She had been married to her husband when she was twelve. He had been thirty-nine. He had owned a small plot of land, inherited from his father, but his true wealth had been in the trade of gur, which was sent swaying on the backs of donkeys across the Spin Ghar, through the Khyber Pass, and into Afghanistan. It had been lucrative, but he had gambled it all away. All of it. So that when he’d died, ten years ago, he’d left her the plot of flat, useless land, a mountain of debt, and three young children. She’d stood in the center of this plot of land and had known it could grow nothing—not even a shriveled sprig of cilantro—and so she’d sold everything, her modest pieces of jewelry, all the furniture in the house, livestock, and even her hair, and used the money to build the brothel and buy her first three girls.

  Her brothel was a simple affair: tucked into the outskirts of Peshawar, outside the walled city, it was a collection of six mud huts surrounding a central courtyard. Bandra’s was the seventh, and the biggest hut. Hers actually had a carved wooden almirah, windows, multiple rooms, and two doors, one that opened onto the courtyard and one that led into the street. The other huts had only one door, facing the courtyard, so that the girls had to pass through Bandra’s hut to leave the compound. Though, what reason was there for them to leave? Bandra provided all the food, clothing, and sundries they needed. In fact, they were so fond of her they called her Bandra-ma. Bandra was especially proud of this: that they felt close enough to her to call her ma. There were, of course, times when one or another of them needed a good beating, or she would have to force-feed one of the girls for a few days: the poor things sometimes got it into their heads that starving themselves would allow them to leave the compound. That was not so. Bandra recalled the death of that one sweet girl, what was her name? But that was long ago, and her family, when they’d been told, had merely shrugged.

  * * *

  Seven years passed. Bandra appeared again in Doran Pur, at the door of Zubaida’s parents. The father came in with his sheep late that night, and Bandra was waiting inside, sipping a cup of tea. The father, named Abdul Shahid, stopped in his tracks when he saw her. There were other children in the house, but Zubaida was nowhere in sight. “Where is she?” Bandra asked, her voice even.

  “Who?”

  “Your daughter. The one I bought.”

  “I don’t know. She’s run off.”

  Bandra smiled. “If that were true,” she said, “I would have known about it the week before she left. That’s how close my ears are to the ground. Now, where is she?”

  Abdul Shahid shuffled his feet, and finally entered his house. “Tea,” he called out to his wife. After a moment, he said, “We don’t want to sell.” He went to a satchel that was hidden between a pile of blankets. He undid a knot and held out a handful of coins. “Here is your money, with interest.”

  Bandra looked at the coins. She needed a new girl; she was down to four. Her customers had been dwindling. Besides, a deal was a deal. “You know the most interesting thing about a beautiful girl?” she asked the father.

  He stared at her.

  “It’s that you can’t keep her hidden for long.” Bandra knocked the coins out of his hand. “Find her,” she said.

  “No.”

  Bandra grew suddenly tired. She recalled Zubaida as she’d last seen her, a little girl, hurrying home, unaware of the danger she’d held so easily in her tiny hands. Bandra looked at the father and sighed. She was tired of the cowardice—the utter weakness—of men. She got up to leave.

  “What will you do?” the father asked, a slight trembling entering his voice.

  “I’m going to recover my investment.”

  “But I’m returning your money.”

  “I don’t want the money, Abdul Shahid, I want the girl.”

  He let go of the satchel and lunged toward her. But Bandra was by the door and slipped past him. She was at the boundary of his parched, pitiable land when he called out, “I’ll go to the malik.”

  “Go ahead,” she said, “and give him my regards. He’s my uncle.”

  * * *

  It took Bandra less than a fortnight to find her. She was in the tehsil of Charsadda, at the home of a distant maternal uncle. She knew her at once. And she had to laugh: Zubaida was playing outside when she arrived. Bandra simply walked up to her, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her into the waiting donkey cart. Zubaida screamed and screamed, and a few women and small children came to the door, but no one helped her. See, Bandra thought, women have more sense. Still, it was difficult getting Zubaida into the cart. She kicked and punched and pulled. She bit. At one point, in the twenty steps it took to reach the donkey cart, Zubaida yanked so hard that she left Bandra holding only a tuft of hair. She ran as fast as a tiny panther and Bandra had to tackle her from behind and pin her to the ground before she stopped squirming. When she finally got her into the cart, Bandra tied her hands and feet together with one long piece of ro
pe, then bound that rope around her own waist. She stuffed a cloth into Zubaida’s mouth. She waited a few minutes till she got her breath back then Bandra looked at her new purchase. The girl’s hair was in disarray. There were cuts and bruises on her arms and face, with a substantial gash on her cheek. Her clothes were ripped. She tugged at the rope around her feet and wrists, bellowed against the cloth in her mouth, shot daggers at Bandra with her eyes. But Bandra smiled, because she had been right: Zubaida was indeed beautiful.

  They rode through the countryside nearing Peshawar. It was a dry September, the land was a veil of dust, rising and falling with the wind. There were tiny fields here and there, in the distance, like paratha drying in the sun, but otherwise there was a wide and singing emptiness. The donkey cart was covered, and it rocked gently. Bandra dozed. Now that she’d found Zubaida, she’d have to send some men to teach her father a lesson. It was annoying, but necessary. Word traveled, and if even one father got away with it, she would lose all credibility. A deal, after all, was a deal. She thought about sending him the remaining three silver coins she owed for Zubaida but she decided against it: she’d use it to cover the cost and aggravation of finding her. Bandra yawned. Then she started thinking about her three children. She had two boys and a girl. The girl was with her grandmother in Nowshera. The two boys were in a British school in Rawalpindi. She obviously couldn’t raise them in the brothel, but she suspected there was something more to their distance. When she visited them, they were cold toward her, as if they didn’t know her, as if she were a distant relative they were forced to be affectionate toward. “I’m your mother,” Bandra said to them once, “remember me?” The younger boy, twelve years old at the time, said, “No.” The older boy shrugged. She had even less luck with her daughter. She was the youngest, eleven, and when Bandra visited her the girl turned away and walked out of the room. “Ma,” Bandra had asked, “why, why won’t they come to me?” And her mother, cryptically, had said, “What is there to come to? You’re a fog, a mist.”

  A fog, a mist? What did they know, Bandra thought angrily, they were kept in nice clothes and the best schools without lifting a finger. She looked out of the opening in the cart and saw low hills in the distance. They were blue, shadowed at sundown. Next to the cart was a lone tree and a bird flew onto one of its branches. Then another. Soon, before the tree receded away, there was a row of birds. Chirping, but mostly silent. Watching. What did they see? Bandra wondered. A cart. A tied-up girl. A fog, a mist.

  She closed her eyes.

  When they arrived at the compound, Gulshan was waiting for them. She was not Bandra’s favorite, but she had been here the longest, since she was eight; she was now fourteen. The men liked her well enough, she had the eyes and the lips of a child, but she lacked something. Maybe it was sense, Bandra sometimes thought, or maybe it was daring. She had some regulars because they could do with her what they wanted; she was compliant. Her utter obedience was not at all surprising: Bandra had found her dirty and covered in lice in a hovel in Wazir Bagh, her father had beat her every day, and there had been so little food in the family that when Bandra had given her her first meal in the brothel of dry roti and a bit of dal, Gulshan had fallen to her knees and wept.

  “Bandra-ma,” Gulshan began as soon as they entered the courtyard, “Siddiqah started her monthly, during, you know, and now the customer refuses to leave. He wants a refund.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the sitting room.” The sitting room was in Bandra’s hut, where the customers entered and paid.

  “She’s early,” Bandra said, to no one in particular. Then she looked at Zubaida. She just stood there, blinking, the cloth still stuffed into her mouth, her wrists and ankles still bound. She untied the rope at her waist. “Take her to the green door,” she told Gulshan.

  It was not really a door, just a curtain, but each girl had a different color. Gulshan’s was red. Siddiqah’s was blue. And Zubaida’s would be green. There were of course wooden doors behind the curtains, but the colors made it easier for the customers. Bandra watched her hop away, being led by Gulshan. How odd, she thought, that she was suddenly so docile. It was surprising, but it always came, eventually: the acceptance that this would be their life, and that whatever had come before was of no consequence: the love of a mother, the cradle of a lap, the laughter of siblings, the one cup of evening tea passed from hand to hand, the long and wistful evenings watching a far horizon. To this end, Bandra had insisted, when the compound was built, that none of their rooms have windows.

  She turned and walked to her sitting room, the customer was waiting.

  * * *

  Bandra let a few days pass, Zubaida’s cuts and bruises needed to heal. The men, they wanted to be the ones to make them. She fed her well: two rotis a day, plenty of dal, the choicest pieces of mutton. She was a little on the thin side, which was typical of girls from the countryside. But with each passing day, Zubaida grew plumper, her skin regained its flawlessness, her hair, oiled and combed, shone like moonlight. It was only her docility that bothered Bandra. She didn’t trust it. It was too complete. And another thing: she refused to call her Bandra-ma. She didn’t call her anything. She hardly spoke. In fact, she never actually addressed Bandra or any of the other girls directly. She whispered, every now and then, and only with Gulshan.

  “What does she say to you?” Bandra asked.

  “She asks questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, why are we here? Why don’t we have windows? Why did that lady buy me? Why can’t we go outside? Things like that.”

  Bandra smiled and said nothing.

  After two weeks, she dressed Zubaida in various clothes until she found the right ones. Gulabi was her color. She drew a thick line of kohl around her eyes and painted her skin with henna. Bandra stood back. The blouse was low cut but not overly revealing. The girl had small breasts, no larger than a baby chikoo but that made no difference; men liked the suggestion of childhood. She grabbed Zubaida by the chin, hoisted her face up to meet her eyes, and said, “Your name is now Layla. Don’t forget.” Then she sent for her oldest and most regular customer, Abdul Kareem. He was forty-eight, a well-to-do wheat merchant, and he had paid extra for the virgin. When he came in she could see the lust dancing in his eyes.

  “What’s her name?” he asked.

  “Layla.”

  “Ah.” He sighed. “Just like in the lover’s tale.”

  “Yes,” Bandra said, “just like that.”

  She hadn’t told Layla what to expect. It was better not to. She waited outside, as she always did with her new girls. At first she heard tussling. Later there were screams, the girl’s, followed by low grunts. Then a loud thump before it went quiet. When Abdul Kareem came out of her room, he and Bandra went straight to her sitting room. “Feisty.” He smiled. Bandra looked at his face and saw scratches on his neck and chin. He showed her a bite mark on his arm. Bandra was apologetic but Abdul Kareem said, “Oh no, oh no, you should charge extra.” After that, the stream of customers for Layla was steady. Six, seven a day. Bandra watched her carefully. She was still obedient, eating only what was given her, speaking only with Gulshan, but on some mornings Bandra noticed that her eyes were red. She once spied mysterious burn marks on her ankles. One evening she handed her a knife, the curved one attached to a flat wooden base, to cut vegetables and Layla reached for it and then she stared at it. And then, for the first time, she smiled. After that, Bandra instructed Gulshan to keep all sharp objects away from Layla. She stripped her room down to its barest: a cot stuffed with straw, a wool blanket, a cushion for the customers, a wooden hook by the door, to hold the men’s caftans, and a chamberstick for the candle. She took the candle. But she left a small decorative rug on the wall. It was pretty, and after all, what harm could it do?

  * * *

  Two years went by. The number of customers for Layla only increased. She was busy from early afternoon to late at night. Sometimes with two or three at the s
ame time. Even if Bandra had given her father the remaining coins, she would have made it back many times over. She was pleased, and even though Layla still only spoke one or two words to her, Gulshan passed on whatever there was to know. And once, Abdul Kareem, who now requested Layla at least three times a week, said to Bandra, “She kept repeating the same name, over and over again.”

  “What name?”

  “The name Zubaida,” he said, perplexed. “Who is Zubaida?”

  Bandra looked away. “No one,” she said.

  At dinner that night, Bandra grabbed Layla’s hand as she reached for the roti. “I told you,” she said, “your name is Layla. Did you forget?” Their eyes met. The other girls stopped eating. Layla looked at her, a glint of melancholy, near sadness, coloring them for an instant. Then she closed them, slowly, as if she was struggling with something—something indescribably painful—and when she opened them, she took her free hand, her left, and flipped her plate over. The plate, piled high with brinjal and potato curry, clattered against Siddiqah’s plate. It rolled to a stop in a far corner. Bits of curry spewed across the floor and down the opposite wall. It dripped down their clothes, their hair. Bandra yanked Layla up by the arm and dragged her to the almirah. She pushed her inside. To fit in the wardrobe, Layla had to pull her knees to her chest, crumple her body into a tight ball. Bandra locked the door and left her there till morning.

  Two or three weeks after that incident, just before daybreak, Bandra was walking through the courtyard when she heard a sound. She stopped. It was summertime, and the heat was scorching. Waves of hot air, thick as walls, streamed in from the valleys. Only the early mornings were cool, and so she’d gotten up in the dark to bathe. She stood in the courtyard and listened. The sound was coming from Layla’s room. She tiptoed closer. It was Layla; she was talking. It was only a hush, a whisper, but it was definitely her voice. Bandra leaned in. The door was open, for a breeze, with only the curtain pulled across it. She could hardly hear but it sounded like she was having a conversation with someone. But who? Bandra yanked the green curtain aside. At first only darkness. Then, in a far corner, Layla huddled on her cot.