The Lost Daughter of India

by Sharon Maas

  ‘Going to grab a bite to eat, then back to my hotel, probably. What about you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to get my bag. I stayed at the Taj last night – Caroline insisted – but I want to move out. What’s your hotel like? Do they have room? Is it far away?’

  ‘Probably, yes,’ said Janiki. ‘It’s about half an hour from here. I’ll take you there, if you like, and you can ask.’

  ‘Fine. Let me just get my stuff.’

  He slipped into the hallway and into the kitchen, returning with a small backpack slung over one shoulder.

  ‘Are you hungry? I was just about to go for a meal.’

  ‘Very,’ he replied. ‘I’ll come and eat with you – if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, and to herself added, not at all. Quite the contrary. Their eyes met, and Janiki had the distinct feeling that Kamal read that thought, because he smiled a secret smile, and so she smiled back; but he had already turned away, and was trying to flag down a taxi on the busy street. And so she did the same. It was a while before one stopped, and they both got in.

  ‘Whew,’ said Janiki as she slid along the back seat to make room for him. ‘Bombay traffic is even worse than in Madras. It sounds impossible but it’s true.’

  She leaned forward and showed the driver her hotel’s card. He nodded and drove off.

  ‘We’d probably be there quicker if we walked,’ said Kamal after ten minutes of stop-and-go driving.

  ‘True – I came this morning early and it wasn’t so bad. It took half an hour. With this traffic, though, it’ll be twice as long.’

  ‘Well – I suggest we find a place to eat nearby, and then go to the hotel later, when the traffic is maybe a bit better.’

  ‘Yes, let’s do that. You talk to the driver, ask him to take us somewhere good nearby.’

  Kamal leaned forward and exchanged a few words in Hindi with the driver, who nodded and turned on his indicator. This new street was less congested, and after a few more traffic lights, a few more minutes of standstill and crawling, they arrived at a brightly lit restaurant. The taxi stopped, they emerged, Kamal paid and they entered the restaurant, where a waiter in a white jacket showed them to a free table and handed them menu cards.

  ‘Wow – this is a bit fancier than I expected,’ said Janiki.

  ‘My treat,’ said Kamal. ‘I owe you so much. I can’t even begin to thank you. Coming all this way to help…’

  ‘Why should you thank me at all? I love Asha. I am her chinna-amma. I raised her like my own child, even though I was really a child myself. I need to find her as much as you and Caroline. I feel terribly responsible for what happened. I should never have left her with Paruthy Uncle. I need to find her too!’ Tears stung her eyes and she raised her menu card so he would not see.

  Kamal laid a comforting hand on her wrist.

  ‘We have to. We just have to,’ she said, almost sobbing.

  ‘We will.’

  They were both silent then, inspecting the menu cards.

  Then Janiki looked up and began:

  ‘The thing is, Kamal—’ She stopped, chuckled, and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you Kamal. Somehow I can’t call you Kamal Uncle any more!’

  He laughed. And it was the most open, natural, relaxed thing he had done since she’d first seen him here in Bombay, and she couldn’t help but laugh out loud too. And in that moment of laughter their eyes met and something surged in her and she could only call it joy – a deliciously warm, utterly satiating sense of completeness; joy, expelling for the moment the gloom and despair that had held her in its grip, banishing the exhausting sense of futility that had nagged at her throughout the day. All that darkness fled in the instant that their eyes met; they were as one, aligned, lifted up together in this one moment of freedom from anguish.

  ‘Don’t you ever call me Kamal Uncle again!’ said Kamal. His words shattered the spell, and at the same time established a new intimacy that warmed her from tip to toe. They regarded each other with smiling eyes for a moment longer, and then the waiter appeared and took their orders and everything was back to normal; except it wasn’t.

  Meals ordered, they looked at each other again. Janiki thought it was her turn to speak, but she didn’t know what to say and suddenly it felt awkward – how do you deal with such a sudden and silent rapport with someone you don’t really know at all? Does one make small talk, or get down to discussing the serious issue that engulfed them both? Should they talk about personal matters: his life, her life? But then Kamal solved the problem by speaking first.

  ‘So what do you do all day on that computer?’ he said. ‘It’s almost like your best friend.’

  She chuckled wryly. ‘You’re sort of right. I can’t stay away from a computer for too long. But you have to admit it’s been useful. Look where we are! Everything we know about Asha, we found out through a computer and the Internet.’

  ‘Yes, but what are you actually doing?’

  ‘Same thing you all are doing: searching for Asha.’

  ‘In a computer?’

  She nodded. ‘Digging. Following leads. Analysing. It’s quite fascinating what you can find.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘Well, for instance, I’ve tried to find some access to online communities that traffic in children in India. I thought maybe I could discreetly ask around for this Mr Chaudhuri. I thought maybe these people know each other and exchange knowledge. So I managed to get into a chat room and I am there right now, just listening at the moment.’

  ‘What’s a chat room?’

  ‘Well, it’s what it sounds like – a gathering of people talking, just like in real life, except that you don’t see each other, and they chat in writing instead of talking. It’s called the Lotus Pond. A secret room. It was very hard to find, but I did in the end. Everybody has a secret ID and they discuss whatever they want to discuss. You can pretend to be someone quite different. You basically make up a character and then chat away.’

  ‘What do you chat about?’

  ‘Girls, of course. The younger the better. Occasionally boys. It’s pretty disgusting, I can tell you.’

  ‘So you have a secret ID in this chat room?’

  ‘Yes. But I haven’t written anything yet. I’m just lurking, as they call it. Eavesdropping. I made myself a male ID. My chat-room name is Foreigner.’

  ‘Why Foreigner?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s just a stupid ID name, a handle. Everyone has silly handles. One guy calls himself Moviestar, and another is Millionaire. Some just have place-name names like BombayBoy or MrBengal, or even a real name like Ashok. It’s play-acting in a way. Foreigner just popped into my head because I feel so foreign here now. This place – what am I doing here? It’s not me. But I have to find Asha!’

  He nodded. ‘I know. I’m a foreigner too, in my own task. It’s all so – alien. I’m dreading tomorrow night when I have to do some real life play-acting.’

  ‘What are you going to be doing?’

  ‘Sudesh has discreetly put me in touch with some fellow who deals in young girls – a pimp, I guess, though they didn’t use that word. I’m supposed to be a foreign-returned Indian visiting Bombay who’s looking for action with very young girls, preferably foreign-looking, fair-skinned. It’s grim. Horrible. But this guy, this pimp knows all the networks and I’m hoping that this Mr Chaudhuri is one of his contacts and – well, it’s all very vague. I’m going to have to play it by ear.’

  ‘What if they take you to a real girl and it’s not Asha?’

  Kamal shuddered. ‘It turns my stomach.’

  They were both silent for a moment, contemplating the horror of it all. A young girl, who wasn’t Asha, caught up in a net of iniquity. A girl, every bit as precious, every bit as lost; but not Asha. Kamal would have to walk away…

  ‘And that’s not the only problem, Kamal.’

  She paused.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’d never conv
ince them. You just don’t look like that sort of a man.’

  ‘What sort of a man?’

  ‘You know. Rough. Ruthless. A man who would – rape – a young girl. Anyone could tell at a glance.’

  ‘I’ll just have to act really well then. I used to be a good actor, back in the day. As for my looks – there’s a profession called make-up artist. Actors use them all the time.’

  ‘Still – you can’t change your eyes, Kamal. Your eyes show who you are. They show kindness.’

  ‘You’re saying I’m a wimp? A softy-wofty?’

  ‘No. A good man,’ she said, almost whispering. ‘A caring man. A man who would do anything in the world to save his daughter.’

  Again, their eyes met. Again, that sweet warmth washed through her.

  ‘That’s not weakness, Kamal,’ she added, ‘it’s strength. A quiet strength, but a strength all the same. The mistake you men make is that you think strength is domination, control, bullying, even. It’s not. Compassion is the true strength.’

  ‘I know that, Janiki. I was just teasing. I know that strength. It’s why women are the stronger sex after all. That old maligned role of nourisher, carer: it has made them so very strong.’

  ‘And you are like that; and you’re going to need every bit of it in the role you’ve chosen to play. Going into the dragon’s den, pretending to be a dragon yourself…’ She shuddered.

  ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, as they say in America.’

  ‘I guess I have the easy task, sitting at a desk tapping stuff into a computer. But I do think that’s the best task for me, Kamal. I’m not trying to avoid the real-life things you and Caroline are doing out there. It’s just what I’m good at, and it does bring results.

  ‘Like in this chat room, if I ever decide to come out of hiding – it’s called de-lurking – I can do the same thing you’re doing: I can say I’m looking for a foreign-looking young girl, fair-skinned, English-speaking. One of the reasons I chose Foreigner as my nickname is that I don’t speak Hindi and a lot of the chat is in Hindi, or half-Hindi half-English. So if I ever de-lurk I’m going to say I’m foreign-returned and living in Bombay but my native tongue is Tamil and that’s why I can only chat in English. English is the one language that connects us all in India, wherever we live. It’s the one good thing the Raj left behind.’

  ‘Supposedly,’ said Kamal. ‘So, basically, we’re doing the same thing, just that you’re doing it behind a screen and I have to go out there and face the real horror of Kamathipura.’

  Janiki nodded. ‘I’m sorry. It sounds so cowardly. But trust me, it works. We wouldn’t even be here at all if it wasn’t for computers and Internet.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you. You’re actually getting results, unlike the rest of us. But—’

  ‘Kamal! I just had an idea! A brilliant one!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why don’t we combine tactics? Why doesn’t Foreigner come out of lurking, start talking in the chat room, say that he’s a foreign-returned Indian looking for that kind of girl – what if the people behind Asha contact Foreigner, and we set up a date, and then YOU turn up, as Foreigner?’

  ‘But how will we know it’s Asha I’m meeting?’

  ‘Trust me, that’s how it works. People chat online and make connections and then they connect privately through direct messages and arrange meetings and so on. The things I’ve seen, Kamal – it would make you sick. One man offered his own daughter! Can you believe it!’

  ‘Believe me, I can. But—’

  ‘Listen, Kamal, it’s brilliant. I’ll pose as a very rich foreign-returned, OK? Build up a whole identity for Foreigner: back from America, an engineer, mid-thirties – describe the real-life you. And then I describe the kind of young girl I want. And I bet there aren’t many girls like her in Bombay. I bet I’ll get some offers. I’ll then set up direct messaging. If people offer me girls like that, I’ll ask for a snapshot. I can always say I don’t like the snaps, until Asha turns up. And when she does, I set up the meeting. And you go and get her. Somehow.’

  ‘It sounds good, Janiki. But it’d take days. Weeks, even!’

  ‘None of us has anything that will be any quicker. Looking through the telephone directory for the right Chaudhuri? Posing as a journalist? Pretending to be a customer? All of those tactics could take days or weeks. My method, at least it sorts the wheat from the chaff in advance. You don’t know for sure if this guy you’re going to meet has Asha, do you? You’re just guessing?’

  ‘Well, yes. But…’

  ‘But my idea is quicker, much quicker. People can hide online the way they can’t in real life. I’m telling you, the Internet is going to explode in the next few years with all the possibilities. It’s connecting the whole world, strangers chatting and getting to know each other without ever leaving their homes. My way, I can maybe dig right down to the centre of things. These people are savvy, Kamal; they work with the latest methods now because that’s where the money is. They are all online. It’s big business. Everyone keeps saying that finding Asha is like looking for a needle in a haystack; well, I’ll tell you this, if anything can find a needle in a haystack, it’s a computer!’

  ‘If you say so. But I still need to keep that appointment tomorrow, right?’

  ‘Of course. And tomorrow I’ll get up bright and early and get moving as Foreigner.’

  By now they had finished their meal. Kamal summoned the waiter, and paid.

  ‘So, what are you doing now?’

  ‘Going back to my hotel, I suppose. And you wanted to check in there, didn’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of the internet shop near the hotel. Do some more research.’

  ‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow? Have you been to Juhu Beach yet?’

  ‘No, of course not. I basically went straight to Tulasa House.’

  ‘Shall we go there now? Go for a walk, stretch our legs? You need to get away from that computer, Janiki. Let’s do that.’

  She nodded. ‘OK. And anyway, there’s some more things I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Really? Sounds mysterious. What?’

  She shook her head. ‘Later. Let’s go.’

  Chapter 40

  Asha

  The lady came with me in the car, and it was night. We sat in the back seat. It was a big nice car, but most of the time it was stuck in traffic. Bombay streets are full of cars. Cars everywhere and they move so slowly and always blowing horns. It would be quicker to walk, I thought, but maybe it was too far.

  The streets got narrower and narrower and then the driver stopped and the lady said we have to get out. She got out first and grabbed my wrist and almost pulled me out. She did not let go of my wrist. Come with me, she said, and led me into a narrow street. It was too narrow for the car – that was why we had to walk. It was a strange street. The houses loomed over the road and the upstairs windows were lit with red lights. And women sat at these windows, behind bars, looking down at the street. On the street practically everyone was a man. Except in the doorways to the houses. There was a horrible smell everywhere and loud music coming from the doorways. People stared at us as the lady led me down the street, still tightly holding my wrist. I wanted to run away and she must have known that and that was why she held my wrist so tightly.

  I will show you what happens to bad girls, she had told me earlier that day. I will show you. You have a week to reconsider. Mr Chaudhuri is a good man; you are such a fortunate girl, why are you being so stubborn? I will show you what will happen to you if you do not behave. You will live in that place for a week. If you do not learn to behave and obey that is where you will stay for ever.

  I had such a bad feeling about that place, that street, those houses. People kept staring at me and I did not like it. A rat ran across the road and almost ran across my feet. I screamed and the lady shouted at me. Shut up, she said. You asked for this. You think a rat on the street is bad? What about
a rat in your room, licking your fingers when you sleep because it smells the food you have been eating with your bare hands, and you did not have enough water to wash? What about the cockroaches scurrying across the floor and you hear their tiny footprints in your dreams? When you have been here just one night you will be begging me to go back to Mr Chaudhuri. It is then you will appreciate how fortunate you are that he wants you.

  But I did not feel fortunate to have the choice between the Bengali and this terrible place. What kind of a choice was that? I did not belong here. I belonged with Janiki. And all the time I screamed for Janiki. But it was a silent scream.

  I felt all cold inside and scared. The place seemed to be closing in on me and I could not escape because it was all around and the lady was holding my wrist so tightly. And people were looking at me and pointing and laughing and the smell was so strong I could hardly breathe.

  And then we entered a house, a narrow doorway where a woman squatting in the entrance spoke to the lady in Hindi and handed her something, I didn’t see what it was, and we went in. We passed by some other women standing or sitting on the floor in that narrow corridor. It was lit by a string of small blinking red lights. At the back there was a staircase leading up. The staircase was very narrow so she walked sideways, in front of me, still grabbing my wrist. Her fingernails were long and they dug into my flesh. It hurt.

  And then up another staircase and another. We had to be at the top of the house by now. And then a narrow hallway, and then we stopped at a door. There was a padlock on it. The lady produced a key and unlocked the door and opened it, and pulled me in behind her. The lady pressed a switch on the wall and a bulb hanging from the ceiling lit up the place behind the door.

  It was a small narrow room with some old bedding on the floor in a corner, and a pot with a cover on it. That was all there was in the room. The floor was dirty. It had not been swept for months or years. There were piles of dust on the floor and red smears on the floor, which was of old faded lino. There was no window. All the light came from that single light bulb, which was dirty. And the air was close and stinking.