by Eric Brown
Osborne had told her to use a flier, but she noticed that there was a train station just outside the hotel, and that it travelled south all the way to the spaceport. The last-but-one station before the ‘port was at one end of Chandi Road. She would be able to get off there and walk down the street, looking out for Pakara on the way.
To hire a flier, to arrive in minutes, would be to rush into the reunion and in some way devalue it. A part of her wanted to meet Pakara this minute, but another part was enjoying the slow build-up. She folded the maps, paid for the coffee, and strolled from the grounds of the hotel.
She was unprepared for the ambush—in affluent Bangkok, beggars were rarely seen. After the sumptuousness of the hotel, the reality on the street was shocking. Sukara was immediately surrounded by half a dozen boys and girls, naked but for soiled shorts, jabbering at her in Hindi, palms outstretched. They tugged at her T-shirt, their whines plaintive, staring at her with beseeching eyes. As she approached the station, she handed them dollar notes, watched their faces light up as they ran away waving their wages.
She bought a ticket and waited on the southbound platform. Ten minutes later a bulky, rattling train—altogether different from the sleek bullet trains she was used to in Bangkok—eased itself into the station. The only similarity with Bangkok was that the carriage was packed. She hung on a strap for thirty minutes before a seat became free, then slipped into it gratefully and stared through the window.
Parks and polycarbon towerpiles flashed by, interspersed with streets at right angles to the track, all packed with regimented rivers of people. The train carried her though alternate districts, Thai and Indian, signalled by shop signs bearing the different script. Some areas, with street-stalls and shops selling Thai goods, crowded with her small, lithe fellow-countrymen, could have been districts of Bangkok. She felt she could easily make her home on the Station.
She opened her map of the upper-deck and checked off the passing stations, at every stop obsessively counting how many stations remained before Chandi Road. “I’m coming, Pakara,” she said under her breath. “You don’t know it, but not long to go now.”
The sense of anticipation built as the train neared Chandi Road. With only two stations to go, Sukara felt like shouting her delight to the whole carriage. They pulled from the last station before Chandi Road and she climbed to her feet and made her way towards the sliding doors, her legs almost giving way with excitement. She tried to imagine the look on her sister’s face when Pakara saw her.
The train slowed and drew into the station marked Chandi, and she thought her heart would burst with joy. She felt pressure behind her, and as the doors opened she spilled out. She found herself carried along with the crowd, through the station and down the steps. She remembered to turn left, struggling through the press on the street, and made her way south, towards Nazruddin’s. By her estimation, she had half a kilometre to walk before she reached the restaurant. The crowd thinned, became almost negotiable. She realised that hers was the only Thai face among so many hundreds of Indians, and that the majority of them were men. From time to time the press parted to make way for the passing of a ramshackle, khaki-coloured cow. She experienced a surge of amazement that this was where she would find Pakara.
Then ahead, to the right, she saw an unlit neon light spelling out the word “Nazruddin’s” against the old, cracked polycarbon facade of the restaurant.
She slowed down, buffeted by those behind her. She moved to the far side of the road, where the rate of flow was slower, like the shallows of some great river. She stopped by a stall selling sugar cane juice, bought a cup of the sickly sweet syrup, and stared across the street.
Half a dozen stalls occupied the sidewalk before the building, selling cooked foods and ice cream, plaster models of the Hindu gods and stacked boxes of incense. Sukara examined each stallholder in turn, and his or her helpers, but could see no one even slightly resembling her sister. She looked further along the line of stalls, to those on either side of Nazruddin’s, but in vain. Next she walked from stall to stall on this side of the road.
She crossed the street, fighting her way through the current of humanity, and arrived before an incense stall directly outside the restaurant.
The stall-holder saw her and gave a mercantile grin. He waved a box of joss sticks. “Wonderful scent, lady. Light an incense stick for Hanuman. Very cheap.”
“I look for girl,” she said in English. “My sister. You know her? She called Pakara—also called Tiger. She Thai, like me. Sixteen-year-old. You see her?”
The Indian pulled a frown and shook his head. He bellowed in Hindi to his neighbour. They exchanged a dialogue involving exaggerated gestures and much head shaking and nodding.
“My friend says over there you might find her, outside Nazruddin’s.” He pointed over his shoulder, to an area beneath the restaurant’s striped awning.
Sukara pushed through a knot of arguing men and stopped outside the restaurant. A dozen street kids, resting in the shade of the awning, stared at her with pleading eyes.
She looked around at the boys and girls, Indians and Thais, and the feeling of elation she had enjoyed all day suddenly and sickeningly evaporated.
“Baksheesh! ” a young boy cried. A little Thai girl approached Sukara and forlornly tugged at her shorts. “You give me baht, lady?” she said in their language.
Sukara, her legs weakening, sat down on the steps to the restaurant and looked from one beggar-child to the next. They were all, without exception, missing limbs. Most were without legs, their limbs removed above the knee, the wounds repaired with a messy cross-hatching of stitches. A couple of girls had arms missing. They presented a pathetic sight as they gazed at her, silent now, wondering what she was doing here.
“I’m looking for Chintara Pakarapat,” she said to the little Thai girl. “Do you know her?”
The girl slowly shook her head, watching her.
Sukara looked around the other children. “Perhaps you know her as Tiger?”
A little boy stared at her with wide eyes. “Tigerji?” He glanced around at his friends, talking to them in Hindi.
“Do you know her?” Sukara asked, her heart skipping.
The boy nodded. He spoke rapidly in Hindi. The Thai girl translated. “He says, he knows Tigerji. She’s not here anymore.”
“Does he know where she is?”
When the Thai girl translated, the boy shrugged, avoiding Sukara’s eyes. Another boy spoke up, “I get Prakesh, bring him here?”
“Prakesh?”
“He Tigerji’s friend. He tell you what happened.”
She stared at the crew-cut Indian boy. “What happened? What do you mean?”
The boy shrugged, ran off into the crowd.
Sukara said, “Did Tiger...” She pointed to the Thai girl’s stump. “Was Tiger like you? She have no...?”
A boy offered, “She have leg chopped off. Thunk! Here.” He gave his thigh above the knee a swift karate chop, grinning at her.
Sukara felt her stomach turn, her thoughts in turmoil. She wondered what might have been worse: life for Pakara as a working girl in Bangkok, or life here as a crippled beggar. She wanted to see Pakara, hold her, tell her that from now on everything would be okay.
She gestured for a stall-holder to bring her a soft drink, and when he did so she noticed the eyes of the street kids on her. She ordered a dozen more and handed them out, then took a sip of the syrupy cola. The stuff nearly made her sick.
The crew-cut boy emerged from the crowded street, dragging someone behind him. Sukara glanced up, heart thumping, but the someone in tow was not her sister. A thin, gangling one-armed Indian boy of about twelve gave her a quick glance, looked at the floor.
“You know Tiger?” she said in English.
Mute, Prakesh nodded.
“You know where she is now?” When he failed to reply, she went on, “You tell me, I give you dollars, okay? Where Tigerji?”
He would not lift his gaze from th
e ground.
Sukara pulled a crumpled dollar note from the pocket of her shorts and passed it to Prakesh. “Tigerji,” he said in a whisper, “she not here.”
“You know where I find her?”
Another shrug. Sukara wanted to take the boy by his shoulders and give him a good rattling. “You know anyone who know where she is?” she said.
Prakesh looked up, gazing into her eyes. She thought that he looked frightened. He nodded.
“Good. Take me see this person, okay? You do that?”
Prakesh spoke in Hindi to another boy, who flung a gesture along the street with a handless arm.
Prakesh told her, “I take you see Dr. Rao. He at Nawob Coffee House. He tell you.” He paused, said, “You give me more dollars, okay?”
“Take me Dr. Rao, then I give dollars.”
He nodded. Sukara left her unfinished cola on the step and followed Prakesh as he slipped quickly through the crowd, stopping occasionally to look back and ensure that she was following. They moved with the flow of humanity along the street towards the train station. Sukara looked up as the colossal shape of a low-flying voidship passed overhead, eclipsing the sun and plunging the street into premature dusk. She dodged the gold-tipped horns of a cow as it tossed its head, almost losing her footing. Prakesh disappeared up ahead. Sukara ran on desperately. He was waiting for her on the corner of the street. Across the road she saw a painted sign: Nawob Coffee House. Prakesh took her hand, led her through the street and up the steps into the building. The cool interior, after the heat of the day, hit her immediately and made her shiver. Indian gentlemen in suits sat at tables with tablecloths and drank coffee from tiny white cups. Prakesh led her to a table at the back of the room, situated in a raised alcove. He spoke in rapid Hindi to a small, balding man, turning to indicate Sukara.
The old man spoke quickly to Prakesh, then turned and resumed his conversation with three other Indians.
Prakesh joined Sukara. “Dr. Rao see you in two minutes, okay?”
She pulled a handful of dollars from her pocket and handed them to the boy. He took the notes, stared at them as if in wonder. He glanced at Sukara, an indecipherable look in his big brown eyes, almost as if he did not want to take the money, but could not bring himself to give it back to her. Avoiding her eyes, he clutched the notes in his fist and ran from the restaurant.
Dr. Rao called out, “Girl! Take a seat. I will be with you presently.”
Nodding meekly, Sukara found an empty table and sat down. Dr. Rao gestured to a waiter, who brought her a cup of coffee. Sukara gazed around the room, aware that she was the only girl among so many men. From time to time she felt their scrutinising eyes on her. She stared at the frothy disc of her coffee, wishing that Dr. Rao would quickly finish his business and join her.
She thought of the anticipation with which she had set out from the hotel. Things had not gone the way she had expected. But how could she have foreseen that her sister would have ended up as a beggar girl with one leg? The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to cry.
She wondered if legs could be replaced with modern surgery. Many miracles could be performed now, if you had the money... She thought of Osborne. Surely he would help her? Surely he would agree to repairing Pakara’s missing leg? The thought made her smile with pleasure.
A shadow crossed the table. Sukara looked up at the tiny Indian in a sand-coloured jacket and tight white leggings. He sat down opposite her, his hands resting before his chin on the handle of a walking stick.
He stared at her from behind old-fashioned spectacles, taking in her scar. “And you are?”
“My name Chintara Sukarapatam, sir. I look for Pakara—Tiger, my sister.”
He removed his spectacles, massaged his eyes. He replaced them and stared at her, blinking.
“The world is a very cruel place, Chintara Sukarapatam,” he said. “Do you work?”
She blinked at the question, surprised. “Yes, sir. I working girl—was working girl.”
“A gentlemen’s lady.” He nodded. “Then you do not need to be told of the many and various iniquities that fate places in one’s path.”
Sukara smiled timidly. “Sorry.” She gestured with a small shrug of her shoulders to indicate that she did not understand.
“When Tiger came to me, she had recently arrived from Thailand. By all accounts the journey was precarious and life-threatening. She was lucky to survive the crossing. As fortune had it, she found her way to my sanctuary. She did not wish to return to her former profession as a working girl, which I found quite understandable. Instead I found her other work.” He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose in a gesture of self-importance.
“Tiger—how she lose leg?” Sukara asked.
“It was... infected. There was no option but to amputate.”
She repeated the word. “What it mean?”
“Remove, girl. Chop off. From then on, she worked on the streets.”
“She beggar girl, like others?”
“An honourable and noble profession. Tiger had a good life in my sanctuary. She wanted for nothing.”
Sukara frowned, stared at her empty coffee cup. She could not understand much of what the little man said, but something made her wonder why he was not telling her where Pakara was.
“Dr. Rao—you know where my sister is?”
It was not his words that alerted her to the truth of what had happened, but a certain gesture. He reached his hand across the table and placed it protectively on top of hers. In that instant, she knew.
“I am very sorry, girl, but your sister has passed on.”
She heard the words but after that all was silence. Dr. Rao might have uttered more empty consolations, but she was deaf to everything. All she could hear was a great, distant roaring in her ears, and she felt removed from the proceedings. The phrase “passed on” didn’t seem right to describe what had happened to Pakara, at once informing her of what had happened, and yet telling her nothing.
“Pakara...” she whispered, “Pakara dead? My sister dead?”
Rao patted her hand. “I’m very sorry.”
She felt unable to respond physically, cry or shout or jump up and hit out, though she wanted to do all these things. It was as if a giant hand was holding her in paralysis. She thought of Pakara’s message, which had said she was well; she thought of the hope with which she had left the hotel. It was impossible that her hopes had been dashed so rapidly, impossible that her little sister was dead.
“Pakara tried a drug,” Dr. Rao was saying, “a very lethal drug. She overdosed and slipped away peacefully.”
Sukara echoed, “Peacefully...?”
“She was in no pain, of that I can assure you.”
Sukara was shaking her head.
The world was cruel—to offer her so much, and then to take it all away.
“Where are you staying?” Dr. Rao asked her.
“What?” The question did not make sense, had no relevance to what she was experiencing.
“I said, where are you staying? I’ll take you to a flier rank.”
She had to force herself to concentrate on the name of the hotel. At last she said, “Ashoka, the Hotel Ashoka.”
Dr. Rao nodded. He paid the bill, took her hand, and led her from the restaurant. As they made their way down the crowded street, Sukara gripped the old man’s hand even tighter, and it was as if she were a girl again, holding the hand of her father as he took her to the morning market in the village.
They arrived at a flier rank and Dr. Rao assisted her into the back seat, then spoke to the driver and handed over rupees.
Before the flier took off, he looked in through the open window and said, “Pakara had a special friend, a man named Vaughan. He was with her when she passed away. He arranged her funeral. If you wish to speak to him, he spends the evenings at Nazruddin’s Restaurant. I’m sure he will talk to you if you wish.”
Then, before she could thank Dr. Rao, the flier took off. She
sank into the seat as the flier accelerated, and closed her eyes.
A flood of memories returned, of Pakara, so small in Bangkok, a tiny waif. She pulled the pix from the pocket of her shorts and stared at it: Pakara, aged ten, poking her tongue in mischievous glee. Sukara felt a surge of painful grief in her chest.
Back at the hotel, she hurried to the lift, endured its agonisingly slow ascent, then sprinted along the corridor. The door was unlocked—which meant that Osborne was back. Her heart swelled in pain and gratitude. She ran into the lounge and stopped. Osborne was at the window, and turned when she entered. He stared at her, and his expression crumpled into the mirror image of the anguish she knew contorted her own features. He reached out. “Su, Su—I’m so sorry.” And without asking how he knew, only grateful that he somehow shared her grief, she ran across the room and into his arms.
