Ticket to India

by N. H. Senzai

  13

  Caught

  STUCK BETWEEN BABU AND Ladu, Maya cowered beneath the tattered canopy of the cycle rickshaw, a scream caught in her throat.

  “Don’t even think of making any noise,” hissed Babu, his fingers digging into her shoulder.

  “Please,” Maya coughed out, wincing as Ladu wrapped coarse twine around her wrists. “Take my money; it’s yours. Just let me go.”

  Babu stared at her and laughed—a harsh, ragged sound. “You don’t even know the half of it,” he said, and turned away to keep a lookout.

  Eyes wide, she stared at the back of his head, fear and confusion flooding her mind. What else did they want? she wondered. Back in Karachi, when her mother had threatened that she would be kidnapped if she wandered away alone in the market, she’d wondered how she would react. She’d thought she’d panic, cry, and fall apart. But now she knew: She’d go numb and her mind would turn icy cold. Crystal clear, as if it were yesterday, she remembered the words of the police officer who’d visited her class the year before.

  If you are ever kidnapped, he’d instructed, try to get away before your abductor can take you to a second location. Watch where you’re going and remember the landmarks so you can find your way back.

  So Maya stared out the side of the rickshaw, ­muscles tense, eyeing landmarks, biding her time as they sped past a herd of goats wandering the early morning streets of Agra. If he’d just slow for a second, I could jump. . . . A chaiwallah stood across the street. Two women a block down rolled up the shutters at the Bharat Detective Agency: (MARRIAGE FRAUD A SPECIALTY read the sign). Maya desperately tried to meet the women’s gaze, but they were too busy. As she searched the street for any sign of help, the driver exited the business district, heading toward a bridge in the distance. Oh, no . . . They were crossing over the Yamuna River. Her stomach knotted as she recalled the map. They were going in the opposite direction of the train station!

  Catching a whiff of burning rubber, she looked up and spotted smoke rising from beyond the treetops. The driver pedaled on, bypassing a stalled car and turning onto a road crammed with small factories. The air was smokier here . . . and oddly quiet. The driver looked around nervously and Maya knew what he was thinking: Where’s the clang of machinery and the workers? At the next intersection, they stumbled onto the source of the smoke: the entrance to a sprawling cricket stadium rose in front of them, fires blazing across the pitch inside.

  “This is not good,” muttered the driver, back­pedaling.

  “Hey, hey, what are you doing?” argued Babu.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” muttered the driver, making a sharp U-turn. “I’m taking another route.” He drove back past the workshops and entered a neighborhood with narrow winding streets, poorly constructed shacks on either side with closed doors and shuttered windows.

  As they approached the main thoroughfare, a faint buzz sounded in Maya’s ears, which soon grew to a thumping roar. A hunched man ran by, pushing his vegetable cart, not caring as tomatoes splattered on the ground. Right behind him marched a mob—men in bright orange chanting, waving swords and banners.

  “Oh, no,” said the driver, eyes wide in a pallid face. He lifted the wooden cross hanging around his neck and slipped it inside his faded shirt.

  “Oh, bugger,” said Ladu.

  “Turn around,” ordered Babu.

  “I’m stuck, boy!” cried the driver, stopping between two parked cars and hopping off. “I’m leaving—you should too. These people aren’t to be messed with. They don’t take too kindly to those not like themselves when they’re riled up. I don’t fancy getting beat up, so I’ll be back for my rickshaw later.”

  “Come on,” said Ladu, dragging Maya down from the rickshaw while Babu followed with her backpack.

  They hid behind a stack of empty crates, musty with the smell of mustard oil. Between the gaps Maya watched two men pass, holding up a sign with the image of a tiger’s face along with words in Hindi she couldn’t read. A few gathered in the middle of the road, holding a length of green-and-white fabric. As one of them pulled out a box of matches, others unfurled the rectangular cloth—a green-and-white flag emblazoned with a star and crescent in the middle . . . the same as the one on the Pakistan International Airlines flight she’d flown on. Maya’s blood ran cold as the voracious blaze ate through the material and the crowd danced in frenzy.

  “No Pakistani dogs playing cricket here!” they chanted.

  Cricket . . . Maya remembered her grandmother and Muhi’s conversation. India and Pakistan were about to play a cricket match in Agra.

  “Pakistan not welcome till they turn over terrorists who bombed Mumbai!” added a barrel-chested man to additional cheers.

  Maya eyed the empty alley beside them, but there was no way she could make a run for it. “Who are they?” she whispered, not realizing she was speaking aloud.

  Ladu mumbled under his breath, “Hindu nationalists.”

  Fear pooled in her gut. “The RSS?” she asked, remembering the member of the group who’d killed Gandhi.

  Ladu gave her an odd look. “No,” he muttered. “They’re different, but they believe many of the same things. All I know is that when they’re mad, you don’t want to get in their way, no matter who you are.” He sat back, and while Babu played on his phone, he pulled a tiny picture from his breast pocket. From the corner of her eye, Maya saw that it was a photo of a young woman with a fat baby in her arms. When Ladu caught her peeking, he turned away, his gold earring flashing. So she lay her head on her knees and took a deep, calming breath.

  • • •

  Blinded by a bandanna, Maya winced, jolted by a pothole. She could sense they were getting farther and farther away from the train station . . . and her sister. Think . . . think. . . . What do I do?

  Once the mob had disappeared, the boys had stolen the rickshaw and pedaled west, through a park within a cluster of renovated colonial buildings, now upscale offices, trendy restaurants, and elegant boutiques. On the outskirts of town, they’d pulled over in a thicket of trees beside an old hotel to tie a bandanna over Maya’s eyes. Shrouded in darkness, she could feel the rickshaw circle a roundabout and zip down a bumpy road. Tossed about, she used the chance to push up the fabric, catching sight of sparsely developed land, edged by tall grass and thick hedges. Ladu slowed, navigating through a gap in the bushes. At the end of the dirt road stretched a metal fence, topped with sharp spikes, and beyond a locked, rusty iron gate stood a derelict two-story building, its rusted tin roof sloped over a line of smashed windows resembling broken teeth. Once beyond that gate, she realized she was at the second location the police officer had warned her about, and terror bloomed in her heart.

  Babu pulled her from the rickshaw, removed the bandanna, and pushed her toward the tall padlocked gates. They were unlocked, and before she could even think to run, she was dragged, knees shaking, across the dry grass toward the leering structure. Once they were up the rickety steps, Babu shoved her through a metal sliding door into a large open space. Maya blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting to the gloomy darkness. To the left stretched a storage space separated into different sections. A heap of old clothes was piled in the back, and beside it was a line of buckets filled with nuts, bolts, wires, and metal scraps. The largest corner was packed with plastic: plastic bottles, sheeting, wrapping, and bags. Beside these sprawled a workshop: tables piled with tools and bulky machines.

  As Maya scanned the walls, looking for an exit, Babu pushed her toward a row of open doors in the back, but her foot snagged on something soft, tripping her. Babu cursed but kept her from toppling over. When she looked down, her eyes widened. It was a blanket . . . and beneath it a small hand. Dark, tangled hair spilled out onto the floor. Horrified, Maya realized that rows of tiny bodies lay all around.

  “Take care of her,” ordered Babu, shoving her toward Pinto, who’d appeared like a sku
lking alley cat. Without a backward glance, Babu pulled out his cell phone and disappeared with her backpack.

  Muffling a yawn, Pinto shoved her into one of the empty rooms and locked the door. The room was a small and cramped space, stacked with old, mildewed bolts of cloth. Maya scurried toward an interior window fitted with metal bars, and peered out over the warehouse. She spotted Pinto and Ladu standing near her window, talking in hushed voices.

  “Look,” said Ladu, a worried look on his round face, “we’ve got to make sure we do better than last week.”

  “Yeah,” said Pinto nervously, licking his protruding teeth. “Boss looked like he was going to chuck us all out when he learned we didn’t make our quota.”

  “He can replace us faster than we can say ‘Bollywood,’” said Ladu. “And man, I’ve got nowhere to go. I can’t go back to my village . . . especially after what they did to my mother.”

  “Don’t worry, man,” said Pinto. “We’ll be fine.”

  Ladu gave him a sharp nod, then turned to walk down the line of sleeping bodies, nudging the tiny lumps under the blankets with his foot. “Wake up, lazy butts!” he bellowed. “It’s nearly eight o’clock.”

  “Ow,” came muffled yelps, coupled with grumbling.

  Fingers curled around the cold iron bars, Maya watched small, weary faces emerge. She stared openmouthed. They’re kids. Stories from the newspaper back in Pakistan tumbled through her mind—stories of orphans and runaways, of children sold to gangs by poverty-stricken parents. Heart slamming against her ribs, she saw that one of the boys had a missing arm. Another girl had a leg that lay at an odd angle, like it had broken and never healed properly. She gulped with fear. Gangs in Karachi deliberately mutilated kids so that they would get more sympathy and money when sent out begging. Did these people do the same thing? Panicking at the possi­bility, she gasped.

  “Who are you?” A voice speaking Hindi pierced through her fear. Maya looked down at a little girl in crooked pigtails staring at her with curious, almond-shaped black eyes. Beside her stood an even tinier girl, with a smudged, dirty face and a too-short blue dress. “Who are you?” the larger girl repeated, louder this time.

  “Uh, my name is Maya,” she responded in Urdu, reflexively adding, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Guddi,” said the girl, swaying side to side, her small frame enveloped in an oversize pink jean jacket covered with sparkling rhinestones.

  “And what about your friend?” Maya asked, eager to talk to someone.

  “Oh, this is Mini,” said Guddi. “She likes to follow me around.”

  Mini ducked her head and grabbed a corner of Guddi’s jacket.

  “Where are your parents?” asked Maya.

  “My parents are dead,” Guddi said in a matter-of-fact tone. “We lived with my aunt, but she didn’t give us any food and beat me when I peed in my bed.”

  “That’s terrible,” gasped Maya.

  Guddi shrugged. “My brother’s clever,” she said with an impish grin. “He made a plan for us to run away on a train and we ended up here.”

  “What are you doing here?” asked Maya, trying to figure out who exactly she was dealing with.

  “We work here,” she said. “We collect stuff . . . old clothes, plastic, metal parts, and stuff.”

  “That’s it?” prodded Maya.

  “Uh-huh,” said Guddi. “And Boss gives us food and a place to sleep.”

  “Guddi,” hissed a boy with similar eyes, appearing like a ghost. “Don’t talk to her; you’ll get in trouble.”

  Maya froze. It was the boy from the train station, the one in the Mickey Mouse T-shirt, the one who’d gotten her into this mess!

  “Oh, Jai, don’t be such a scaredy cat,” sighed Guddi.

  “Get moving, you lazy good-for-nothings!” shouted Ladu. “Work begins in half an hour.”

  Refusing to meet Maya’s eyes, Jai disappeared, dragging his little sister and Mini with him. He ­gently guided the little kids as they scurried into action, picking up blankets and folding them. He and two older girls then hurriedly put together a breakfast of dried bread and steaming tea. Maya shrank back at the edge of the window as Babu strode into view.

  “Boss is busy,” he told Ladu and Pinto, his raspy voice irritated. “I told him we caught the fat fish like he told us to. But he said he can’t come in till later this afternoon.”

  “That’s fine,” said Pinto. “The fish isn’t going anywhere.”

  “You make sure of that,” said Babu. “I’m taking a crew out to the docks.”

  Babu left with the older kids, including Jai, while Ladu piled the disabled children onto a cart and pushed them out the main gate. As they headed off, Maya realized with a sinking heart that she was the fat fish . . . and she hoped that whoever this Boss was, she wasn’t going to be gutted for lunch.

  14

  A Spider’s Web

  BESIDES THE SINGLE BREAK when Pinto took her to a stinking, windowless bathroom at the other end of the warehouse, Maya had been stuck in her cell all day. She’d tried desperately to come up with a way out; she’d tested the bars on the window (firmly affixed to the ledge), then the door (locked, hinges loose but secure). She peered through the gap at the bottom of the door and felt a loose brick wiggle at the base. There was no other way out. She stood up and spent the hours pacing. And worrying. Worrying about Zara, who was back at the train station worried out of her mind. Had she gone looking for her? Gone to the police? She must have tried to contact their mom by now. If she had, then her mom was probably crazy with worry too. Oh, man. . . . It was impossible to get her mind around the whole crazy situation.

  Left behind, Guddi and the little ones had washed up after breakfast and swept the floors. Mini followed Guddi around like a shadow, calling out for her when she fell out of sight. Maya had tensed when Babu had returned, his crew laden with bulky gunny sacks. Without a glance in her direction, he’d ordered the kids to organize their haul, creating piles according to type of plastic. While the younger ones sorted, the older kids revved up the machines, shoving plastic in one end and packaging the pellets that came out the other.

  At three o’clock Ladu’s group arrived, looking sweaty and exhausted. Maya watched their broken bodies collapse on the floor, chests wheezing, lips parched. Guddi came running, practically tripping over her jean jacket, carrying a metal pitcher of water, and Mini passed out glasses and helped them drink. The machines sputtered into silence and they stopped for lunch. Jai and another boy laid a large sheet on the concrete floor as an older girl brought out a large pot and a sack full of bread. The kids crowded into a ­circle, holding their allotted piece of bread, and a skinny boy ladled daal, lentil stew, into metal bowls. Before the steaming yellow mush settled, they dove in.

  “What about her?” piped up Guddi, pointing in Maya’s direction, which earned a sharp poke from her brother.

  Babu looked her way with a sneer. “What, our fat little fish wants to be fed?” He aimed a kick at Guddi’s backside. “If you are so concerned, give her yours.”

  Mini followed Guddi as she came to pass a piece of bread and a cup of lentils to Maya through the bars, along with a bent metal spoon. “Don’t mind him,” she whispered, rubbing her bottom. “Old Babu just acts like an ornery old cat. It was his drunk old father who cut up his face, you know. Nearly killed him, so he ran away. Now he can’t help but be mean.”

  His own father cut up his face? Maya’s stomach twisted in revulsion, pity, and a pang of hunger. She stared at the watery yellow mush, flecked with chilies and pieces of potatoes. Lentils weren’t on her miserly eating list, but she didn’t totally hate them. “I can’t take that,” she whispered, staring into Guddi’s lean face.

  “I’m not going to eat it,” said the stubborn little girl.

  “But you’re hungry,” said Maya.

  “I want you to have it,” said Guddi.r />
  Hunger won over fears of what it might do to her stomach and she scarfed it down.

  • • •

  As shadows lengthened along the ground, Babu paced near the door, looking out into the front yard, checking the time on his phone. Boss still hadn’t shown up, and Maya could see the irritation on Babu’s face. At the other corner of the hall she spotted Jai, sneakily passing out cookies to the little kids. Cookies she’d given him the day before. She stood, holding onto the bars as another cramp rippled across her abdomen. Within an hour of eating the daal, she had begged to be taken to the bathroom, and now, even though nothing was left in her stomach, she still felt like she had to go. . . . She knew she shouldn’t have eaten it.

  Finally, when the sun hung low on the horizon, a sleek red hatchback came screeching through the gates. The driver hopped out, skinny legs encased in tight jeans, leather jacket hanging loose, black hair slicked back with gel. Eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, he sauntered up the stairs and strode inside. “How are my little employees?” he bellowed, bringing the kids to a halt. They looked at him, faces tense. From the corner of her eye, Maya watched Jai ­disappear behind a row of boxes, pulling Guddi with him, Mini tagging along. “Bringing in good money?” he asked. Some kids nodded, eyes fixed on the ground. “Good, good. . . . If performance keeps improving, I’ll get some nice hot jalebis for you!” The man strode on as the kids returned to their tasks with strained smiles. “Babu,” he called out, setting the teen scurrying. “How did the beggars do this morning?”

  “Very good, Boss,” he replied, bowing. “The new girl with the broken leg is a great addition—she was an excellent purchase.”