The Parcel

by Anosh Irani

  Madhu felt herself sliding deeper and deeper into a hole. The water tank beckoned. Unlike the parcel, Madhu would sink into it and not emerge. The police would find a dead bloated parrot floating on the surface, its beak filled with water, its irrelevant banter gone once and forever.

  She shook her head to clear it and picked up her pace. The afternoon heat made snakes of sweat crawl on her back. A gust of burning wind helped her glide through her neighbourhood. When she passed Firdos Milk Bar, the Afghan men barely noticed her. She was so nimble, so desperate to get home. By the time she had reached the kitchen and lit a beedi, gurumai was calling out to her from her bed.

  “What’s the matter?” asked gurumai.

  “Nothing.”

  “Madhu, how long have I known you?” asked gurumai. “Come.” She sat up, feebler today than the past couple of days, and patted the mattress, indicating where Madhu should sit. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  She put her hand to Madhu’s chin, just as she had when Madhu was a boy, and raised an eyebrow. It didn’t help.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Madhu.

  The place was strangely empty, given that it was still afternoon. Someone was always lounging around, reading movie magazines or oiling their hair, or tweezing eyebrows and bleaching their stupid face.

  “They’re all out,” said gurumai. “I sent them on errands. There’s a jamaat in three days.”

  The mention of the gathering of the city’s hijra leaders increased Madhu’s anxiety. “But we just had one,” she said.

  “I got a call from Bindu nayakji this morning. It’s important.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “She said it was an emergency.”

  Madhu could tell that gurumai did not want to talk more. When Bindu nayakji wanted something, it got done. She was one of seven nayaks, the most powerful hijra chieftain in the city, and her word on the hijra kingdom was final.

  “It’s good that we are alone,” said gurumai. “There’s something I need you to do.”

  Gurumai removed the key that hung around her neck and handed it to Madhu. This was the first time that Madhu, or anyone else, had been handed the key to gurumai’s safe. Gurumai wore it around her neck like a talisman, even went to sleep with it. When she bathed, she took it with her. To see her remove it made Madhu uncomfortable.

  “There’s an envelope in the safe. Take it out,” said gurumai.

  The envelope was right on top, old and brown, stiff, almost cardboard-like, as though water had been dropped on it and hardened.

  “That is my will,” said gurumai.

  Madhu tensed and clenched her teeth.

  “Relax,” said gurumai, noticing Madhu’s uneasiness. “I’m not going anywhere. I want you to give this to Padma.”

  “Padma? What for?”

  “I know you don’t like her. But liking someone and trusting them are two different things. Things are getting dirty in this real estate race. I want to make sure that my will is solid and cannot be disputed. Padma is going to show it to the same lawyer who has made her will. I’m doing this for all of you.”

  “Yes, gurumai.”

  “Do it now. And try not to read it. You’ll be disappointed.”

  Once again, gurumai lifted Madhu’s chin.

  “See? I made you smile after all,” she said.

  —

  On the way to Padma’s brothel, Madhu noticed that a crowd had gathered—labourers, shop owners, pimps, mothers with children in tow who were going home after school. As Madhu pried through the sweaty mass of people, she heard wailing. About ten prostitutes were standing at the entrance to a brothel. Some were sobbing hysterically, one was lying down on the street itself, while the others were babbling away to anyone who would listen.

  “Where will we go?” wailed one. “Where will we go?”

  It was a mantra that the woman kept on repeating, with eyes half closed, cheeks dirtied with tears, betel juice at the corners of her cracked lips.

  Salma was there too, trying to lift the one who had prostrated herself on the ground in a form of protest. Madhu was shocked: Salma was supposed to be looking after the parcel and bonding with her. What the hell was Salma doing here?

  “Where’s the parcel?” she asked.

  “Resting,” said Salma. “Relax, she’s safe,” she continued, sensing Madhu’s agitation. Then she quickly shifted her focus back to the prostrate woman. “They’ve been evicted. Last week, they were told the building would collapse if repairs were not done, so the landlord gave them money to stay somewhere else for a week. Now they’ve come back and the brothel is locked up. Choothiya banaya!”

  It was a villa-type brothel. The number on the archway was 007, but there was no Bond, no second-grade agent even, to come to anyone’s aid. The main door had a shiny new lock on it and wooden panels had been nailed across the windows to prevent anyone from getting in. All the prostitutes’ belongings were stacked up neatly outside the main door: steel trunks, one on top of another; three wooden cupboards with so many scratches you’d think they belonged to cats; cooking vessels; plastic bags full of chappals; and makeup kits. One of the cupboards displayed a poster of Shah Rukh Khan, and even he gave a doleful smile. Some of the women already seemed to have resigned themselves to their new fate; they were going through their belongings silently. But the one on the ground was refusing to get up. Salma yanked her arm, but she repeated the same phrase for all to hear: “Now we have nothing…”

  Salma bent down and whispered something in her ear. The young woman’s histrionics began to fade. Slowly, she gathered herself and went to one of the steel trunks.

  “Let’s leave,” said Salma. “Slip away quietly.”

  “But I need all my clothes. I need—”

  “If they see you go with me, they won’t let you leave.”

  “Let me take something…please.”

  Madhu saw how it was breaking the woman’s heart to leave behind what had taken her years to accumulate. She pulled herself together and quickly rummaged through her belongings.

  A cop arrived, and the crowd slowly receded into their own lives. Nothing was ever their problem anyway; this was just an unexpected piece of entertainment on a sweltering afternoon, Madhu thought. But then, a surprise: the prostitutes were not going to let them off the hook so easily.

  “It’s bhadwas like you who are doing this!” an older whore screamed, pointing to a couple of middle-aged men who were on a cigarette break. They were part of a small unit that manufactured umbrellas. “You madarchods are fucking us!” Madhu guessed that the men had no clue what she was insinuating. Still, the whore might be old but she was not mad. Gurumai was right: the brothels were being shut down by landlords, and small-scale industrial units were being set up instead. It was impossible to get such cheap rents elsewhere in the core of the city, and so the sex workers were being tricked into leaving.

  Madhu watched as the men gingerly threw away their cigarettes and climbed up the stairs to their little workshop, which had once been a brothel. But the old whore would not let them go without a fight. She picked up one of the chappals from the plastic bag, a fat green rubber one, and flung it at the man. Her anger had sharpened her aim: it landed straight on his neck. The man began to abuse her but knew better than to inflame an already injured soul, and slunk back to his umbrellas.

  Madhu turned to leave. It seemed that Salma would be occupied for a while, and Madhu was concerned about leaving the parcel unsupervised for too long. But then, a new group entered the fray: Marys armed with pamphlets and good intentions.

  “Yeshu ban jao,” said one of the Marys to the old prostitute. “Embrace Jesus.”

  The Mary was accompanied by a South Indian woman, a former brothel madam named Aruna, who had converted to Christianity. The Marys had taken many prostitutes into their fold, and a few of them were “cured,” while many still worked. Christianity was the latest craze in Kamathipura. Madhu likened it to the fe
rvour with which bell-bottoms had grabbed the red-light area’s thighs in the late 1970s and early 80s. Back then, every young Nepali sex doll in the district owned bell-bottoms, which made her burn hotter in the eyes of men.

  Now it was the message of Christ that everyone was wearing. And what a perfect opportunity to convert people into the religion, to help them get acquainted with Yeshu, when they were jobless and homeless and hurling obscenities at the police.

  “Don’t touch me!” said a prostitute to a cop who was trying to calm her down. “Cowards! You are working for my landlord!” she screamed, pointing to the umbrella factory. Madhu knew she had meant to point to 007. Then, probably anticipating that if she continued to abuse the cop she’d get a tight slap, she became docile: “Please help us. Only you can save us!”

  At last, Salma was done waiting. She ordered the young woman to march. She slung a bag over her shoulder, but Aruna stepped in and blocked her path.

  “It’s not a bad thing that you have lost your home,” she told the young woman. “Maybe it’s a sign that you must do something else.” She held out a pamphlet.

  Now that she could see the young woman up close, Madhu understood why Salma had chosen her. She was pretty and would be an asset to Padma’s brothel for sure. Salma’s intervention was business mixed with a pinch of compassion.

  “Take this,” Aruna told the girl.

  There was a photo of Jesus and a lamb on the pamphlet. A bright light shone from Yeshu’s head, radiating in the general direction of the lamb and falling on the hay instead. Madhu wondered why the hay needed light.

  “She can’t read,” said Salma. “You’re wasting your time.”

  “We can teach you,” said Aruna. “There was a time when I couldn’t read either. Now I can.”

  “That’s great,” said Salma. “Now go suck a cock.”

  Madhu, Salma, and the girl started walking at a brisk pace, but the former madam followed. She sensed that this girl was still young and vulnerable.

  “Why do you want to stay in this line?” asked Aruna. “We can help you find good work. I used to be in this line but then I came out of it.”

  Salma turned to the young woman and said, “When your cunt is as old and shrivelled as hers, you can also leave this line.”

  Aruna was trying her best to stay calm and focused. “I work at the centre now. I work for Prem Nagar. We are rehabilitating sex workers.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with us,” said Salma. “We don’t need your help.”

  “Look,” said Aruna. “We have our meetings in a room that is just across—see?”

  “Leave us alone,” said Salma.

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to go with you.”

  “Why don’t you ask the girl?”

  “What’s your name?” Aruna asked the girl.

  “Yes,” said Salma. “Even I would like to know that.”

  “Ekta,” said the young woman.

  “Ekta,” said Salma, “do you want to come with me and work, or do you want to go sing bhajans with this woman?”

  “We don’t sing bhajans. We are Christians. We have prayer meetings.”

  “Do you serve popcorn also?”

  “I’m done talking to you. Let the girl speak.”

  Madhu watched with a mixture of amusement and sadness. Part of her wanted to rush back to the parcel; if anything happened to her, Padma would skin Madhu alive. On the other hand, this battle between Salma and Aruna was too delicious to abandon. The two women fighting over Ekta—one for her flesh and the other for her spirit—was a reflection of the parcel’s current state, the way she hung in the balance. Except that Madhu was in charge of flesh and spirit. Because it was impossible to salvage both, she was trying to relinquish one in the hope of preserving even a whit of the other. She wished her task was as clear-cut as Salma’s or Aruna’s.

  Salma squeezed Ekta’s hand. “Say what you want. Speak the truth.”

  “Leave her hand,” said Aruna.

  “Look, Ekta,” said Salma. “You can pray in the brothel also. You can do sex work and, if you like, pray during your free time. But prayers don’t fill your stomach.”

  “We will empower her!” said Aruna. “We will teach her how to stitch, how to—”

  Salma cut her off. “You want to be a tailor?” she asked Ekta.

  Somehow this helped Ekta make up her mind. “I’ll go with her,” she said, gesturing at Salma. Pleased with the victory, bristling with energy, Salma decided to properly introduce herself to Ekta.

  “My name is Salma,” she said. “I’m glad I found you.”

  Aruna accepted defeat but tried a parting shot: “If you ever need me, I’m—”

  “She won’t. But if you ever decide to start whoring again, I have an empty bed next to mine. In the meantime, say hello to Jesus for me.”

  Aruna gave Salma a look of disgust. As Aruna retreated to her prayer meeting, held in a small room sandwiched between a cigarette shop and a milk bar, Madhu’s attention was caught by a man who was talking to the cigarette shop owner. He had been slyly sipping chai as he watched the prostitutes’ drama outside the brothel. It was Umesh, the real estate agent who had recently paid gurumai a visit.

  “As if I need her to talk to Jesus,” barked Salma, pointing at Aruna’s back. “As if without her, Jesus doesn’t love me. If he wants to love me, then love me. I’ve never lied about who I am.” Then she pointed to a new building on Bellasis Road. “It’s buildings like this one that are making us suffer. You think the people who will come to live here, you think they are any less sinful than us? The women who sleep in these buildings, they are also whores. How many of them actually love their husbands? How many of them actually want to sleep with their men? We both do the same thing. Only I do it better,” said Salma.

  Madhu followed Salma’s outstretched, accusatory hand. In the red-light area, these new buildings were called “The Towers.” Many of them were as yet uninhabited, and the dark grey cement walls gave them a ruthlessness that made Madhu queasy. They seemed to grow in the dark, in illogical spurts, seeming so far away from completion one moment and then suddenly gaining height overnight. And the towers were not just in the east; they were coming up from behind Madhu as well, surrounding Kamathipura on all sides, giant sentries advancing, blocks of cement thousands of metres tall with rectangular holes in them for the windows to come. To Madhu, they looked like the teeth of smiling sentries.

  Her eyes left the buildings and moved on to something closer, to a notice that was pasted on a wall right in front of her:

  Free Bird Treatment Camp

  Prabhu Towers 9 a.m. to 7 p.m.

  Call us to save the life of birds

  365-day bird help line

  Suddenly, Madhu started laughing. Right before her eyes, at least ten women had been rendered homeless, tricked into an even darker future, when as tenants, they had had every right to be treated fairly; right before her eyes, a young prostitute had been enticed into a futureless future; and here was some chooth ka dhakkan, some complete cunt-lid, offering a workshop to save birds.

  Birds!

  Why not her? What had Madhu done to be overlooked so completely?

  Were birds worth saving because they could not tell their stories, tell of the cruelty and injustice they had encountered over the years? Or was it because it was possible to fix them, bandage a wing or two, and then make them fly away, out of one’s life forever?

  “What’s so funny?” asked Salma. “Why are you laughing?”

  We cannot be fixed, thought Madhu. And we will never fly away.

  7

  Madhu handed gurumai’s will to Padma, then headed back to the cage. Salma had allowed the parcel to play with her son for a bit, but had then put her back in lock-up. All Salma had wanted was a playmate for her son, and once he had been returned to the NGO, the parcel was no longer needed. This worked beautifully for Madhu: the parcel had been allowed to breathe, then a chokehold had been put on her all over again. When Madhu s
hone the flashlight on the parcel, she noticed that the soles of her feet were swollen. She must have been kicking the cage bars. But she was calm now, defeated and totally receptive.

  “There was a girl like you once, a long time ago,” said Madhu. “After just one week, she could not remember her mother’s face. Do you remember your mother’s face?”

  “Yes…”

  “Touch the bars,” said Madhu. “Put your hands on the bars.”

  The parcel was hesitant. Madhu could see she thought she was going to be beaten, but of course Madhu would do no such thing. Beatings were primitive, such a waste of time.

  “I will not hurt you. Hold the bars with both hands.”

  The parcel did as she was told. She gripped the bars tightly, her small fingers encircling them. The parallel lines of the bars in front of her face as she peered through them were much like the two lives she would have from now on—her past and the present—and the two would never meet.

  “Each time you think of your mother, I want you to hold these bars and ask yourself one question: What feels more real, your mother or these bars?”

  Madhu could see that the question was making the parcel sink. It was travelling down through her body faster than anything she had ever imagined. How far away her old life must seem.

  “I asked that girl, ‘Why can’t you see your mother’s face?’ ” Madhu continued. “She said it was because she was scared. But that wasn’t true. Her mother could not show her face to her daughter because she was ashamed. Even I would be. Even I would not show my face if I had sold my own daughter.”

  It was essential for Madhu to let the parcel think about this. She had added another ingredient to the mix, another herb or poison, depending on the way one looked at it. Madhu knew there was no difference between the two. In the right dose, a poison could be used to one’s advantage. It was a secret that gurumai had shared with the young Madhu. She used to put drops of a substance in Madhu’s eyes to make her pupils dilate, and it had made her eyes widen like legs and flutter like butterflies.