The Parcel

by Anosh Irani

  Even though Gajja explained that I had not been touched, I was told to leave and never return. My parents and family just stood there. The whole village was against me. If my body had been made out of earth, it would have dried and crumbled there and then. I was told that I was dirty. I would infect everyone. Fear made them take me by the hair and kick me out. Even Gajja was beaten up. I had just come out of a cage and my own people threw me back in. Yes, I will talk about this on TV. It hurt me more than anything in the world.

  I had no choice but to come back.

  Whatever money Gajja had was spent on getting me back into the country. Isn’t life strange? We had both wanted to leave Bombay, and now we were both forced to go back. Of course, we stayed far away from Kamathipura. Gajja put me in the care of an NGO that took me to a home for parcels like me, far away from the city. Out of the thirty girls in that place, I was the only one who had not been opened.

  Everyone told me I was lucky. But I did not feel lucky. I did feel spared. But for what?

  It has taken me a few years to find out. But now I know. This is something I will share on the TV show. It is what I will end with. But first, I will give people a look at my daily routine. The routine is the hardest thing for all of us girls. Seconds and minutes have the weight of steel columns.

  When Gajja first left me at this home in a small village, I did not speak for a month. When I did speak, my words could not be understood by anyone. I was told I was in shock. Each morning, all of us were made to sit in a circle and hold hands. This was so we would feel togetherness, that we were unburdening a shared experience, that we were not alone. But no one would speak. I could not, either. Sometimes I could feel a slight tremble in my hand because a girl two bodies away from me was crying. Then one day—I don’t know why—I thought of my father. I used to have cold milk with him on winter mornings. My father would leave it outside at 4:00 a.m., and in two hours, it was chilled. I had cold milk that morning, just before I got into the circle. It did not taste the same. It came from a fridge. That day, I burst the silence of the circle with a howl.

  I was ashamed of myself. I had been defiled, labelled dirty by the people of my village—and I felt dirty. My aunt was right: I did not belong in the village. That was what I said in between my howls. This was nothing new. All the girls have said the same thing. We feel it is our fault. There is something very wrong with us.

  The home is run by the Marys. They are kind women who call us “child.” The Marys have a mantra here. “Step by step,” they say. “Go one step at a time.” That is all we do here. Take one baby step toward hating ourselves a little less.

  I am less full of shame now. But all of us still question ourselves, wonder if it was our fault. We could have been more lovable or more useful to our parents. We don’t know how to be more lovable, so we are becoming useful by learning how to sew and make embroidered bags. We also make very fine prayer beads. We get paid for our work, too. I have learned how to read and write English, which is an accomplishment. Tomorrow, on the show, they will make me speak in Hindi, English, and Nepali. When I talk about the most painful parts of my story, I use all three languages. I keep jumping from one language to the next as though I am walking on hot coals. The relief comes in between, mid-air.

  I should get some rest. I have to wake up early tomorrow. I want to look nice on TV. I still want to look nice, unlike my friend Vaneeta, who hurts her face on purpose. She’ll be on the show too, with all her cuts and marks. I pray for her every night before I sleep. The Marys have taught us to pray, especially for others. We have been told it helps us forget our own pain.

  They tell us to forget the old life. If we want to move ahead, we must forget the old life. Now, all of a sudden, because of this show, we are being asked to remember. To bring it all back. It is okay. None of us can ever forget. To forget is an act of cowardice, and I am not a coward. All that pain, I have to give it meaning. This is why I have been spared.

  After tomorrow, my pain will be public. A few days ago, I went back to Kamathipura for the first time. The TV crew was with me and I pointed to where my prison was. It is still charred and grey and abandoned, much like the old cinema. Around it, towers continue to rise, but not at the rate everyone expected. I am told that many of the flats remain empty. I know why. You can still smell the girls who continue to pine for freedom. Some of the brothels are still there. At this very moment, there are some girls who can barely breathe while I taste clean air.

  It is this thought that keeps me going.

  In our compound, we have a large garden with all sorts of trees and flowers. I like the bougainvillea. It is my favourite because it is wild and it grows on its own and doesn’t need pity from anyone. It is so full, so red and pink and purple, it could be a movie star. On some days, I want to be just like it. But when I think of how girls are still caged, I want to stare the flowers down into being less full. It seems rude for them to be so alive.

  Maybe that is just my view. Once you are imprisoned, things take on a different meaning. My friend Vaneeta told the TV people that she cannot listen to any kind of music. “For you, when you hear a song you want to dance,” she said. “But each time men raped me, they played music so that my screams could not reach anywhere.”

  It takes a lot of strength to say this on TV. I pray that Vaneeta can say it. She doesn’t pray at all. She thinks it is a waste of time. But I don’t. We have all been told to pick someone to pray to at night. Like Jesus, for example. As the Marys have told us, he listens to everyone. I talk to Jesus, but he is not the last person I call out to before I sleep.

  In the dark, I seek Madhu. I talk to her and bless her. She caused me a lot of pain, but she gave up her life for me. And when I sleep, her face is next to mine, and the crinkle of her sari, I can hear it. Her face is burned, but she is smiling. Some of the girls here have clean faces, but their insides are burned. Our lives have exploded like the gas cylinders that flew out of the brothel and landed on a taxi when Madhu lit the match. I want to do something like that: light a gas cylinder and make it fly.

  No, that is too much to say on TV. Who knows what I will say tomorrow? It might not even matter in the end. Nobody will listen. Still, I will speak. I will look straight into that camera, even though they have told me not to.

  I will speak to the one who set me free.

  Acknowledgements

  I grew up opposite Kamathipura. From the time I was born until I was seven years old, I lived in a compound called “The Retreat,” a stone’s throw away from the red light district. Even when my family moved, the area was only ten minutes away, and the red light district continued to haunt and inspire me; it does so to this very day. Normally, when an author writes a book, there are specific people he can thank; however, in this case, I am unable to individually list the transgendered people, sex workers, and residents of Kamathipura who opened up their hearts and minds to me over the years. The one person I feel I must specifically thank for her generosity and insight is Simran Shaikh. I am truly indebted to everyone I met and salute their honesty and bravery.

  I am grateful to the Canada Council for the Arts and the BC Arts Council for their support. The World Literature Program at Simon Fraser University, The Mordecai Richler Writer-in-Residence Program at McGill University, and the Writer-in-Residence Program at the University of the Fraser Valley provided me with precious time and resources during the writing of this novel. I am especially grateful to my colleagues in the World Literature Program at Simon Fraser University for their help and support.

  My deepest gratitude to Lynn Henry for her vision and guidance; to Kristin Cochrane, Brad Martin and Anne Collins for their faith in this book and for welcoming me to Knopf; and to Suzanne Brandreth and colleagues at The Cooke Agency International. I also thank Denise Bukowski for suggesting the title, and for her support over the years.

  The work of many scholars, writers, and journalists has been invaluable in the writing of this book. For a complete list of acknowledgeme
nts, please visit www.​anoshi​rani.​com.

  Anosh Irani has previously published three critically acclaimed novels: The Cripple and His Talismans (2004), a national bestseller; The Song of Kahunsha (2006), which was an international bestseller and shortlisted for Canada Reads and the Ethel Wilson Fiction Prize; and Dahanu Road (2010), which was nominated for the Man Asian Literary Prize. His play Bombay Black won the Dora Mavor Moore Award for Outstanding New Play (2006) and his anthology The Bombay Plays: The Matka King&Bombay Black was shortlisted for the Governor General’s Award. Anosh Irani was born and grew up in Bombay, India, and lives in Vancouver, Canada.