She stares out of the car window and tries to push back her panic. What is she doing in a foreign country with a bunch of people she met only a few months ago? They watched videos of the streets of Kolkata as part of their trip preparation, but being here with all five senses is not the same. It’s too loud. Too crowded. Too hot. And too far from Mom.
Why did Grandma Vee think it would be a good idea for Kat to come?
And then she finds out that they’ll be staying with this Pheasant man.
No. I can’t do that. I should have listened to Mom. I should have told PG I needed to stay with a woman. She was hoping for the best—that she’s moving on, feeling better, getting normal again. But nothing’s healed yet, she can tell already.
The car careens around a corner, and a wave of that old nausea rises in Kat’s throat. She swallows, hard.
“Is Asha House far from your apartment building, Arjun Uncle?” Gracie asks.
How easily Gracie slips into using that relational term with this stranger. The only time Kat’s done that is with Grandma Vee, and that’s because the old woman stopped feeling like a stranger so quickly.
“Not far,” the Pheasant man answers. “Only two kilometers. Oh, sorry—that’s about a mile. Our office, where you’ll have your Bangla lessons, is also only a short rickshaw ride from the flat, five kilometers, three miles. But after a heavy rain, the streets sometimes get flooded. The monsoons last till August, so it might be raining the entire time you’re here.”
Sweat is pouring down Kat’s back. The air-conditioning in this mini-mobile isn’t pumping out enough air for five people. She cracks the window. Traffic seems worse than the Bay Area during rush hour, which she didn’t think was possible.
Each mile takes her farther from the airport, the plane, Boston, Oakland.
Horns are honking right in her ear and the smell of exhaust makes her even more nauseous. She closes the window again.
Why did she come?
I want Mom.
Finally, the car turns off the main road and into a quieter neighborhood. The traffic eases up a bit, and so does Kat’s stomach. They stop at a red light near a building labeled CINEMA HALL with a poster plastered on the marquee.
“What’s playing?” PG asks. “I’m sure my movie freaks back there will appreciate seeing a few Bollywood movies.”
“You might ask the girls at Asha House for suggestions,” answers the Pheasant man with a smile. “They know all the top stars, songs, and movies. But we call them ‘fillums’ here.”
The movie poster features a girl who looks a bit like Gracie. Long, black silky hair, tan skin, big brown eyes with long lashes. Petite, wearing an orange sari and leaning her head back to gaze up at a guy who looks like—Kat squints into the late-afternoon sun—wait, who does that remind her of? She studies the face again.
Yes, the male hero, wearing a white uniform, black belt and boots, with handcuffs in his belt and his shirt unbuttoned a little too far, looks exactly like an older version of Robin.
Or Ravi, which apparently he wants to be called now.
She’ll call him that—he’s got the right to reclaim his first name.
Gracie leans over to Kat’s side of the car to peer up at the poster. “Oh my gosh, that guy on the poster looks just like you, Rob—Ravi. Wow, I need to see that movie.”
Ravi can’t see it from where he’s sitting. “Must be the sidekick,” he says. “Or the bad guy. Or the bad guy’s sidekick.”
“Looks like the leading man to me,” Gracie says.
The car starts moving again, winding through back lanes—Kat swallows hard—and finally stops at a high-rise apartment building behind a gate.
“We’re on the third floor,” says their driver. “Mira Auntie will have tea waiting, I’m sure. Come, bring your bags.”
INT. BOSE FLAT—NIGHT
Upstairs, the apartment is small, clean, and cool. Following Pheasant man’s example, they take off their shoes at the door, something Mom and Kat have always done at home. She had no idea it was an Indian custom, too. A Partridge with two small, identical Parrot boys peeking out from behind her introduces herself as “Mira Auntie.”
“This is Bijoy and Anand,” says their father. “Twins. Seven years old as of last week. Boys, greet your Gregory Uncle and your new sisters—Kat Didi and Gracie Didi. And here is your big brother, Ravi Dada.”
The boys smile shyly and tip their heads.
“Nobody’s last name is Deedee or Dahdah,” whispers Gracie in Kat’s ear.
The Partridge overhears and smiles. “Didi means older sister, and dada means older brother. It’s a term of respect that younger children use for friends who are older.” She takes a closer look at Kat’s face and rests a cool palm against her hot forehead. “Did Arjun Uncle’s driving make you dizzy? I always feel a bit vomit-y after riding with him.”
She leads Kat to the bathroom. It’s small. A razor and shaving lotion are perched on the sink, the toilet seat’s up, and worst of all, the door has no lock or latch.
Can’t do this. Can’t stay here.
But she has to. At least for tonight. Kat splashes cold water on her face before rejoining the rest of them in the living room. As they sip hot, milky, sweet tea and munch on biscuits with butter, her stomach settles down. The twins, though, don’t. They lose their shyness after a couple of biscuits and glom onto Ravi, handing him their father’s smartphone.
“YOU play, Ravi Dada,” one says. Bijoy or Anand? No idea. They look exactly alike to Kat.
“I know this game,” Ravi says. “Battle of the Champions, right? Brian and I beat it a couple of years ago.”
“You BEAT IT?”
“We’ve been stuck on the third level for SO LONG!”
The Parrot boys lean into Ravi, watching in awe. Meanwhile, Gracie’s calling this Indian woman “Mira Auntie” as if they’ve known each other for years. She’s holding up her phone, sharing photos of her sisters and her parents.
“That reminds me,” says PG. “I’ll need to gather your phones before tomorrow.”
“The Asha House girls aren’t allowed mobiles, either,” Pheasant man says. He lowers his voice so the twins won’t hear. “Shireen, our Asha House director, worries about a girl getting lured again into prostitution after she turns eighteen. It’s not illegal then, you see, unless we prove she didn’t give ‘consent.’”
Kat leans forward. “How do you prove that?”
“We go to court. Show evidence.”
“Like what?”
“Text records. Medical proof.”
“What if the trafficker is injured by her resistance? Does that count as proof?”
The two men look at her. “Er—I do not think we have seen a case like that,” the Pheasant man says. “Not in Kolkata, anyway.”
Well, you might soon, Kat thinks. If only Plan A can work.
If only she can power through her phobia of sharing that one, unlockable bathroom.
RAVI
INT./EXT. BENGALI EMANCIPATION SOCIETY HEADQUARTERS—DAY
After breakfast the next morning, Mira walks PG and Ravi down to the street and gives the cycle rickshaw driver directions. Arjun left before they woke up, and Kat and Gracie are following shortly. Ravi hasn’t seen them yet because PG hurried him in and out of the bathroom early so the girls would have a chance to use it.
PG’s muttering words in Greek and Hebrew as they rattle along. He woke up before dawn to review his textbooks.
“You’ll be fine, PG,” says Ravi. “You’re a great teacher. Why don’t you just enjoy the journey?”
“You’re right,” says PG. “My first rickshaw ride. Slow and breezy.”
Ravi’s enjoying it, too, but he can tell somehow that it isn’t his first. The whirring of wheels, the bumpy feel of ruts in the muddy road, the touch of the warm, light rain on his elbow that’s not under the canopy, the slippery leathery seat—they all feel strangely familiar. It’s constant and unrelenting, this engagement of five senses. He fell
asleep as the circling fan on the ceiling made the mosquito net ripple around him, woke to the cawing of the crows outside and rain slapping against the banana leaves, and relished the sweet, hot taste of that morning’s chai. Kolkata’s making his eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and skin remember things that his brain can’t recall.
Today’s Tuesday. Two more days and he’ll open his file. He might know her name then. Maybe even have an address in the city or in a nearby village. If those places aren’t too far, he can plan a trip on Saturday. He pictures himself hiring a car to take him to a small house or apartment somewhere, knocking on the door, and telling the woman who lives there that he’s her son. Will she recognize him? Will they laugh? Cry? He doesn’t know. All he wants is for that moment to come soon.
INT. BENGALI EMANCIPATION SOCIETY—DAY
The Bengali Emancipation Society office is hidden in a drab-looking building with no signage identifying it as the headquarters of an anti-trafficking organization. PG pays the rickshaw driver, Ravi presses a bell, and they wait as a camera makes whirring noises.
“Face recognition,” says PG. “Arjun had them installed for extra security. He had his tech guy process those photos I sent him.”
They hear a buzz and PG pushes open the door. A blast of air-conditioned air greets them as they enter a small reception area. Beyond is a carpeted path leading through a maze of cubicles. Phones are beeping and buzzing. People are talking in Bangla and English. Printers are drilling out documents and keyboards are clicking.
Arjun is there, waiting. “Everyone—my friend Gregory is here!”
His announcement is loud, and he claps his hands three times as well. There’s a sudden silence—at least when it comes to voices—and about forty or so Indian faces pop up from behind cubicle dividers.
“Meet my good friend Pastor Gregory,” Arjun says, and PG does a namaste.
“And his companion isn’t really a visitor,” Arjun announces, resting a hand on Ravi’s shoulder. “It’s a homecoming, really, because Ravi’s a Bengali. Born right here in Kolkata.”
A woman’s voice pipes up. “Bap-re-bap. This young man looks exactly like that film star … what’s his name?”
“Amit Biswas,” says someone else.
“That is what I was thinking!”
Smiles and nods join the verbal chorus.
Arjun’s phone goes off. “Excuse me while I take this, will you?” He disappears into a room off the reception area.
An older woman in a pink sari joins them. She has iron-gray, short hair and lighter skin. She’s a few inches shorter than Ravi. “Enough distraction, back to work,” she says crisply. The heads admiring Ravi’s resemblance to some actor disappear behind their cubicles again.
“I am Miss Shireen, director of Asha House,” the woman says to PG and Ravi. “It is good you are here, but it is quite likely you won’t be seeing too much of me. Absolutely no men—”
The doorbell rings, interrupting her, and Arjun reappears. “That must be Kat and Gracie,” he says. “With only one bathroom, we’re arriving in shifts. Shireen, will you kindly attend to them? I have a thousand things to do. Come, Gregory, let’s deposit the phones in our safe, and then I’ll drop you at Bible college.”
“Just put me in an auto-rickshaw, Arjun, and tell the driver the destination,” PG says. “I’ll be fine. Have fun, Rob—Ravi. Sorry. It’s going to take me a while to get used to that.”
PG’s leaving already? They just got here. “You’ll be back Saturday night, right?” Ravi asks.
“Actually, I’m coming back to the Boses’ tonight to get my bags,” says PG. “We’ll say goodbye then. Or maybe we’ll say, ‘Apotassomai!’”
Ravi figures that’s goodbye in either Greek or Hebrew. Sounds like Greek.
“I’ll find you after lunch, Ravi,” Arjun says. “Shen agreed to see you at two o’clock today. I have an appointment in town, so I can drop you at the police training center on my way.”
I have to talk to this Shen guy on my own? Ravi thinks. I have absolutely no idea why I’m meeting him.
As PG and Arjun disappear into the maze of cubicles, the facial recognition program processes Kat and Gracie. Miss Shireen buzzes the door open, and the girls enter the reception area. This time it’s up to Ravi to do the introductions.
“This is Miss Shireen, director at Asha House. Miss Shireen, this is Kat. And Gracie.” Thankfully, the forty heads don’t reappear; he doesn’t know any of their names yet.
“Welcome to the Bengali Emancipation Society, ladies,” says Miss Shireen.
“Namaste,” says Gracie, putting her palms together.
Kat has her Nefertiti face in place, so a small head tip is all she offers.
Gracie comes over to Ravi for their usual hug of greeting, and he leans his cheek on her hair. Wow, this feels good, he thinks. I didn’t realize I needed some Boston love right about now.
But Miss Shireen is frowning. “That won’t do, you two,” she says. “It’s not appropriate for girls and boys your age to embrace in public here. You will have to hide your affections while in Kolkata.”
Gracie drops her arms and backs away, and Ravi can tell she’s mortified. His cheeks feel warm, too. Good thing only Miss Shireen witnessed the hug.
“I’m sorry,” Gracie says. “It’s fine in my culture. We’re always hugging and kissing.”
Miss Shireen looks skeptical. That’s what Ravi thinks, anyway. Nonverbals are so confusing here. “Nonetheless, you’re in India now,” she says. “So it’s good to do as we do.”
Ravi tries to explain. “We’ve known each other for years. Gracie’s sort of like a sister to me.”
“That’s what you think,” Kat mutters.
Ravi doesn’t have time to ask what she’s talking about. Miss Shireen scrapes the air with her hand, palm down. “Come, girls. I brought along some Asha House uniforms for you to try. Not sure I have one in your size, Kat, but my brilliant tailor is always ready to make alterations. You come, too, Ravi, and I shall show you where you can wait.”
Miss Shireen opens a door to a large room. “Your Bangla lessons will be here, inside our prayer and worship room. Take your shoes off and go inside, Ravi, while the girls try on the uniforms.”
Ravi slips off his sandals and leaves them under a sign that says SHOES HERE PLEASE. The room is spacious, and unlike the office outside, it feels serene. He sees a Bible and a prayer book on a lectern at the front, along with several unlit candles and a simple cross. Foam mats are arranged across the floor to the right and left, leaving an aisle down the middle. A small, rectangular table is set up near the door with three chairs on one side of it and one on the other. Three textbooks are neatly stacked on the table, along with three notebooks and three pencils.
Ravi sits in one of the three “student” chairs and flips open one of the books. The Bangla alphabet is totally different from the ABCs he’s used to seeing. Will he need to know how to read Bangla when he opens his file? Maybe someone at the orphanage can translate if the papers aren’t in English.
A short, tarry-skinned older man comes in carrying four cups of milky chai on a tray. Tea, tea, tea. Ravi’s been back to Kolkata twenty-four hours and has been served six cups of it already. Good thing it’s delicious. “Thanks,” he says.
“No mention,” the man says, smiling and bowing after he puts the tray on the table. “I am Gopal, office bearer. You need, you ask, I give.”
As Gopal exits, Kat comes in, still wearing her own clothes. She leaves her sandals beside Ravi’s and drops into a chair. “Surprise! Nothing fit. Tore two of those tunic thingies trying them on. Pants were a foot too short. They’re sending my measurements to the tailor. Meanwhile, I get to stay in my own clothes.”
Ravi risks the question. “Did you bring anything along that isn’t black?”
“Just this.” She readjusts Ms. Vee’s long red scarf around her neck and takes a sip of tea.
Gracie comes in, wearing the exact uniform they saw on the girl in the fil
m—loose yellow pants, flowing tunic, matching scarf. She, too, stops just inside the door to slip out of her sandals.
Miss Shireen is standing behind her. “I’ll see you two at Asha House after lunch,” she tells Kat and Gracie. “We have a few things to discuss before you meet the girls. Goodbye, Ravi.”
“She seems tough,” Kat says once the door closes and the three of them are alone.
“Maybe that’s what those girls need to feel safe,” Ravi says. “Someone tough to protect them.”
“Maybe. Doesn’t Gracie look great in her Asha House uniform, Ravi? It’s a perfect fit. Model it for us, will you, Gracie?”
Gracie struts down the “aisle” in the center of the room on tiptoes as if she’s on a runway in high heels. She twirls by the lectern and model-walks back to them with her lips in a pout. Her black, shiny hair is loose and flowing around her shoulders. It’s usually in a ponytail, Ravi realizes. Kat’s right. The outfit fits perfectly.
Gracie gets back to them and sits down. “This long scarf makes me feel so elegant. Miss Shireen says it’s called an orna.” She takes a sip of tea. “Being a fashionista is thirsty-making work.”
Kat nudges Ravi, who’s still staring at Gracie. “Beautiful, right?”
They’re interrupted by the door flying open.
“Thomader chatri esheche!” An old lady in a white sari and glasses is standing there, palms pressed in a namaste. “I am Mrs. Gupta, your Bangla teacher.”
She walks in to join them as proudly as if she were a model herself.
Mrs. Gupta hands out notebooks and pencils. “Outside these walls, knowing a bit of Bangla will open hearts,” she tells them. “Bengalis enjoy it greatly when foreigners try to speak our beautiful mother tongue.”
I’m no foreigner, Ravi thinks, deciding immediately to learn as much of the language as he can, as fast as he can. After all, Bangla is his mother tongue, too.
KAT
Kat’s first language lesson passes by in a blur. Mrs. Bengal Tiger looks exasperated, but Kat can’t retain more than a phrase or two. All she can think about is how she can’t stay at that flat another night.
Forward Me Back to You Page 12
