“Cool. What about if someone presses you up against a wall?”
Kat flashes back to the stairwell. “Yes, even then. You can definitely use BJJ in an upright position. You ready?”
Gracie nods.
“I think we’ll start with a mount escape,” Kat says. “Get on your back.”
Gracie obeys, and Kat straddles her.
“This works when an attacker’s sitting on you, like this.” Kat puts some of her weight down on Gracie’s chest. “I like this move because it shows how a girl can end up dominating even though she starts in a tricky position—on her back, pinned down.”
“Wait—how am I supposed to get you off?” Gracie asks, looking up at Kat. “I weigh one hundred pounds, Kat.”
“You’ll learn. That’s why BJJ is so great—it can help you defeat a much bigger opponent. Oh, and one more thing; if I’m in pain, I’ll tap you a couple of times, or yell out: ‘Tap!’ You do that, too, okay?”
“Pain? Dios mío.” Gracie takes a deep breath. Or tries to, anyway. Kat can tell it’s hard with someone sitting on her chest. “Okay. Let’s go, Professor.”
RAVI
INT./EXT. ROYAL DIADEM HOTEL—DAY
Ravi sleeps in on Friday, and when he wakes, the flat is empty. The twins are at school. Arjun is at the office. Mira’s gone, too. The girls are at Asha House. PG is an hour away, teaching. Ravi has the whole day to himself, with no duties to fulfill, no people to support, no instructions to obey.
He lies in bed remembering, letting the pain rise to the surface. She left him in a hotel. When he was one day old.
Suddenly, he knows exactly what he wants to do today. He gets dressed and grabs an umbrella. Even now, thunderclouds are gathering overhead.
“Royal Diadem Hotel,” he tells an auto-rickshaw driver.
“Are you certain, sir?” the man asks. “That place is not so good. Let me take you to nice hotel.”
“I’m sure,” Ravi answers.
He’s going to the place where she left him.
It was the last time they’d been together.
He wants to see it again.
Rain begins slanting in through the open sides of the vehicle, and passing cars splash them with muddy water. By the time the auto-rickshaw pulls to a stop, the driver and Ravi are both sopping wet. Ravi’s umbrella becomes an unnecessary accessory.
“There is the hotel, but nobody stays there,” the driver tells him. “It must be closing down soon, I am thinking.”
Squinting through the downpour, Ravi spots a Victorian-era mansion tucked between two modern buildings. An ancient sign etched with gold, cursive letters identifies the hotel: ROYAL DIADEM SOCIETY GUESTHOUSE.
He wonders at the “society” part.
“Very good tea just there,” the driver tells him as he takes Ravi’s money. He lifts his chin in the direction of a chai shop across the street.
But Ravi has no interest in tea right now. Holding his unopened umbrella, he runs through the rain to the front door of the hotel and walks inside.
The lobby’s deserted. Frayed, elaborate lace curtains, faded carpets, carved teak furniture, and cobwebs—actual cobwebs—in the corners of the ceiling. A wooden staircase curves up from the lobby, and a vintage player piano is pouring out off-key music that sounds familiar. What is that song? Ravi recognizes it after a couple of rounds: “Amazing Grace.” High-backed wooden chairs circle around a few small tables set with flowery china as if guests are about to arrive. There’s nobody around, though, not even behind the reception desk.
It looks like the set for a horror movie. The driver was right—this place is a dump. Why did Ravi come? What was he hoping to find? A ghost with arms open, waiting for his return?
He turns to see if the rain is still bucketing down and spots a teak bench in a corner near the front entrance. He walks over to it and sits on the faded red cushion.
Here’s where she might have left me.
He closes his eyes and tries to imagine the scene: a recently pregnant young woman, about Kavita’s age and size, slipping into the hotel with a bundle in her arms. Suddenly, his eyes fly open again. At the Bengali Emancipation Society, he’d read about girls leaving unwanted babies in train stations—that seems a likelier place to him than a hotel. Why did his first mother bring her baby to the Royal Diadem Society Guesthouse, of all places?
KAT
INT. BENGALI EMANCIPATION SOCIETY HEADQUARTERS—DAY
On Friday, even though they don’t have language class, Kat wakes Gracie up to go to the office anyway. And in time for the prayer meeting. “It’s a good way to start our day. After that, we get THREE FULL HOURS of training.”
Gracie isn’t bouncing out of bed anymore. This is her fifth day of training, and she’s moving like Grandma Vee—carefully, with low groans as she sits and stands.
The sessions haven’t been going so well. When Kat evaluates her student’s progress, she has to admit that it’s been slow. Well, truthfully? Almost nil.
At this rate, Plan C might end up failing, too.
But it’s Kat’s only hope. Gracie’s been having a rough time with the mount escape. Maybe they should switch to the Kimura. It’s the one Kat used on the Wolf, so she knows exactly how it works.
Inside the gathering space at the office, once the place clears out after prayer, Gracie lies on the mat and groans. “I’m SO SORE.”
“Okay, today we’ll try a Kimura,” Kat says. “You hold your attacker in a double joint armlock to apply pressure on his shoulder. That way, if he struggles, he dislocates his own arm or tears his rotator cuff.”
“Gosh, Kat, that sounds violent! I don’t think I could actually hurt anyone. I thought this was self-defense.”
“You hold him in place with the Kimura. He does the damage to his own body. Get it?”
Gracie looks doubtful. “I guess so.”
“Ready to try?”
Big sigh. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for this, Kat.”
“Don’t give up now. We still have time. Imagine the day we do our demo and wow Miss Shireen! I think Bontu might be a better sparring partner than Ravi. His size will make your defense seem more impressive.”
“Don’t ask anyone yet, Kat.”
“Okay.” Kat straddles Gracie. “Close your legs around me. Establish your guard.”
Gracie locks her ankles around Kat’s waist. “Whoa. This is kind of cool. I’m under you, but I don’t feel as trapped as I did in that first ‘mount escape’ position.”
“Great. Now grab my neck with your hands and pull my head toward you—push my body forward with your legs, too—but make sure you keep my arms and hands outside your arms. Don’t let me get them inside, next to your body.”
Gracie grabs Kat’s neck, but she can’t pull Kat’s head forward. She tries again. It doesn’t budge.
“Pull hard, Fogo. Okay, I’ll come in. There you go. I know … it’s counterintuitive. Your instinct is going to want to push an attacker away. But if you hold on when you’ve got my neck, and I sit up, I actually pull you up with me. That’s when you put a foot down for leverage, get up on an elbow, and grab my right wrist with your left hand.”
Gracie squirms and twists her body but can’t get up on her elbow. “This is impossible!”
“Okay, let’s pretend you got there.” Kat lifts her weight off Gracie for a minute and lets her get up on an elbow. “Now tilt your hips to the side. Yes, like that. Okay, reach through and grab my wrist. And then unlock your legs and put your right foot down on the mat.”
“Like this?”
“Yes. Perfect. All you have to do now to trap my arm is grab your own left wrist with your right hand.”
Gracie grunts and groans as she tries to reach her wrist. “I … can’t … get there. Arms are too short.”
Again, Kat lets her get in the right position. “See how you have my arm trapped now? Press your right foot against my left hip and scoot my hips back. Then throw your left leg high over my upper back.”
“You have to maintain control, Fogo. Let’s set it up again so you can see how this move ends. Okay, here I am, trapped in your hold. Now twist, and drop your right shoulder back to the floor.”
Gracie flops back but loses her grip on Kat’s wrist.
“Remember, your goal is to keep my arm in this painful position so that if I don’t surrender I’ll do damage to my own body.” Like he did, Kat remembers. “Let’s go through it again.”
Gracie tries the first step again: pulling Kat’s neck forward. She can’t do it. Once more. Another fail. Kat breaks it down into steps, letting her get into each position. But Gracie can’t seem to grab anything—Kat’s head, Kat’s wrist, her own wrist.
Finally she falls back in exhaustion with Kat still on top of her, one arm thrown over her face. “I can’t do this. I’M. TOO. WEAK.” And then she starts to cry.
RAVI
INT. ROYAL DIADEM HOTEL—DAY
The piano starts playing again. It’s stuck in a loop of “Amazing Grace,” five-minute pause, “Amazing Grace.” An elegantly suited man with silvery hair walks out of the door behind the reception desk. He catches sight of Ravi and his eyes widen. Probably shocked by the presence of another human being, Ravi thinks.
The man comes around the desk and walks over. “May I help you?” he asks, glancing around nervously. His crisp British-sounding voice makes Ravi feel even more like they’re in a movie.
“I stepped in to get dry for a minute. Mind if I sit here?”
“Sorry, no. Loitering is not permitted on the premises. Please move along.” A badge on his suit announces that he’s Mr. Michael Francis, Hotel Proprietor. What kind of an Indian name is “Michael Francis”? Ravi wonders. And aren’t hotels supposed to be part of the hospitality industry? This “proprietor” is the opposite of hospitable. No wonder they have no guests.
Ravi picks up his umbrella. “Okay, okay, I’m leaving.”
The man hurries back to the reception desk as if he has a thousand tasks to complete for two hundred guests.
Ravi holds the front door open for a second and pauses at the threshold.
Goodbye, he tells two sad ghosts.
One brokenhearted baby.
One suffering young woman.
Just before he steps out into the rain again, he glimpses a dusty portrait on the wall near the corner of the lobby, partially hidden behind a pillar. Something in the old, wrinkled face reminds him of Ms. Vee.
As he moves back inside and lets go of the handle, the door bangs shut.
Up close, he can tell the woman is Indian, not African. But the dark skin, flat nose, crinkles around her eyes, and especially the kindness in her smile do resemble Ms. Vee. The placard beneath the portrait identifies her as “Miss Martha Das, Royal Diadem Housemother, 1947–1967.” He reads the small description that follows.
Royal Diadem Society Guesthouse was established by foreign missionaries in 1902 for unfortunate unmarried girls who found themselves with child and had no other housing arrangement. The Society’s mission was to nurture these desperate souls and their babies. After Partition, Miss Das took the helm and faithfully served young women who arrived at the Guesthouse for over two decades.
Ravi reads it again, and this time his eyes blur as the truth sinks in. He’s found some information that wasn’t in his file. Eighteen or so years ago, a “desperate soul” made her way to the Royal Diadem, hoping for a welcome that might be better than the one her newborn would get in a train station. The reputation of this building clung to it through the generations, and somehow, she must have heard of it.
Well, at least she tried, Ravi thinks, his eyes stinging suddenly.
That’s something.
Suddenly, a loud clatter behind him interrupts his thoughts. Shoes are coming fast down the wooden staircase. Two pairs of them, at least.
KAT
INT. BENGALI EMANCIPATION SOCIETY HEADQUARTERS—DAY
Once Kat releases her, Gracie stalks off and disappears into the ladies’ room.
As Kat wipes down the mats with a towel she’s brought along, she has a flashback to her angry little self at age eleven with Pantera making her push, bridge, grab, twist, and roll her way out of holds. It was controlled fury that finally led to her first escape, after which Saundra threw her arms around Kat, and Mom gave them both a standing ovation. How she wishes they were here! Especially Saundra, who’d know exactly how to teach Gracie. And do it fast.
Kat straightens the mat, making sure the room looks as ordered and peaceful as it did when the girls came in. At least she gets to hear Mom’s voice today. When Gracie asked about calling home, Hyena man said he’d arrange it so they could borrow an office phone. And Kat had emailed her mother to say she would call after Mom’s late shift on Thursday.
After a few minutes, Gopal hands Kat a mobile. “Mr. Arjun says you will be calling your mother today? Please use this phone.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gopal!”
Kat sits on the mat and dials her mother’s number. To Kat’s relief, the call goes through quickly and the reception is good. And the best part is that Saundra’s there, too, listening in as Kat explains Plan C to Mom.
“Just be sure Gracie also wants to do this for herself, Kat. What’s that?” There’s a pause. “Saundra says those three are your signature moves, and she knows you can teach them.”
“Tell her thanks, Mom. I’ll do my best. I’d better hang up; PG said to keep it under five minutes. Talk next week.”
“Love you, Kat.”
“Love you, Mom.”
* * *
Inside the lunchroom, Gracie is staring glumly at a full, uneaten plate of food.
Looks like Plan C’s landing pretty hard on Kat’s pupil.
“Listen, we don’t have to do this,” Kat says. “I can always come up with a new plan.”
Golden-Ruling Plan D? What in the world could that be? She doesn’t want to surrender. Again.
Gracie reaches for a tissue and blows her nose. “My abuelo says, ‘Gato con guantes no caza ratones.’ A cat with gloves can’t catch mice. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty to get the job done.”
Kat has no idea what she’s talking about, but it sounds like she’s not quitting. “Are you sure?”
“As long as you think I can learn this, I’m in. Look out, Tío. This ‘linda niñita’ is staying on the mat.” Now Gracie’s eyes are flashing and she’s sneering. The lifted right upper lip on that sweet face looks so out of place that Kat has to blink a couple of times. Gracie’s still an avian. But she’s no Dove. This bird’s on FIRE.
Kat’s never made a first move to hug anyone other than her mother, but valor like this deserves a response. She gets up, throws her arms around Gracie, and pulls her into a tight Filhote-Fogo embrace.
RAVI
INT./EXT. ROYAL DIADEM HOTEL—DAY
Ravi peeks around the marble pillar and sees a man hurrying down to the lobby. He’s holding tightly to a girl’s hand and dragging her with him to the front desk. His face is twisted into a snarl that makes Ravi catch his breath.
“Where were you when my customer arrived, Mr. Francis?” the man demands. He’s speaking English. “This girl told me nobody came, so I rang him up. He was furious. There was nobody here to direct him.”
“I am so sorry, Mr. Sarker. Fridays are a Muslim holiday, you know. Our new bellman left to go to the mosque and didn’t inform me. Please forgive me. It shall not happen again, you have my word.”
The girl tries to pull her hand away but the man gripping it yanks her even closer. “Make certain it doesn’t,” he says. “We can easily move to another one of our locations on Fridays. Perhaps we should.”
“No need, no need. I already sacked the bellman. We count on your business, Mr. Sarker. Please, kindly take your money back for last night’s booking. With interest.”
Sticking his head out a little further, Ravi watches the proprietor pul
l out a stack of bills and push it across the counter. Sarker’s hand reaches out, grabs the cash, and whisks it out of sight into his pocket. “And you’ll also give me the next booking without charge,” he growls.
The proprietor pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and presses the folded square against his forehead. “Most definitely, sir, I will. I shall keep your reservations as they are, in perpetuity. We are most grateful for your business.”
Ravi pulls back behind his marble shield as the man heads to the front door, still dragging the girl along. She’s stumbling and tripping, trying to keep up. Just as Sarker pulls her out of the hotel, she swivels her head for a quick second.
She sees Ravi.
She looks into his eyes.
Hers are big and round. The pupils are dilated.
They remind him of his own, staring out of those long-ago pictures.
They remind him of someone else’s, too. He takes a step and reaches out for her, but it’s too late.
The door slams. She’s gone.
Oh, God.
This child is scared.
The realization of her terror electrifies him.
Now he races out after them, but Sarker has already stowed the girl into a waiting sedan that screeches away. A blue Skoda, Ravi notes. He watches the taillights disappear, trying his best to see the license plate, but it’s raining too hard.
Anger detonates inside his chest. He hurries back inside and marches up to the proprietor. “What was that man doing with a little girl?” he demands.
The hotel owner presses his hand against his heart. “Oh my God! You are still here? I … I thought you had left.”
“Who was he? Give me his full name immediately.”
“I don’t … know it. She is … she is his daughter.” He’s backing away, his hand on the door handle behind him.
Still fueled by rage, Ravi slaps his palm hard on the high desk, making the bell vibrate. “You’re lying! Where does he live? Is he coming back?”
Forward Me Back to You Page 20
