The Blue Notebook

by MD James Levine

  What is hardship—that I am the vehicle of his want? His sex emptying into me or dribbling down the edges of my mouth—is that truly hardship or is that my role as his vessel? If a seeker is all that man is, then I am a bowl. It is nature for him to seek his source. Here I stand, thrown from earth’s clay, pigmented for his delight, and then hardened through extreme heat. Here I am, his bowl. He may smash me but it is folly to do so, for it is I whom he seeks. It is his nature to want to empty into me and mine to receive him. The hardship of woman knows this. But be cautious. Some of us have holes, others are cracked, and still others are so delicate that one knock can destroy us. Some of us are not glazed and, to be frank, some of us appear ugly but have a remarkable capacity. It does not matter, for as bowls, we receive them and in us they reside. Swishing around, we carefully approach the river and pour them back from where they came.

  I am a lake of unimaginable depth and inestimable volume that is a confluence of all men.

  As Hita and I separated she said, “Batuk, let me run you a bath.”

  The bathroom was as magnificent as the other rooms in the Tiger Suite. It was walled with light brown polished stone. There were two polished sinks with silver taps, white towels, a toilet, and a bathtub. The toilet was made from white stone and shone like the sink. It had its own cover that lifted upward. To the left of the toilet, built into the wall, was a paper roll with a tongue of paper hanging down ready to lick your bottom. The bath was big enough to fit an ox. Three stone steps led up to the bath, the same stone used for the walls. The water in the tub was steaming and the layer of soap bubbles that floated on its surface was so thick that it looked as though you needed a knife to cut it. I walked up the steps as if I were ascending the Queen’s throne and stepped into the bath like a drunkard cutting his top lip into a glass of beer. As I sunk into the heat, I remembered the last time I had been immersed in a bath full of hot water; on the last occasion it was the old woman who had scrubbed me and on this occasion it was to be Hita.

  First, Hita cleaned my hair. Her fingers massaged the shampoo into my scalp and she rubbed my long, thick hair between her palms to clean it. She applied the shampoo three times, each time showering off the soap with warm water. Soap streamed down my neck into the bubbles; water returning to water. She wrapped my hair in a towel and I lay back in the bath and she washed my body. The pressure of her fingertips was intense and almost painful as she moved her hands back and forth over my back, shoulders, and neck. My body arched in response. But when she cleaned my arms and my breasts she raised her fingertips off my skin and sunk the palms of her hands downward, giving an altogether different sensation. When she washed my breasts my nipples became firm. Although my breasts were only the size of oranges, there was fullness to them. Her hands lingered there and her back-and-forth hand motion slowed. With each hand action she accentuated the friction of her palms on my now-erect dark nipples, and without prompting, my legs flexed imperceptibly under the hot water.

  She next started to clean my legs. Both of her hands encircled my left ankle and moved along my calf in long, firm strokes. She pressed hard into the muscles and I felt tension that I did not know existed release. Her sunken hazel eyes followed her hands as she repeated these movements on my right calf, but from there she started to strongly massage my thigh. As her hands cleaned my inner thigh, a belt tightened around my belly and a soft sound slipped from my lips. Her hands moved across to my left thigh. My eyes shut and her hands rhythmically washed up and down the whole leg but this time with each long caress, the edge of her hand nudged against my bunny rabbit’s ears. Reflexively, I let my legs part a little. Feelings from my belly showered downward. She pulled her hands from the water and lathered soap onto her right hand, which she then placed flat against my swollen ears and rubbed firmly back and forth to clean it. I opened my eyes for an instant and I saw that she was now staring at me. “Batuk,” she whispered, “let’s get you out.”

  I stepped from the bath into a large white towel that Hita held for me, being careful not to let the towel on my head fall off. “Darling, go and lie on the bed,” she said, “and I will be there in a second.” I went and lay facedown on top of the pale green bedspread, my head turned to the bathroom entrance, watching Hita. She came from the bathroom carrying a tray, with her sleeves rolled up and a soft, self-assured smile on her face. She placed the tray next to me on the bed and said sweetly, “Batuk, I want you to relax … would you like me to put on some music?” I nodded. She knelt down and switched on the radio built into the bed’s headboard, tuning it to a station playing sitar music. “Lie on your back,” she instructed. As I rolled onto my back Hita undid the towel with a gentle confidence and it fell open. I lay naked except for my hair. She said, “Just relax and put your arms over your head.” With a big brown brush she wiped cream under my armpit nearest her and using a razor shaved off the early grasses of womanhood. She repeated this on the other arm and then wiped my shaved armpits with a towel that had been moistened with warm water. She told me to relax my arms and I let them fall by my sides. She took the brush from the tray, dipped it in cream, and wiped it over my entire rabbit face. The ears were quite swollen from the rubbing and the heat of the bath and the cream felt tingly “Just relax,” Hita said as she shaved, down to up. She started at my inner thigh and swept upward with short strokes. I squiggled a bit with the feeling. Once she was finished, she used another warm, moist towel to clean me. My dew was leaking from me and I could smell myself.

  “There, finished,” Hita said. “Come slip under the covers.” I obligingly did so and she smiled at me. “You have a long day tomorrow and you need your rest. Sleep well.” I looked up at her to return her smile but then had to look again, for all I saw was emptiness. That night, I had no dreams.

  I was awakened by shafts of light sliding through the cracks between the curtains and shining into my eyes. I was alone in the room. I climbed out of bed and started to explore.

  The Tiger Suite comprised the three rooms I already knew: the bedroom, the bathroom, and the living area. I went into the living room, where Tiger smiled at me and bade me good morning. “Yes, I did sleep well. Did you?” I answered his inquiry. I dragged the window curtain and found that it glided open weightlessly I saw the turquoise of the ocean illuminated by blazing sunshine. The water extended to eternity. The sunshine was early in its day’s travel and shone straight at me. Far, far below was the wide promenade on which only a few people walked. I saw a couple of people in brightly colored outfits running from an invisible demon. Between the promenade and the hotel was the street; cars and buses drove unimpeded. I opened all the curtains one by one, first in the living room and then in the bedroom. Three of the tall windows (two in the living room and one in the bedroom) faced the water and I felt that if I stepped from the window, I would walk straight into the ocean. The bedroom had a second window that was set at right angles to the ocean front. This one looked down onto a side street where I saw five tiny men repairing a dirty dark green car. Then it struck me that I was naked.

  It was not that I felt ashamed about being unclothed, but I had not been naked in private for as long as I could remember. Of course, I was naked for the weekly shower with the other girls and Puneet, which we had in the wet room behind Hippo’s lair, but apart from that I was always clothed. In my nest, which seemed a lifetime away, I could have slept naked with my curtain drawn if I had wanted to but it never crossed my mind to do so. Although the tiger and I were both naked and we loved the feeling of the sun’s glare on our bodies, I felt it immodest to be undressed.

  In the bathroom I found a heavy white robe made from thick toweling. It was obviously sized for a man, but once the sleeves were rolled up, it served me perfectly. I tied the sash round my waist and headed to the entrance of the Tiger Suite. I said to the tiger, “Don’t worry I am not leaving. I am just going to pop out for a bit to explore.” He growled his approval and I smiled. The door was locked from the outside, however. I put my ear to it and
could swear that I heard the old doorman breathing. Popping out was obviously not an option.

  I noticed a bowl of fruit on the dining table. I was tremendously hungry and assumed that it was for me. I took a large, soft mango from the bowl, peeled half of it with my teeth and fingers, and buried my face in the sweet pulp. My face was covered in mango juice when I heard a key jangling in the door. Hita strode in before I could wipe all the mango off. I looked guiltily across the room at her. She smiled in amusement. “I see you are hungry,” she said. “Let’s order breakfast for you. What do you like to eat?” I milled the question through my mind. I had no real idea what I liked. I eventually answered, “Anything is fine … thank you, Miss Hita.”

  Hita spoke on the phone for a short while. She switched on the television to a program where a woman was talking about an apartment building that had caught fire. They were showing pictures of charred bodies and it reminded me of the dump behind the Orphanage. I had preferred the silence and solitude that preceded Hita’s arrival but such matters were not my choice. I thought fleetingly of my husband.

  After a while, there was a knock at the door and a man in a white jacket and black trousers walked in pushing a cart full of food. Although this breakfast was the most sumptuous I had ever seen, I cared little for it despite my hunger. I would have been happier with sweet chai, the soy paste Mother makes, and hot nan with oil. Such reservations, though, are the luxury of the well fed. The man placed the food on the table and left. As the door slammed, I looked at Hita, who nodded assent, and I attacked the food with both hands. I was scooping yellow eggs onto the bread and pushing it into my mouth. My robe fell open as I did so and food sprinkled and splattered onto my body. I stopped eating with most of the food untouched. Hita watched this uncouth spectacle with a professional detachment that reminded me that the food was only a prelude to the remainder of the day.

  A moment later, while sipping tea, Hita informed me that the doctor would be coming to see me later and she asked if there was anything I needed.

  “Miss Hita, can you tell me why I am here? When will I be going back to Mamaki Briila?” Hita looked at me, smiled, and answered, “Don’t worry yourself about that for now. It is better that you just think of today. As I said, the doctor is coming soon. Now is there anything you want?” I did not think of asking for clothes but said, “Miss Hita, could I please have some paper and a pen?” “You want colors to draw with?” Hita asked. “No, Miss Hita. I want paper and a pen to write a story with, please,” I said. Hita raised her eyebrows in surprise and replied, “I will have to keep my eye on you. I didn’t realize that you’re a smart one. You are the first girl to ever ask for paper and a pen. They usually ask for makeup or a hairbrush or a toy or something like that but never paper and a pen.” Hita looked at me. It was not a pleasant look but not a mean one either. “I am curious,” she said. “Are you from an educated family?” I replied, “No, I learned to read …” I was just about to say, “when I had TB,” but realized that if I said this I might be sent back to the Common Street immediately. Perhaps she was right; I was cleverer than I thought. I said, “I learned to read, Miss Hita, from the missionaries back at my home village.” She asked, “You read English or dialect?” “Dialect,” I answered. “Are you from a farming village?” she asked. “Yes, I am from Dreepah-Jil in Madhya Pradesh,” I replied. The rat-a-tat-tat of questions continued. “And how long have you been in the city?” By this question she really meant, How long had I inhabited my nest? It is known that the nests are predominantly supplied with girls from the farming towns who are abandoned or sold. I had seen many summers in Mumbai, which are unforgettable because of their unbearable wet heat. “Six.” “One more question,” she said. “So have you written stories for the last six years?” This caught me off guard because I did not understand why she cared. When in doubt, lie. “No,” I answered. What I failed to appreciate was that one of Hita’s responsibilities was to ensure that girls like me disappear off the face of the earth without a trace.

  Before I left the Common Street I had tied my blue notebook to my back using a piece of string. I did not want to be without my book. Also, I was unsure if I would ever be returning to my nest. The book dug into my back in the taxi but that was a small price to pay. In the hotel room, when I first walked around the Tiger Suite as the blue suit was rifling through his wallet, I had yanked the book out from my back and slid it behind a cushion of one of the armchairs. After this conversation with Hita, I remembered my book’s ill-planned hiding place and knew that I needed to move it to a more secure one. The opportunity came almost immediately, when Hita went to the bedroom to call the doctor. “She’s ready now,” I heard Hita say. In a second, I had grabbed the book from behind the chair cushion and slid it under the sofa, where I suspected it would be safe for a while. Hita returned to the main room and told me that Dr. Prathi would be coming to see me soon. She also told me, much to my delight, that there was already paper and a pen in the small desk in the bedroom and that the hotel boy would bring more paper later. Hita said, half chuckling, that she expected to see my story when it was done. I would plan for that.

  There is a knock at the door. Hita unlocks it with a key she is carrying in the pocket of her white trousers. A hotel man brings in a pile of paper topped with the hotel’s insignia: the Royal Imperial Hotel, Mumbai, written in gold. He puts the pile on the table, fishes around in his pocket, and places two pens next to it. Hita gives the boy a coin, which he slips into his jacket pocket before flashing me a flirtatious grin.

  Almost immediately after the hotel man leaves, Dr. Prathi arrives. His tummy rolls over his tight belt; I can see that it has stretched the last belt hole almost to obliteration. He has rushed here and he is panting. He dabs his shiny brow with a filthy hanky held in his plump hand. In his other hand he carries a worn black doctor’s bag. I can see puddles of sweat spreading under his armpits even through his drab gray jacket. He puffs, “Sorry I am late; I got here as fast as I could.” Hita steps forward. “Dr. Prathi, nice to see you. This is not a problem at all—we have all day. Here, this is for you.” She hands him a tan envelope. She continues, “Please conduct your examination. I have to collect some clothing for her and will be back in an hour or so.” She fishes in her pocket and pulls out the room key, which dangles on the key ring. “Here is the key. If you finish and cannot wait, lock the door and give the doorman the key. Leave your report over there on the table … any concerns at all, please give me a call here this afternoon. If there is anything you need, call on the hotel phone and they can get it for you.” She shakes the hand of the doctor and places the “thank you” bank note she receives from him in her pocket as she closes the door behind her. I hope she washes her hands.

  Dr. Prathi beckons me over to the dining table, where he sits on the chair at the head of the table. He is flowing over it. I sit two chairs away from him but I can still smell him. He turns to me, beaming, and says, “I think we are going to have a nice time. Well, little girl, what is your name?” “Batuk,” I say. He pulls a pad of paper and his listening tubes out of his bag. He is also pulling out a shiny metal object I have not seen before, and it clunks as he puts it on the table. He takes a black pen out of his jacket pocket. “Batuk, what is your family name?” he asks. “Ramasdeen,” I say. He repeats, “Batuk Ramasdeen,” as he writes on his pad of paper. He writes in a scrawl. I have not been asked my family name in many years. It has a foreign feel, as if it were someone new I am meeting. “How old are you, Batuk?” he asks. “Fifteen,” I say. “Well, pretty Batuk,” he continues, “my name is Dr. Prathi and I am here to check that you are healthy so that you can enjoy your stay here, you blessed child.” He waves his arm in the air to indicate something magnanimous. The sweat puddle under his armpit is rapidly becoming a lake.

  “First of all,” he says, “have you had any babies?” “No.” “Do you have monthly lady periods?” Amusingly, he points to his groin. “Yes.” “How long have you had them for?” “I don’t kn
ow … a few years.” (You lose a sense of time in the Common Street.) He continues, “Have you ever had TB or been bright yellow?” “No,” I lie. “Do you use these?” Out of his pocket he pulls a rubber-johnny in a red wrapper. Mamaki often told us that if we are ever asked about rubber-johnnies we should say that we always use them. When a cook wants me to use one, Mamaki, I know, takes an extra ten rupees; even then they are not new but washed from a previous use. The answer to Dr. Prathi is “Yes, Doctor, always.” “Good,” he answers, and slips the red wrapper back in his pocket. “Bituk.” “Batuk,” I correct him. “Batuk, I must listen to your heart and lungs now.” He dangles his listening tubes between his fingers. “Go to the bedroom and jump up on the bed for me and I will be right in.” He continues to write notes and I go to the bedroom to wait for him.

  Dr. Prathi walks straight through the bedroom into the bathroom and runs water into the sink. He has taken off his jacket and I can see his back from the bed; his white shirt is drenched in sweat. He hums to himself. He now turns and waddles toward me with his listening tubes hanging from his neck and with the shiny metal object in his hand. He sits next to me on the bed and rolls up his sleeves. He smiles at me and as he does so, he bobs his head up and down like squash plants bobbing in water. As his head bobs, his chin wobbles, his chest shakes, and his tummy quivers. He is like an orchestra of resonating body fat. He asks me to sit up and take deep breaths. He sits behind me and places his hands on my back. “Deep breaths … in … and … out … good girl.” Then he taps my back and listens through the hearing tubes. He gets up and says, “Lie down.” I do. He feels my ribs on both sides and then my breasts—one by one. He presses and moves his hand in circular motions as he feels each. I swear I can see his eyes widening. He then listens to my chest with his tubes. He straightens his back; “Good,” he says. He then starts to feel my tummy all over, at first pushing softly but then pushing his fingers deep into me. “Good,” he says again. “All right, Batuk, open your legs, darling, I need to see down below … there’s a good girl.”