A Walk Across the Sun

by Corban Addison

  “I’m sorry, sweet girl. I’m sorry I didn’t come for you. I didn’t know.”

  He left Mohini’s room and entered his office. He powered up his laptop and opened his Web browser. He thought about Junger’s two options. He ran a Google search for a Bahamian island he had read about in a magazine. The photos were inspiring. Beaches lined with palms, iridescent water lapping at white sand. He imagined himself with a piña colada, watching the sun set. Then he tried to imagine the rest. He would be alone. He couldn’t spend all day reading. He would quickly tire of the resort life. As much as he hated to admit it, Junger was right. A vacation would be a black hole. He needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

  He closed the window and saw that he had two new e-mail messages. The first message was from his mother. She had sent it a few hours before. The subject header was blank, but that wasn’t surprising. Elena had never quite figured out her computer.

  She had written:

  Thomas, I had a thought today that you can take or leave. You said that Priya is not coming back, but you didn’t mention divorce. If that was an oversight, then ignore this. If not, then consider: What if you followed her to India? What if you gave your marriage one last chance? I know it sounds crazy. She might reject you. You might come home a failure. But at least then you would have the closure I didn’t hear in your voice. There is always time to build a career. Love is a much rarer thing. Your father probably wouldn’t agree with me, but it doesn’t matter. It was good to see you yesterday.

  Thomas was astonished. The idea of following Priya had never occurred to him, and now that it did, he saw in it only potential for disaster. True, Priya hadn’t mentioned divorce, but her exit had been so premeditated, so cold and devoid of feeling, that he had never questioned her intent. Indeed, it was that very sense of finality that had driven him into Tera’s arms. And therein lay another problem. Even if by some chance Priya had meant to leave the door open to reconciliation, there was no way to undo what he had done since her departure. He had been unfaithful. Tera was asleep in their bed. His broken vows were an indictment against him.

  He closed his mother’s message and opened the next one. It was from Andrew Porter.

  Hey buddy, I gotta say I’m still smarting from being so thrashed by you, but I deserve it. I always know I’m going to lose, but I keep coming back anyway. Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but I called a friend of mine at CASE (she’s the deputy director of operations), and I asked her whether they had any openings for legal interns right now. You’ll never guess what she said. A slot just opened up in their Bombay office. Crazy, huh? Don’t know if you’d be interested, what with Priya being there, but I thought I’d pass it along. Let me know if you want to explore this.

  Thomas sat back in his chair and stared out the window at the night sky, aglow with light pollution. Bombay! The idea was absurd. Clayton’s pro bono program was as wide as the world. Europe, South America, China, Africa—his options were unlimited. And even if he wanted to work with CASE, the organization had offices in fourteen countries. He might have to wait, but something would open up. Bombay! It was the last place on earth he should search for peace.

  He left the laptop open and wandered through the house. He scoured the refrigerator for nothing in particular; he reorganized the wine rack by region; he watched a few minutes of a John Wayne rerun on television. After a while, he collapsed in the chair by the window and picked up the box of memories again.

  He sifted through the photographs, finding the one he was looking for near the bottom. He had trimmed it to fit in his wallet. The photograph showed Priya at the entrance to Fellows Garden. They had met there many times during his summer at Cambridge, always in secret, away from her father. Priya smiled back at him across the years, her eyes sparkling with mischief and delight. Love had surprised them both. It had been such a weighty thing. Was there actually a chance that they could find it again?

  Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, Thomas finally conceded. He stopped his pacing and walked slowly toward the stairs, compelled by a purpose he couldn’t begin to understand. He returned to the computer and sent two e-mails.

  To Porter he wrote, “Set up a meeting. I’m free any time.”

  And to Max Junger: “I’ve decided to take your advice. I’m thinking about going to India to work with CASE. I hope Mark Blake and Wharton are satisfied.”

  He entered the bedroom and looked at Tera asleep on Priya’s side of the bed. Her back was to him, and her hair had fallen over her face. This was the last time, he decided. It wasn’t her fault. She had been kind to him. But the charade had gone on long enough. He would tell her in the morning. She would be angry, but she would survive. He, on the other hand, was ready to commit himself. India? The fight against modern slavery? Facing his wife again?

  How in the world was he going to explain this to his father?

  Chapter 5

  Darkness—black and painted—has come over me. O Dawn, banish it like a debt.

  —RIG VEDA

  Mumbai, India

  After a few days in Suchir’s brothel, Ahalya and Sita began to lose touch with time. Each day took on the rhythm of India’s year, its two seasons defined by the presence and absence of the sun. Day was benign and filled with all things domestic—the chatter of the girls occupying the floor below, the diverse sounds of commerce drifting up from the street. Night, by contrast, was malignant, a soundscape of pounding feet, drunken shouts, squeals of seduction and protestation, and incessant moaning.

  The girls had few visitors during those first days. Sumeera came to check on them and brought their meals. Ahalya tried to hate her, but the animosity was difficult to sustain. Sumeera spoke softly, without any hint of command, and treated them like daughters.

  One morning she brought a doctor along to examine them. At first Ahalya resisted the gynecologist’s probing, but Sumeera said the examination was routine. All young women in Bombay had it. Ahalya thought of Suchir and agreed so as not to invite his wrath. Sita, seeing her sister capitulate, was quick to follow, though the examination caused her obvious shame and pain.

  After the girls had been poked and prodded, Sumeera spoke in low tones to the doctor.

  “You are both healthy,” she said, clasping her hands together. “We want you to stay that way. You will see the doctor once a month. Treat him well.”

  When Sumeera was not present, the sisters searched the attic room for a means of escape. The room was a rough square, fourteen feet by thirteen. It had no window, only two small exhaust vents. The only door locked from the outside. Beyond it lay a stairwell with no exit except through the concealed door behind the bookcase. Ahalya had no doubt that the secret door could only be activated from the other side.

  After many fruitless attempts, she sat on the floor beside Sita and stroked her hair.

  “There has to be a way out,” she said.

  “But where would we go?” Sita whispered. “We are strangers in Bombay.”

  Ahalya had no answer. Each night, she lay awake, listening to the sounds drifting up from below. Her imagination turned her into an insomniac. She thought of the girls and the men who visited them. She was a virgin, but she was not naive. She understood the mechanics of sex. She knew what women had that men wanted. What she couldn’t comprehend was why a man would pay a prostitute, or beshya, for sex.

  As the days dragged by, Ahalya began to wonder if Suchir would ever come for them. It was Friday, three days after their arrival, and no man had been brought to their room. Ahalya’s only explanation was that the brothel owner was planning something for them. The thought of it terrified her. Sometimes when she heard Suchir’s voice through the floorboards, a wave of vertigo came upon her. Her only remedy was to lie flat on her back. Sita worried over her, but Ahalya blamed the heat. Inside, however, her heart was consumed with fear.

  The hour came when Ahalya least expected it. It was in the middle of the night on New Year’s Eve, and she had been drifting in a
nd out of sleep. The sounds of festivity were everywhere on the street, and the moans coming from downstairs struggled to keep pace. The doorknob turned without a sound, but the hinges creaked and startled her awake. The light came on suddenly and Sumeera stood at the foot of the bed holding a burlap sack.

  “Wake up, children,” she said nervously. “It’s time to dress.”

  Ahalya’s heart began to pound, but she knew better than to ask questions. She could still feel the sting of the young man’s hand on her cheek the morning they arrived. Sumeera held out a beautiful crimson and gold churidaar and directed Ahalya to put it on. She gave Sita a sari the color of peacock feathers. Bangles came next and then anklets. Sumeera brushed the girls’ hair and adorned it with garlands. Then she applied a light coat of foundation and thin black eyeliner. Standing back, she appraised them. After a moment, Suchir appeared in the doorway and grunted his approval.

  “Come,” he said. “Shankar is waiting.”

  The sisters descended the steps behind Sumeera and Suchir and entered the hallway. There were perhaps twenty girls in the narrow space. Some were leaning against walls; others were sitting on the floor in open door frames. A few snickered when they appeared, but the rest were watchful. To Ahalya’s surprise, most of the beshyas were plainlooking. Only two or three could pass for pretty, and only one girl was truly beautiful.

  Ahalya caught a few whispers as she walked past.

  “Fifty thousand,” a tall girl guessed.

  “More,” said her neighbor.

  Suchir silenced them with a glare. He directed Sita to wait at the door and then ushered Sumeera and Ahalya into the brothel lobby. A man sat on one of the couches facing the mirror. He was forty-something, with a head of black curls and a gold watch on his wrist. He eyed Ahalya appraisingly while Suchir pulled the window shades. Sumeera, meanwhile, took her seat on the other couch and bowed her head.

  Suchir flipped a switch, and a bank of recessed bulbs installed above the mirror flooded the room with light. In a gentle voice, he directed Ahalya to stand beneath the glare and to look at the man. Ahalya obeyed for a brief moment, and then her eyes fell to the floor.

  “Shankar, my friend,” said the brothel owner, “I have something delectable for you tonight. Two girls—both sealed pack. This is the older one.”

  Shankar murmured his delight. He stood up and walked toward Ahalya. He admired her skin, touched her hair, and grazed her left breast with the back of his hand.

  “Ravas,” he said with a sigh. “Magnificent. I do not need to see more.

  Save the other girl for another day. How much for this one? With no condom.”

  “Condoms are required,” Suchir replied. “You know the rule.”

  Shankar shrugged. “Rules are worthless. How much do you want?”

  Suchir seemed to hesitate, but then quickly conceded. “For a girl like this, sixty thousand, and only this time.”

  “Suchir, you drive a hard bargain,” Shankar said. “I came only with fifty thousand in bills.”

  “You can visit the ATM,” Suchir rejoined. “The girl is worth every rupee.”

  Shankar stepped back. “Sixty thousand. I will pay you the rest afterward.” He handed a wad of thousand-rupee notes to Suchir.

  Suchir looked at Sumeera. “Take them upstairs,” he said. “And keep the other girl in the stairwell. It will be a good lesson for her.”

  While the men negotiated, Ahalya stood in a state of near paralysis. In the harsh embrace of the stage lights, she felt transported. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she felt a prickly sensation begin at the base of her neck and wind its way downward. She didn’t think of Shankar as a man. She imagined him as a ghost, a spirit from the underworld. A ghoul could not deflower her. Yet she knew the trick of her mind was foolish. He was a man like any other.

  When she heard Suchir’s directive about Sita, she looked up, horrified but unable to speak. Fear had absconded with the remains of her defiance. She would allow Shankar to have her so that Sita would learn not to resist. For resistance, she now understood, meant pain, and pain accentuated the misery of this beggar’s existence. After tonight, she would be awara, a fallen one. The bridge into prostitution had only one direction.

  “Bolo na, tum tayor ho?” Sumeera asked her. “Tell me now, are you ready?”

  Ahalya nodded. She allowed Shankar to take her hand and lead her into the hallway. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Sita. As Shankar drew her up the stairs, she thought of her father. He had taught her that she was strong, that the sky was the limit of her talents, and that she could be anything she wanted to be. It was a beautiful idea, but illfated. She thought of her mother as Sumeera fluffed the pillows and lit a candle. Ambini had been gentle and dignified, a role model to emulate. They were dead now, both of them, their bodies strewn like driftwood upon the ruin of a beautiful beach. All that remained was jooth ki duniya, a world of lies.

  Sumeera left her with Shankar and closed the door. Ahalya stared at a spot on the floor, trembling. She could not bring herself to look at the man who had bought her. He approached her and lifted her chin until she met his eyes. He smiled at her as he unbuttoned his pants.

  “Tonight is your wedding night,” he said and pushed her back on the bed.

  Sita sat in the darkness of the stairwell, weeping at the sounds of her sister’s violation. In her fifteen years, she had acquired little knowledge of carnal desire, but she understood the meaning of rape. When the sounds of Shankar’s pleasure finally ended, she heard her sister begin to cry. After a moment, Shankar appeared at the door and brushed past her. His eyes were glazed and his clothing was disheveled. He didn’t speak; he simply disappeared.

  Sita crept into the room. Her sister lay on the bed in a tangle of sheets, her churidaar in a heap on the floor. The candle flame cast dancing shadows on the walls. Ahalya’s eyes were closed and her forehead was hot to the touch. Sita kissed her cheek and knelt at the bedside. Sumeera soon appeared and led Ahalya to the commode. She washed her and clothed her in a loose-fitting nightshirt. Then she returned her to the bed.

  Sumeera spoke soothingly to Ahalya. “What you have experienced is difficult. The shame is natural. All feel it the first time. But you will survive. You will learn to accept it.”

  With that, she left them alone.

  Sita undressed and slipped into bed, cradling Ahalya in her arms. Her sister had always been her fortress, her protector. In the loneliest nights at St. Mary’s, Ahalya had never failed to comfort her. During the tsunami, she had positioned herself between Sita and the waves. Now it was Sita’s turn to comfort and protect. She began to hum a song their mother used to sing to them. She knew the tune by heart, and she sang it with the passion of a prayer.

  Ahalya woke on New Year’s Day like a bird with a shattered wing. She spoke, but the joy was gone from her voice. She ate breakfast without a comment on the food. She received Sumeera’s visits without a word. During the hours of the day when the vendors on the street hawked their wares and the beshyas downstairs performed their chores, she lay on the bed, staring into space. She turned over on occasion, but she rarely sat up.

  The adda lost texture in her mind; its sights and sounds became sensory impulses and vague impressions. Only Sita remained in focus. Ahalya was surprised at the extent of her younger sister’s poise. It seemed that she matured years in the span of days. She wet a cloth and placed it on Ahalya’s forehead. She sang songs that Ambini and Jaya had taught them and quoted verses from Ahalya’s favorite poetry. When she recited a poem by Sarojini Naidu, Ahalya began to mouth the words along with her.

  “Here, O my heart, let us burn the dreams that are dead,

  Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre,

  Of fallen white petals and leaves that are mellow and red,

  Here let us burn them in noon’s flaming torches of fire.”

  The rest of the weekend passed in relative solitude, and Suchir left them alone. Where Shankar had abraded Ahalya’s skin, Su
meera applied ointment as a salve. Over and over again she repeated the refrain that Ahalya had to accept what had happened to her. There was no other way out of the tunnel of shame. Ahalya became more active with the rising of each new sun, but her eyes were wells of sorrow.

  Early the following week, Suchir came for Ahalya again. Sumeera provided the same red and gold churidaar for her to wear, but she didn’t ask Sita to dress. Ahalya closed her eyes and went through the motions in silence. The beshyas lined the walls to watch her, but this time they were not quiet. As she passed, two of them guessed the price Suchir would charge for her.

  “Twenty thousand,” one of them said.

  “Ten,” said another. “She is already used. The dhoor will see no blood.”

  Ahalya tried to ignore their words and kept her eyes locked on the ground. She waited at the door until Suchir summoned her and then stood under the lights like a circus spectacle. Two customers sat on the cushions adjacent to Sumeera. One was middle-aged and the other was a boy no older than she. The man spoke excitedly to the youth, and she learned from his words that he was the man’s son. It was the boy’s birthday. Ahalya was his gift.

  The boy stood hesitantly and approached her. He glanced at his father for reassurance, and the man urged him on. The boy touched Ahalya’s lips with his fingertips and traced a line down to her chest. She shivered and wondered what the boy would do with her.

  The man haggled with Suchir over the price and finally agreed upon fifteen thousand rupees. The boy took her hand and followed Suchir to the first sex room along the hall. An overweight older girl stepped aside and glared at her. The room was tiny, large enough only to accommodate a bed, a sink, and a toilet. Its purpose was entirely functional. This was the lot of all who were awara, Ahalya thought to herself. It was her destiny to live in perpetual shame.