They took an elevator to the top floor of the building, and the driver opened the door to a modest flat. Sita followed Navin to a small bedroom furnished with nothing but a mattress on an iron frame. She sat down on the bed and stared at the wall. She heard Navin ask if she needed to use the restroom, but she didn’t respond. He shook his head again, clearly displeased, and then left the room, locking the door behind him.
She held herself tightly, clenching her teeth against the fear and sorrow, but this time the pressure was too great. She doubled over and began to sob. Her family was gone. Ahalya was gone. She was alone in a flat in Bombay with a strange man who dealt in drugs.
Navin kept Sita locked in her room except to deliver her food and to allow her use of the bathroom. Sita never spoke to him when he appeared. She sat on the bed, her back against the wall, staring blankly out the window. The monotony was nearly insufferable. The only regular interruptions came from the planes taking off and landing at the airport. She found herself counting the minutes between departures and arrivals. Occasionally, she tried to picture the faces of the passengers and imagine where they were going or coming from.
After three days of this, Navin brought a chair into Sita’s room and sat down, facing her. He was holding a bunch of large grapes and a jar of coconut oil.
“We travel tomorrow night,” he began. “You must do everything exactly as I say. If you listen to me, I will take you to a better place. If you disobey, you could die.”
Sita didn’t process his words right away. The hours of her confinement had been so long she had almost ceased to feel. She stared at the grapes as his words hit home. Suddenly, the boredom turned into dread. Travel? she thought. What does he mean that I could die? She looked at him at last and saw that he was angry.
“Your sister is gone,” he said irritably. “She is a beshya. You are one no longer. It is time to stop this ridiculous mourning.”
She looked at the grapes again. “Where are we going?” she whispered.
Navin collected himself. “You will find out soon enough.” He paused. “Have you ever swallowed a grape whole?”
Sita’s eyes grew wide and she shook her head.
“Then you must practice. You must become proficient in twentyfour hours. I will use oil as lubrication. It will help.”
She watched as he took a grape from the bunch and dipped it in the coconut oil until its skin was shiny. He offered it to her, but she didn’t take it.
“Why do I have to do this?” she asked, staring at the grape in fear.
Ignoring her question, he reached out, prized open her fingers, and put the grape in her palm. “You will feel like you are choking, but you must overcome the urge to regurgitate. Swallowing the grape is a matter of the mind.”
Sita felt the grape in her hands. It was slippery and felt strangely heavy. She thought of Ahalya and wondered how she would respond to this challenge. Ahalya would be strong, she decided. She would do what needed to be done. And she would survive. Sita placed the grape in her mouth, tasting the oil on her tongue.
“No, no,” Navin interjected. “You must tilt your head back and look at the ceiling. That will open your throat.”
Following his directions, she felt the grape slide deeper into her mouth. She choked violently and her throat burned. Navin waited until she had caught her breath and then dipped another grape in coconut oil.
“You will learn,” he encouraged her. “The others did.”
Hands trembling, Sita tried a second time and nearly succeeded before the choking reflex threw her body into spasms. She slid off the bed and fell on her hands and knees, retching.
“I can’t,” she moaned.
“You can.”
She tried again, and this time the grape slid slowly down her throat and she managed not to gag. She breathed heavily and closed her eyes, relieved and yet horrified.
“Well done,” Navin complimented her. “You learned quickly. I will return every three hours and you will swallow another grape until it is second nature.”
Sita’s stomach churned and her throat ached from the strain, but she acquired the skill Navin demanded of her. She didn’t ask again about his reasons. She understood that he owned her and could do anything he wanted to her.
On Thursday, Navin delivered Sita her lunch and told her it would be her last meal for more than a day. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “I will make sure that you are well fed when we reach my uncle’s restaurant.”
That evening, about two hours after sunset, he allowed her to take a shower and gave her a fashionable blue churidaar and sandals to wear. When she was clean and dressed, he sat her down in front of a mirror and gave her a makeup kit.
“You must paint yourself like a film actress,” he said. “I need you to look like you are eighteen. Can you do that?”
Sita thought for a moment and nodded. She applied foundation and blush, eyeliner and mascara, until her face looked like that of a young woman.
When she had finished with the makeup, Navin studied her reflection in the mirror.
“Excellent work,” he said. “Now come with me.”
Sita followed Navin into the living room. A cricket match between India and England was playing on the television. She obeyed when he told her to sit on the couch, and then he sat down beside her. On the coffee table in front of them was an array of objects—three boxes of condoms, the bag of brown powder he had bought on the street, a pair of scissors, a tiny spoon, a jar of coconut oil, a spool of thin string, and a rubber hand clamp.
Sita watched with a growing sense of unease as Navin took a condom and cut it off about three inches from the tip. He discarded the upper portion and picked up the small spoon. Scooping powder from the bag, he poured it carefully into the remnant of the condom. When the condom was half full, he compressed it with his fingers and clamped the loose end just above the bulge. He cut two lengths of string and used the first to tie the loose end of the condom between the bulge and the clamp. Then he pulled the end back over itself and made a knot with the second length of string. He trimmed off the remaining latex with the scissors and set the packed condom on the table. It had the shape of a pellet about an inch long and three quarters of an inch wide. In this manner, he created thirty pellets. When he was finished, only a trace of powder remained in the bag.
He left the room and returned holding a large glass of water and a round pill. The medicine, he said, was an anti-laxative and would slow Sita’s digestion. He told her to take it and to drink all the water. Then he took the first pellet and dipped it in coconut oil.
“You will swallow all of these,” he said, gesturing at the pellets. “They will fit in your stomach.”
Sita shuddered at the thought of the drugs inside her. She took a sharp breath. “Is it khas-khas?” she asked, thinking of the poppy fields of Afghanistan.
“Not opium,” he replied. “Heroin. The finest in India.”
Sita’s hands began to tremble. “What if they break in my stomach?”
Navin spoke with brutal honesty. “If a condom ruptures, the heroin will send your body into shock and you could die. To avoid this, you must remain as still as possible and not eat or drink anything until we reach our destination. Do not make any sudden moves. Do not compress your stomach. Do exactly as I say and everything will go well for you.”
Sita struggled to breathe. She looked at the heroin-stuffed condoms, arranged neatly in a row, and thought of Ahalya trapped in Suchir’s brothel somewhere in the city. She made her decision. She would survive this ordeal. Ahalya would wait for her. It might be years, but Sita would find her again.
She took the first pellet from Navin and swallowed it with effort. It hurt her throat, but she didn’t allow herself to choke. She took the condoms one by one until she had swallowed the last. She felt leaden inside, as if she had feasted at a holiday meal and returned for seconds and thirds against all common sense.
The clock on the wall showed that it was eleven o’clock. Navin placed a
brief call on his mobile and then took Sita’s hand.
“It is time to go,” he said. “I will explain more on the way.”
Navin’s driver met them in the garage. Sita walked slowly, feeling the mass in her stomach quivering with every step. She tried not to think about what would happen if one of the condoms burst. She said a silent prayer to Lakshmi for protection and climbed into the SUV.
On the drive to the airport, Navin turned around in his seat. “You’ve done well so far,” he said. “I’m pleased. The next step is the most difficult. Our flight to Paris departs at two a.m. There are four obstacles we must overcome—the ticket agent, airport security, the flight attendants, and French customs. The ticket agent and airport security are easy. The x-ray machines can’t look inside your stomach. The flight attendants will leave you alone as long as you appear to be asleep. French customs, however, can be a challenge.”
Navin produced a folder with a set of documents. He showed Sita a forged marriage license and passports. “You are Sundari Rai. You are eighteen years old. We were married here in Bombay. I am in the insurance business. We are traveling to Paris on our honeymoon. The rest of your life is yours. If you are asked questions about your family, tell the truth. If anyone comments on how slowly you move, tell them you are pregnant. The most important thing to remember is that these people have no reason to suspect you. Our documents are first rate. We don’t look like criminals. Therefore, we are not criminals.”
Sita stared at Navin and tried to absorb all of this. Paris. Worlds apart from Bombay and thousands of miles from Ahalya. Fear twisted her heart into a knot. What would her life be like once the drugs were flushed from her system? She considered whether she should approach a police officer at the airport but rejected the idea. Would anyone believe her story?
In her mind she went over the particulars of her new identity. She would become Sundari Rai. She would accomplish this deception. It would take less effort than Navin imagined. All her life she had wanted to trade places with Ahalya. As Sundari, she would become her sister. She would be bold, daring, and strong. She would leave behind the girl that she was and become a woman, a married woman. For Ahalya’s sake, she couldn’t afford to fail.
When the driver pulled up to the curb at the airport, Navin gave his final directions.
“Remember, don’t drink anything until I tell you to. If the acids in your stomach become agitated, one of the condoms could rupture. Also, don’t think of talking to the police. I will tell the authorities that you were helping me. Believe me when I say that you do not want to see the inside of a Bombay jail.”
“I understand,” Sita said, feeling more confident.
“Good. Time to go.”
Although it was after midnight, the airport was brimming with activity. Navin gave Sita a black leather handbag and took the handle of his own rolling suitcase. He led her to the Air France ticket queue. There were fifteen people in front of them, but the line moved swiftly. The ticket agent was a pretty Indian girl of no more than twenty-five. She smiled at Sita and checked them in without suspicion.
They passed through airport security without incident, and then Navin led the way to their gate. Beyond the window Sita could see a widebody aircraft painted in the red, white, and blue colors of Air France. Navin took a seat and buried himself in a magazine. Sita struggled to find a comfortable position and alternated between sitting and standing.
When the flight was called for boarding, she followed Navin down the jetway and onto the plane. Their seats were in the last row near the restrooms. Navin gave Sita the window seat and asked a flight attendant for a pillow and a blanket. His wife was pregnant, he explained, and she was desperately tired.
Sita took the pillow and blanket gratefully. Navin had spoken a partial truth. She was desperately tired. It was half past one in the morning. She placed the pillow against the window shade and rested her head against it, closing her eyes.
She opened them again only briefly when the plane took off over Juhu Beach and the black Arabian Sea. Navin had told her that flight time to Paris was a little over nine hours. She meant to sleep through all of it.
Chapter 11
O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.
—GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
Mumbai, India
Ahalya looked up when Anita returned to the file room at the Nagpada police station. Around her were the other beshyas from Suchir’s brothel and one constable keeping watch. The CASE specialist sat down and took her hand. Ahalya didn’t react to Anita’s touch. She looked down at the ground. Sumeera’s pronouncements rang in her head: “She is gone…. It is the way of Golpitha.” The words were worse than a deathblow. In death, at least, she would not have suffered.
She rested her head on Anita’s shoulder when it was offered, but she found it impossible to sleep. At last, another constable appeared and summoned her to the office of Inspector Khan. Anita accompanied her. The noise and activity of the station were a blur in her mind. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Prasad staring at her. She ignored him and didn’t turn her head.
Khan directed her to sit in a chair opposite his desk and began to ask questions. Ahalya tried to listen to the inspector’s words, but her answers were unfocused. At one point the inspector had to repeat himself. He grew impatient, but Anita intervened and took Ahalya’s hand again. This time, the sensation of human touch helped stabilize her.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. What was the question again?”
The interview lasted thirty minutes. Khan took her statement in painstaking detail, reopening her wounds and piecing together the story of her exploitation. When he finished writing his report, he went over it again, line by line, making sure everything was accurate. Then he signed his name and summoned the female panchas.
Following Anita’s lead, Ahalya took a seat outside Khan’s office. Across the room, Suchir sat in handcuffs, a bored halvadar by his side. She flashed back to the morning he had bought them from Amar for sixty thousand rupees. Looking at him, this time with the tables turned, she made a vow to herself. She would make sure that justice was served. Even if she had to wait years, even if it took the last of her strength, she would see him put behind bars. She would do it for Sita’s sake, and she would do it for herself.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Ahalya dozed fitfully, her sleep beset by nightmares. The roar of the tsunami blended with the clicketyclack of the Chennai Express and the repulsive sounds of Shankar’s lust.
In the morning, she was transferred into the custody of a government home for orphaned girls in Sion. The maushi, or warden, treated her with disinterest. She showed Ahalya the large dormitory where the girls slept, assigned her a bunk, and explained the meal schedule. Then she left her alone.
Ahalya looked out the barred windows and wondered how long she would have to endure this new form of confinement. Anita had assured her that CASE would find her a place in a private home, but Ahalya had no idea what that meant or whether it would change her circumstances. Her only desire was to reunite with Sita.
Life had lost all other meaning.
After three days, Anita returned with good news: the Child Welfare Committee had approved Ahalya’s transfer to an ashram in Andheri operated by the Sisters of Mercy. Anita escorted her to the private home in a rickshaw.
During the ride, Ahalya asked about Sita. Anita told her the story Inspector Khan had passed along to Jeff Greer. Under interrogation, Suchir had confessed the name of the man who bought Sita—it was Navin. But the brothel owner had no idea where he had taken her. Suchir expected Navin to return to make an additional payment, but it could be a month or two. In the meantime, Khan would keep watch.
When they arrived at the ashram, Sister Ruth, the superintendent, met them at the gate. She was a heavyset woman with a moon face and wore the sari habit of an Indian nun. She welcomed Ahalya cheerfully, taking no offense when Ahalya failed to respond.
Ahalya followed her through the gate an
d onto the Sisters of Mercy property. The ashram was located on a sprawling estate with gardens, winding paths, and well-kept buildings. They followed one of the paths through a grove of tall trees, passing buildings on either side. As they walked, Sister Ruth gave Ahalya a verbal tour. She spoke with such enthusiasm that Ahalya found it impossible not to pay attention.
The sisters operated a day school, an orphanage, and an adoption center for infants, along with the recovery center for girls rescued from prostitution. The girls at the recovery center took classes at the school and helped with chores. All the girls were expected to complete the tenth standard, but those who excelled in their studies were educated through the twelfth standard. Once in a while, one of the brightest students was given a scholarship to attend the University of Mumbai. The sisters had two objectives for each rescued girl—healing of body and soul and reintegration into society. It was an ambitious project, Sister Ruth admitted, but the ashram had a sterling success rate. Only 25 percent of the girls who graduated from the program returned to prostitution.
Ahalya walked with Anita and Sister Ruth to the recovery center, which stood at the top of a tree-shaded knoll. A breeze blew from the northwest and offered relief from the heat of early afternoon. Large bushes of bougainvillea proliferated around the perimeter of the center. The wind rustled the branches and turned their colorful flowers into pinwheels. Ahalya stood on the threshold of the stucco building and noticed that the noises of the city no longer crowded her ears. Gone were the horns of taxis and rickshaws, the cries of hawkers, and the chattering conversations of the street. In their place, she heard the laughter of children and the sound of wind playing in the leafy boughs of a banyan tree.
She walked up the steps and stood at the entrance to a trellis-covered walkway lined with flowers. There were violets, primrose, jacobinia, and marigold, all vibrant in the loamy soil.
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