The Lost Daughter of India

by Sharon Maas

  It was 3 a.m. when she glanced at her watch before turning off the light. She walked to the bed where Asha had lain down and now, as far as Caroline could gather, was already fast asleep. A minute later Caroline, too, was sunk in sleep.

  * * *

  Caroline awoke to the sound of a key turning, and sat up, still groggy but immediately aware as soon as she saw the woman from last night crossing the room. Behind her followed a maid with a tray, on which were some slices of toast, butter and jam, as well as cups, plates and a steaming pot. The delicious aroma of coffee drifted in Caroline’s direction, stimulating the accumulated hunger of the previous day. The maid set the tray down on the table and silently left the room. The woman stayed.

  ‘All right. Take food. I want to have a few words with you. What is your good name?’

  Caroline told her as she sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of coffee. Asha was still asleep. Let her sleep as long as she can, Caroline thought.

  ‘This girl has been very naughty,’ said the woman. ‘She refused to speak. Her only chance of a good future is if she is nice and pleasant to our customer. That’s why we sent her to that other place. To teach her a lesson. Our customer is a good man. He will treat her well. I want you to encourage this girl to be pleasant towards him.’

  ‘You must be out of your fucking mind,’ said Caroline. ‘Who do you think I am, a monster like you lot?’

  ‘Don’t be rude,’ said the woman sharply. ‘I told you: don’t give me any trouble and I won’t give you any trouble. I only know she was speechless and thus useless. I hope you can change that.’

  ‘I’m not changing anything,’ Caroline said. ‘My daughter will speak if she wants to and be silent if she wants to.’ She wanted to continue but stopped herself. She did not want to provoke the woman more than necessary.

  ‘How can you do this to young girls,’ Caroline asked, ‘don’t you have a heart? She’s terrified. Of course she doesn’t speak.’

  ‘Pah! She’ll just have to put armour around herself and get on with it. It’s survival of the fittest in this trade. Otherwise she won’t last very long.’

  ‘Not the way she’s been whipped, she won’t!’ Caroline retorted. ‘I need something to dress her back with. It’s covered in welts.’

  ‘What?’ cried the woman, and hurried over to the bed where Asha still lay in deep sleep. Clearly not worried about waking the girl, she turned her over onto her stomach and pulled at the

  nightie till Asha’s back was exposed. She inspected the welts, running her fingers lightly along them.

  ‘Those scoundrels! They never said… Well, anyway, she’s very beautiful and with a bit of care she will get more beautiful, fill out again and so on. A doctor is coming today to look at both of you. But first you have to be bathed and deloused. Both of you stink to high heaven. This is a respectable house, not like that place you came from. We never beat our girls here. If a girl is so recalcitrant she needs to be beaten she is simply passed on to such houses where beatings take place; Mr Rajgopal doesn’t stand for any corporal punishment in his houses. He believes in treating his girls kindly, then they will work willingly, for they know they are in a good position. You are very lucky to come here.’

  ‘My daughter is not Mr Rajgopal’s girl, whoever he is,’ Caroline protested loudly. ‘And neither am I.’

  ‘Ha!’ the woman cackled. ‘Tell that to Mr Rajgopal. I paid for you both and you both belong to me – that is, to Mr Rajgopal. He bought this girl for Mr Chaudhuri, who is very attached to her. I am only doing my job. I have nothing to do with you – what do I care? I only make sure he gets good quality for the price. He trusts me completely, you see. I’m good at my job. But it’s only a job. Mr Rajgopal is kind though, or at least as kind as any man. I’ve seen much worse but not many better. Thank your deity you were brought here. But I’m glad Kamini has been returned, given another chance. She was wasted in Kamathipura. A girl like this needs special care and now she will get it – they don’t call me Devaki the Blameless for nothing! Maybe you can help her find her tongue. Mind you, if she doesn’t find it within the week it’s out she goes again, back to Kamathipura, this time for good! We can’t have stubborn girls here. All our girls work willingly. It’s good you speak English, I can do with some girls speaking English. You sound educated as well, that’s a good thing. I can get you some excellent escort work. But Kamini now, she’s the real prize. You don’t realise how…’

  Devaki chattered on as if she hadn’t noticed that Caroline had stopped eating long ago, and was only fiddling with her food. She had stopped listening too, ever since the words: ‘I paid for you both.’

  It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible that she had been sold. She had volunteered to come with Asha, for goodness’ sake. She had been set free; she could have gone but had insisted on coming. She knew for a fact that the men had not bought her. She could have left at any time before getting into the car with Asha. She had not been bought; so how then could she have been sold?

  But perhaps such logic did not exist in this business.

  Slowly, slowly, it dawned on Caroline that at some point during the drive between the house in Kamathipura and this house she had changed status. She had been transformed from the self-determined, free individual she had been into a commodity, a marketable ware to be bought and sold at the whim of strangers. Janiki was perfectly right: she had rushed in like a fool where angels fear to tread. She now belonged to Devaki.

  Chapter 49

  Kamal

  ‘So this is it,’ said Sudesh to Kamal, stepping out of the phone cubicle. Kamal stood up from the rickety chair he’d been sitting on in the Internet shop during what seemed an endless wait while Sudesh made his calls. The two of them left the shop and returned to the crowded pavement. Kamal felt lost, disoriented in this behemoth of a city, a city teeming with strangers. Disheartened. How could anyone find anyone here? Where was Caroline, where was Janiki, where was Dr Ganotra, where was Gita? Most of all: where was Asha?

  He wished he could talk to the others, somehow make contact; but each one was isolated, each on a separate mission; no way to find out if any one of them, Caroline, or Janiki, or Gita, or someone from Dr Ganotra’s team, was any closer to the goal, or had any news to report. What we all need, thought Kamal, is a mobile phone. A few people had them already; maybe the day would dawn when such a gadget would be as commonplace as a wallet, and everyone would have one. But this was now; and this was Mumbai, India’s most crowded city, and there was no contact, no collaboration. It was each man, each woman, on his or her own.

  ‘This evening, six o’clock,’ Sudesh continued, steering him around a dead dog lying on the pavement, ‘we are meeting a fellow called Ramsingh in a coffee shop. Ramsingh has contacts in the business. He will introduce us to another fellow. I don’t know his name but he’s the real thing. A real pimp. He’s the one who will take you to the girl believed to be Asha.’

  ‘How certain are you that it’s her?’

  ‘Not absolutely, but it sounds like her. Seventy-five per cent certain. In the description it sounds like her.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Then he will take you to a special hotel. After that it’s up to you. I cannot plan the rest in advance. If it’s her you can negotiate to buy her. Then she is yours.’

  ‘And if it’s not her?’

  ‘If it’s not her just say you don’t like her and it’s done. No problem. Then you return home and we try again the next night.’

  ‘And keep trying, I suppose. Until the right girl turns up. It could take weeks! I actually think my friend’s plan is better. She is going to try and connect me through some Internet chat room.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ said Sudesh with a dismissive hand gesture. ‘Those chat rooms – I know them. People boast a lot and pretend to be who they aren’t. Just a lot of overblown egos. I wouldn’t trust anyone I met in a chat room.’

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll meet thi
s Ramsingh and see what he has to offer. Did he show you a photograph?’

  ‘No. But the description is fairly accurate.’

  ‘What does fairly mean?’

  ‘It means it could very well be her and you need to take a chance.’

  ‘OK then. And till then?’

  ‘Till then I want to show you the inner workings of the trade. Just come around with me today while I work, see what I do. I don’t want you to send you in there as a total innocent. You look too innocent already.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  ‘Yes. You need toughening up so you can play the role correctly. You need to change your looks too. You look too clean.’

  ‘So you’re going to dirty me up?’

  ‘Right. Not literally. But you’d be surprised what make-up can do. You need to look a little more rough. Haggard. Tough.’

  Kamal shrugged. ‘I’ll do as you say.’

  * * *

  ‘Kapoor is my name. Happy to meet you. My task is to ensure your full satisfaction or money back. What languages do you speak?’

  ‘Hindi, Gujarati and English only.’

  ‘My native tongues are Marathi and Hindi but I also speak English. What language do you prefer to converse in?’

  ‘Either Hindi or English; no Marathi.’

  The man bobbed his head in agreement. ‘You have the money? I need everything in advance. Ramsingh must have told you the price. Cash of course.’

  Kamal handed over the cloth bag he held. Kapoor looked inside; it was filled with wads of banknotes, all bundled together with rubber bands, a slip of paper with the rupee amount tucked into the band. Indian banks did not provide banknotes larger than a thousand rupees. The bag was almost full.

  ‘We are going there in a car. While we are driving I will count the money to make sure everything is correct. We will pick up the girl in about half an hour. She will be delivered to the car and then we will take her to a certain hotel. I will wait outside until you are finished and pick her up afterwards. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Kamal.

  ‘Very well. Let’s go.’

  A slick white car with a driver was waiting at the kerb. Kapoor got into the front seat and gestured for Kamal to get in the back, which he did.

  ‘Excuse me while I count this money. It seems correct though. The bag is nice and heavy.’ Kapoor, turning to speak to Kamal in the back seat, grinned, bouncing the bag up and down to demonstrate its weight. He then turned around again and started counting. He was halfway through when a phone rang. Kapoor fished a mobile phone out of his pocket, held it up to show Kamal.

  ‘These things are so convenient. You must get one.’

  He pulled out an antenna and the phone stopped ringing. He listened for a minute and then let out a word that could only be an expletive. After which a cascade of words fell, but in Marathi so that Kamal could not understand what was spoken. This went on for quite a while; Kapoor was obviously agitated, but after a while seemed to calm down somewhat, bobbed his head, saying acha, acha. He put away the phone.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘No problem, sah. No problem at all. Everything fine.’

  He spoke to the driver in Marathi, then picked up the phone again and punched in a number.

  ‘Excuse me, I need to make another call.’ A few seconds later he was chattering away again in Marathi, excitedly, urgently. Once again he put away the phone, once again he conversed with the driver. The driver reacted by swivelling his head back and forth to assess the traffic, blaring his horn and barging his way through a slight gap in the traffic ahead before making a sudden and swift right turn.

  ‘Just a slight detour,’ said Kapoor, turning to grin at Kamal.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all. Just a slight change in pick-up destination. No problem at all.’

  He grinned another white-toothed grin. Kapoor, Kamal thought, could have stepped off a Bollywood hoarding as either a villain or a hero. He was clean-shaven except for a full moustache, his hair slicked back; he wore a chequered long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up and open at the neck down to the third button, revealing an extremely hairy chest. Around his neck a gold chain, and on his wrist a gold watch.

  They had driven for a further half-hour when the phone rang again and he answered it. He seemed happy with this conversation, which was very short. But afterwards he turned to Kamal.

  ‘We are nearly there. Just five minutes more. But there has been a slight change of plan. Unfortunately the girl is not available tonight. We have arranged for a replacement, in a slightly younger age group. I am certain you will be completely satisfied with this new arrangement. A very lovely girl.’

  ‘Wait a minute! I don’t want a replacement! I gave you the specifications!’

  ‘Yes, sir, calm down. This girl meets your specifications exactly but is slightly younger. No problem. We aim to provide complete satisfaction, your money’s worth.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want a slightly younger replacement. I want my money back. Give it back, now, and let me out. The deal is off.’

  ‘No sir, you have paid your money and there is no refund. Ramsingh surely made that clear to you. Now we will provide our side of the deal. We are almost there. A very nice girl. You will be absolutely two hundred per cent satisfied.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? I said I don’t want another girl! Come on, give me back the money!’ He leaned against the front seat, reaching out for the bag. Kapoor, however, dropped the bag into the footwell of the passenger seat.

  ‘I said no refund! You will take this girl. One girl is the same as the next and this one is even better because she is younger. A virgin. She is ideal for you. Look, here she comes now.’

  They were on a quieter street now. The car slid to a stop beside the kerb. A man was walking towards them along the pavement, holding a child on his hip. The car stopped; the man grinned into the front window. Kapoor opened it and slid a packet of banknotes through. The man glanced at the bundle, grinned and nodded, after which he opened the back door and thrust the child into the rear seat. She was a girl of, at the most, five years old. She was snivelling. ‘Bapu, Bapu!’ she cried to the man who had shoved her in; he patted her on the head, and said, in Hindi, ‘Be a good girl, little one, you will be back soon,’ and turned away. A moment later he had vanished from sight.

  The girl was now sobbing silently, face hidden in her hands. Kapoor turned around again.

  ‘You see? A lovely girl. You will have a lovely time.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind? This is a child! I didn’t ask for a child! That man was her father?’

  Kapoor, still twisted around, shrugged. ‘Yes, her father. Her mother died a year ago and he lost his job. What can a man do. Life is a struggle.’

  ‘This is insane! She can’t be more than six years old!’

  ‘Five, I think. You are being unreasonable, sir. Many men prefer them at this age. It’s a very good replacement, much more valuable. You will definitely be getting your money’s worth. Her name is Ragi.’

  Kamal fell back against the seat. He had no answer. He had no words. The girl was bent forward with her face still buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she wept. His heart went out to her.

  If it is not me it would be someone else, he thought. So it is better that it is me.

  After a moment’s thought he spoke again.

  ‘Very well. I’ve changed my mind. I will take her.’

  ‘Ah, very wise. Very wise,’ said Kapoor. ‘You will be a very happy man tonight.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Kamal. He wanted to comfort the child but was wary of touching her. Yet he would have to touch her. Scare her. He looked up, at the traffic. They were approaching a traffic light, red. The car stopped. Kamal waited. He waited and waited until he believed the lights were about to change to green, and that’s when he grabbed the girl, opened the passenger door, leapt out of the car with the girl in his arms and ran, leaving
the passenger door dangling open. All around him horns blared. The lights changed and the traffic began to move forward. Clutching the child tightly, he dashed between the cars, the girl bouncing on his hip and wailing. From the car he had left came a shout; he didn’t look back but the sound of a car door slamming indicated that Kapoor had leapt out after him. He reached the pavement and ran. He ran and ran. Behind him the traffic was moving on, swifter now. He dared to look behind; Kapoor was stuck now between bumper-to-bumper ranks of traffic: a sea of metal, cars, rickshaws, lorries and motorcycles now moving forward, the car he had vacated standing still as other cars swerved around it, horns blaring, a madness of metal. Kapoor leapt Bollywood-style onto the bonnet of the next car and made to jump to the next: but that driver jerked forward at the last moment and he stumbled and fell. Slipped between the cars – right into the path of a motorcycle zipping forward between the lines of traffic. There was a loud crash. Kamal stopped, turned and stared; but he could not see much. Just that the motorcycle was no longer zipping and Kapoor was no longer running.

  Horns and klaxons blared louder yet; somebody yelled, maybe Kapoor himself, maybe the motorcyclist. Cars stopped and doors opened and people gathered, shouting and gesticulating. May you rot in hell, he said aloud, may you never harm another child. May you be reborn as a cockroach.

  Then he strolled away and looked for a taxi, the girl riding on his hip and crying on his shoulder.

  * * *

  Kamal’s taxi took him back to the hotel. The child was still weeping silently, her fists dug into her eyes. It was now past ten; Janiki would be in bed. He knocked on her door.

  ‘Janiki – it’s me – Kamal!’ he said, not too loud, because it was so late. He heard bare feet running across the room to the door, which flew open.

  ‘Kamal! Thank goodness! I’ve been—’

  Janiki, standing in the open doorway in a nightdress, stopped suddenly, and stared.