Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of Maliha’s lips.

  “Sahiba!”

  Chapter 4

  i

  After Maliha had returned from the city earlier that morning, Amita had braided Maliha’s hair into one plait that ran straight down her back, dressed her in the simplest white cotton sari and placed the sandals on her feet ready for the purification ceremony.

  Then she prepared to carry out her mistress’s instructions by changing into her oldest, cheapest sari with faded colours, and released her hair from its pins, allowing it to hang loose around her shoulders.

  Leaving Maliha’s grandparents’ house by the rear, and attracting disapproving stares from other staff, she made her way along the back alleys towards the nearest market. She allowed her head and shoulders to droop, and she met the eye of no one.

  It was a perfect disguise since no one would give her more than a moment’s attention. Once they decided she was an untouchable, she ceased to exist. Maliha had given her some money. Though it would be difficult finding someone to carry her, it was the task she had been given.

  Amita did not find it hard to take on her old behaviour again. She had been with Maliha for less than a year but her mistress treated her as an equal: a servant, yes, but as a real human being. When Maliha said Namaste she meant it; it was not simply mouthing a word of greeting.

  The alley led down a slope that led into an open area crammed with market stalls. The air was filled with the cries of the traders and the smells of fruits, flowers and spices. Amita kept out of people’s way as much as possible but was still jostled and pushed by those who were, she understood now, afraid of her status.

  She made her way across the market to where men lounged by bicycles and carts. There was even one with a steam-driven truck. The picture of the airship, and the name Pooranankuppam on the side, suggested it might be traveling where she needed to go.

  They had agreed that she would need some justification for travelling quickly. Normally an untouchable would be expected to just walk wherever they were heading. Maliha had given her a letter addressed to an air-cargo company. It even contained a letter in French that had a genuine request, just in case she found herself forced to hand it over.

  Her mistress thought of everything.

  Amita approached a group of men and squatted nearby. There was a man boasting to those gathered round him about the functioning of his most excellent steam vehicle. She waited while he told them it could carry six tons of fruit. This elicited praise and envy from his admirers, and one dissenter.

  “Six tons of fruit? It would collapse beneath the weight.”

  The vehicle owner grinned, as if he had been hoping for the remark. “I will show you! Jump up on the back.”

  “I will not go near it, Sushrut; it will probably explode like Gunveer’s root masher did last month.”

  That got laughs, and the man called Sushrut frowned; he was losing support.

  “I will ride your machine, if you will allow,” piped up Amita, but still keeping her gaze averted. “It has Faraday, no?”

  They ignored her.

  “Come on, one of you will do it.”

  They shook their heads laughing and began to wander.

  Amita stood up and went behind the men to the other side of the truck and pulled herself easily up on to its flat back. Some of the men noticed and pointed at her laughing. “There, Sushrut, there is your assistant.”

  Sushrut held up his hands and joined in the laughter. “Woman, can you lift that case?” He pointed at a wooden carton, some yellow fruit could be seen between the slats. To Amita it smelt as if the fruit were going off.

  She reached around. “With those arms she could wrestle a tiger,” shouted someone and there was more laughter. Amita lifted the box with some difficulty, less because it was heavy and more to do with its awkward shape.

  “Put it on that other box and then lift them both,” instructed Sushrut. Amita did as she was told but could barely even lift a corner of the two together with her cheek pressed hard against the wood and the rotting smell strong in her nose.

  “All right,” said Sushrut. “I say that in less than five minutes she will lift three of those boxes.”

  “All full?” said the dissenter.

  “All full, Ashraf,” Sushrut said and turned to Amita. “Woman, put another box on top of those two.”

  As Amita strained to do it, Sushrut took bets.

  Then he climbed up to the truck’s cabin but before he went inside he looked at Amita. “You know what Faraday does?”

  She nodded, and he grinned. He slipped inside the cabin. The steam engine that had been puffing quietly to itself roared deafeningly into life and a cloud of smoke and steam poured from the chimney. Amita steadied herself against the pile of cartons as the steam whistle gave one quick blast. He was warning her.

  Amita had never travelled on a flyer of any sort, but she had experienced the Faraday effect in an atmospheric train several times, though the first time had been a shock and she had embarrassed her mistress by crying out because she felt as if she were falling.

  So she was ready when the steam truck’s Faraday device was engaged. She did not think she was an expert but she was sure this was not as powerful as the ones on the train, or even in the lift they had travelled in at the Fortress. But whether it was or not, she was suddenly a fraction of her original weight, as were the cartons.

  Sushrut climbed down from the cabin and stood with his friends, rubbing his hands. “Any last bets?” There were no takers. Sushrut turned to Amita. “When you’re ready, woman, pick up all three.”

  In her previous employment, if you could call it that, Amita had learnt that men liked a show. Even if she did not really care whether they saw her body or not, they liked it more if she seemed shy or unwilling. They liked to be tantalised and led on; they even believed it.

  She squatted down beside the boxes. She reached round as far as possible on each side and got her fingers between the slats. Whatever the fruit was, these were too far gone for sale and her fingers caught on more than one and forced out the juices that ran over her fingers.

  With a great show she pretended to try to make the boxes move; she even managed a quiet groan as if exerting her utmost effort. She could imagine Sushrut’s face. There was growing laughter and demands to be paid. She relaxed back for a moment, not too long because she was still an untouchable and likely to receive a beating from him if she were not careful.

  Then she made the effort again and with extreme slowness lifted the boxes.

  “There you see,” shouted Sushrut. “She is lifting them.”

  “Call it quits, Sushrut.” It sounded like Ashraf. “You only have to see her arms to see she’s strong as an ox, she’s simply lifting it normally. Did you set this up?”

  Sushrut grumbled but sounded as if he was going to give them their money back.

  Amita was standing erect and she shifted her right arm, hidden from the main view, so that it was beneath the boxes and taking all the weight. Then she turned toward the crowd and took her left arm away completely and held it out as if she were a dancer about to take a bow.

  “Look,” said someone in the crowd. There was a moment’s astonishment, laughter and Sushrut received many claps on the back. Even Ashraf was laughing.

  After she climbed down, Sushrut was almost friendly. He offered her some of the winnings. She took what he handed her—perhaps a tenth of what she had earned him—divided it in two and handed half back.

  She maintained the submissive posture and did not look him in the eye. “My mistress has message I must take to air-dock, will you carry me in steam carriage?”

  “I must go anyway, so I will take you,” he said and then as a generous afterthought. “You may ride in the cabin.”

  To his clear relief she declined and simply clambered back on to the rear.

  They travelled swiftly through the city, though not at the break-neck speed that her mistress tende
d to employ. She could not criticise her mistress, of course, but Amita would have preferred to go at a slower pace. In order to keep from panicking she often simply closed her eyes and prayed to any god that might be listening.

  After only a quarter of an hour they reached one of the main rivers. This one was far wider than most of the others and had not been spanned by a bridge. She had little doubt the British would have built a crossing, but the French seemed less inclined to indulge in civil projects.

  But there was a steam-ferry with great paddle wheels on either side crossing towards them as they arrived. There were already a large number of pedestrians, people with donkeys, goats and a couple of old nags; the only other vehicles were a cart and some bicycles.

  Amita leaned on the cab of the steam truck and watched the boat thunder towards the jetty, with its single stack belching smoke. It seemed to be travelling too fast but then the paddles stopped turning and dragged in the water. Then they began to turn in the other direction and the boat slowed until it was barely drifting.

  It floated up to the jetty, lines were thrown, tied off, and the front opened up. People poured off, intermingling with the animals and vehicles. It was cleared in a few minutes and the waiting passengers went aboard.

  Sushrut greeted the sailors who ran the ferry and tossed them a coin as he drove aboard. He did not stop but drove through an opening under the boat’s superstructure and out the other side. He brought the truck to a halt opposite a closed ramp identical to the one by which they had come in.

  Though she had never been on a boat Amita did not think it would be good to climb down. The other pedestrians would not appreciate an untouchable in their midst when there was nowhere to retreat, either for them or her.

  The boat cast off, the engines roared into life and the paddles churned the water driving them forward. They did not seem to be making much progress but when she looked back they were already a long way from the northern shore.

  Across the river, and further inland, a cigar-shaped object lifted from the ground into the still, warm air. Her mistress would have known instantly what sort of vessel it was and what country it came from. For Amita it was simply an airship. She knew there were different types. She understood they flew because of the Faraday—that even now made the steam truck, and her, lightweight—but more than that, she did not really care.

  It was not long before the boat carried out the same manoeuvre as before and came up against the jetty on the southern shore. The ramp was lowered and moments later the truck rattled off on to dry land.

  ii

  Sushrut let her off on a main road where the streets were lined with offices and shops. It was not busy. If this had been the Fortress the roads would have been teeming with traffic, pedestrians and sailors. But Pondicherry was a small city, and completely cut-off from the rest of India because it was, in effect, a different country.

  She was not sure where she should start looking for information but this wasn’t the area. This was too business-like, too clean, and too upmarket. She needed the dives where the sailors went. There were always such places, as she knew from her previous life.

  Making a decision she crossed the almost empty street and took a turning that led towards the air-dock. She kept to the side of the street, taking her time. One of her caste would never give the impression that they were moving with too much purpose.

  Her route took her along streets that were primarily offices. She could hear the sound of typewriters and the low buzz of conversation floating from the windows. As she went further the buildings changed to brick-built warehouses. Workmen lounged outside. The sun was moving up in the sky and would soon be at its highest. The strongest heat of the day would follow. Maliha had said she would meet Amita on the road back into the main city, just the other side of the ferry.

  She pulled her sari up over her head. There was the occasional shout directed at her, usually an insult, telling her that her kind was not wanted. She would have liked to have retorted but that would not do any good.

  She reached a junction where she had to either go left or right. At last she saw what she was looking for: a drinking establishment for foreign sailors. She approached it slowly. This one was out on a main road so would not be the sort she was looking for.

  The building was on a corner with a much narrower road, and people spilled from it almost as if it was ejecting them. She glanced at their faces. Most were Indian but there were a few whites and Chinese among them.

  She turned down the smaller road and into a sudden melee of people. Though the Indians steered clear of her, the foreigners took no such precautions and people bumped and brushed against her.

  The street was lined with shops, tea shops and coffee houses with no space between them. The further she travelled from the main street the dingier and smaller the shops became. The buildings here were much older. Alleyways broke off the road and wound away into mystery. She spotted a prostitute down one of them. Now she was getting somewhere, even if it was the end of nowhere.

  Still it was going to be difficult finding out what her mistress wanted to know. She needed a very particular alley, providing a very particular type of service. The one that she used to supply.

  She walked more slowly and glanced down each side alley, trying not to look too interested. It was odd, now that she was not in that business she found it difficult to recognise those who were. She was getting towards the end of the street. It ended in a square with a desultory tree dropping at its centre.

  At the entrance to the last alley on the right a young girl stood. She was no more than twelve or thirteen but she was looking for business, just as Amita had at that age, just about the time she had realised what she really was. She had been wise enough to know her family would never understand her desire to be a woman.

  The memories did not hurt anymore. All the teasing he had received before he left had not been intended as cruel. That his older sisters always wanted to put make-up on him because his face was so feminine. That other boys teased him about his lightness of voice and how it had not become like a man’s.

  Then the day when the fun had become serious when, as a dare, Bhanu had kissed him as if he were a girl. Something had happened; both of them knew it. There had been a feeling that had passed between them, as if the same thought had joined in them. They had broken away from each other. The other boys had laughed thinking the two had been so disgusted they could not stand it. The difficulty was exactly the reverse.

  He could not resist touching his sisters’ saris; he wanted to wear them, and to look beautiful, as they did. To be admired by the men. Bhanu avoided him, when all he wanted was to kiss Bhanu again.

  So he had run away from his home, from the village, and reached the Fortress, though he was almost starving and could only survive by stealing. He had gone there because his father had said the Westerners were corrupt. Well, he was corrupt and so that should be the right place for him.

  But he could not get through into the Compound and had lived in the slum city that surrounded it. He found the other hijra, changed her name and had a new home. She had grown up like this one who leaned against the wall in her old and torn clothes.

  “Business not good?”

  The hijra blinked twice. “I don’t know you.”

  “My name is Amita.”

  “This is my patch.”

  “I don’t want your business.”

  “But they will want you more than me, you’re clean.”

  “I won’t be staying. I have questions.” Amita saw the look of disgust on her face.

  “I have no time for questions.”

  Amita glanced around; there were no potential clients anywhere near. She raised her eyebrows. The younger one corrected herself. “I don’t answer questions.”

  Amita pulled a coin from inside the folds of her clothes like a magician and flicked it across to her. She caught it, slightly awkwardly.

  There was the low hum of humanity around them, talking, workin
g.

  “My mistress wants to know about the slaves. The Africans.”

  “Africans?”

  “Blacker than you or I, their noses are flat and their hair is curly.” She twisted her straight black hair into ringlets to demonstrate.

  The girl nodded. “I know that sort. Some sailors are like that.”

  “What about slaves, girls to be used for sex?”

  “Does your mistress want one?”

  “My mistress is Brahmin.”

  The girl shrugged. “Never known it to matter. They all come here. Even women sometimes.”

  “I know,” Amita said. “What’s your name?” She didn’t say what do you call yourself.

  The girl looked at her for a long time and turned the coin over in her fingers. “Shashi.”

  Amita took out another coin and stretched out her hand holding the coin between her fingers. Shashi hesitated and then took it, her fingers brushing Amita’s.

  “African girl slaves?” Amita asked again.

  “I don’t know where they come in. But a sky ship doesn’t have to land in an air-dock, does it?”

  Amita shook her head.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Every few weeks there’s a market. Girls, boys, others I suppose.”

  It was in the nature of India for the people to say what another wanted to hear. Amita had done it herself many times, though she learnt that her mistress was not happy unless the words were true. So she always told Maliha the exact truth.

  She found, listening to the girl, she had also learnt when someone else was being accommodating to her. “And how do you know this?”

  “I see them,” said Shashi. “Sometimes.”

  “Where?”

  “They bring them to places here. For—” she hesitated, “—things.”

  “How do you know they are new slaves?”

  “Because I see their eyes, and they are afraid.”

  Amita nodded. This was the truth. She knew that look as well. It was something you understood when you had felt it yourself.