by Penny Jaye
Meena turned to the front and tried to listen again. She searched for a link between Sharmila’s words and the photos she was flashing onto the wall. The photos could have come from Meena’s settlement. But the words Sharmila used were hard. She used foreign words with her Hindi, and used long words Meena had never heard before—not at home, not in the brothel. She looked away.
‘Don’t worry. I didn’t understand anything when I first came, either.’ Nahita leaned closer to Meena, her dark hair swinging forward. ‘It is all just blabber until they tell you what each word means. A “right” is something you are allowed to expect. It’s like what someone high up in a foreign office says you should always get. Like food. Sharmila says it is our right to get enough food to eat. That means we’re supposed to get enough rice each day. If we’re not getting it, someone’s doing wrong by us, and we’re allowed to get cross.’
Maa stood up briefly to glare at Nahita.
Nahita chuckled under her breath. ‘So much for my right to speak.’
Meena rewrapped Sarita’s scarf about her shoulders and tried to look like she was listening to Sharmila’s speech. Maa nodded, pleased.
‘The rights of a child are similar.’ Sharmila flashed another photo onto the wall: a small girl child carrying two old oil tins of water from the local tap. ‘Every child has a right to play and to have a safe place to live ...’
Meena glanced at Leela. The older girl sat with her head down. Nahita noticed her looking.
‘She’s from Assam,’ Nahita explained in a whisper. ‘Her father sold her to work as a domestic servant when she was five. ‘I doubt she had many rights as a child. But rights or not, safety is all relative. I hate this crap.’ She stood up and walked out. Sharmila barely paused before continuing.
And then she was finished.
Meena’s mind ran off again. She could see Sharmila answering questions, see Leela’s face red and angry, and see Maa gently restoring peace. Safe? Had Meena been safe as a child? Before Madam, before Rajit and Santosh?
She could see the tin roof of her father’s house. The rain pelting through the gaps. She could see the smoky fireplace. The steep embankment that led to the water tap. The face of the drunken neighbour peering inside. Safe? No. She hadn’t been safe. Not at home. But she’d been safe in someone else’s home, curled under a blanket, sharing stories and dreams and ... Meena choked back a cold, hard sob. She couldn’t cry. Not here, not now ...
‘Aren’t you glad you got out of bed to listen to such an encouraging morning?’ It was Maa, standing in front of her, the dust stained hem of her sari almost touching Meena’s knees. Meena couldn’t bring herself to agree, or disagree. She just waited until the sari had swept away. Her thoughts battled. Her chest tightened. Her throat ached from the weight of holding everything in. And then, Nahita was there again, squatting in front of her, her head tilted matter-of-factly to the side.
‘Stuck?’
Meena nodded.
Nahita sighed. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t find all the lectures that boring or confusing.’
‘How many of them do we have to go to?’ Meena asked. Her voice small and tight.
‘They like us to attend every “rehabilitation seminar” while we’re here. But Sharmila gets so repetitive. I attend as many as I can to keep Maa quiet, and skip the rest.’
‘And then what do you do?’
Nahita eyed her, as if weighing up how to answer. ‘Stuff,’ was all she ended up saying.
‘How did you get here?’ Meena asked Nahita.
‘Me? You mean was I rescued in a brothel raid? Or how’d I end up in Mumbai?’
Meena tried to sort her question out.
‘They found me in a brothel raid last year,’ Nahita answered anyway. ‘I was at Hotel Happiness before this place.’
Meena’s mind spun. She didn’t even know the name of Madam’s hotel. How was that possible? For three years she had been there, done everything Sarita had told her, everything to keep her from Madam’s wrath and Vishnu’s belt. But did the hotel have a name? She’d never asked. Had Sarita known? Deepa? Devi? And what about the hotel before that one, where she’d left ... Where she’d been taken from ... Where ...
‘Were there Nepali girls in your hotel?’ Meena asked suddenly.
Nahita scowled and stood up, ‘Are you that stupid? There are Nepali girls everywhere in Mumbai. There’s even a whole red-light district where Nepali girls and women are the specialty.’
‘What do you mean?’ Meena’s mind fogged up.
Nahita tilted her face away from Meena, her hair swinging to the front, hiding her features. ‘You have no idea, do you? No wonder Leela hates your type so much.’
‘My type?’ Could Leela know about what she’d done to Putali? Meena tugged at the scarf around her neck again, her fingers trembling. Nahita sighed and sat down, taking Meena’s hands in her own.
‘Nepali girls: expensive, innocent, pure, manipulative.’
‘But I’m not—’
‘No, probably not. But Leela doesn’t see that. All she sees are the Nepali girls who tricked her—Nepalised her after her boyfriend ran away, sold her for a high price to the brothel and then, just when she thought she was going to be free, told her babu she wasn’t really from Nepal and made him fall in love with them instead. Nepali girls are everywhere, Meena. Everywhere.’
‘But they’re not the only ones babus fall in love with, or the only ones who sell girls into ... into ...’ Meena couldn’t say the word.
‘The brothel? No. They’re not the only ones. I’m Bengali. I was expensive once too.’ She lifted the hair from the side of her face, letting the sunlight shine on her right cheek, revealing a burn scar running from her right ear to her chin. She continued, ‘I refused an abortion once, in Kolkata. They let me give birth. I held my baby for one day: perfect, tiny, beautiful. But it cried, bothered a client, so they took it away.’ Nahita paused. Meena could hear the girl’s breath. ‘I refused clients then, thinking I was smart enough to make them give my baby back. Thinking I had a right to my own child. But they didn’t, of course they wouldn’t. And my refusal to work just made them mad. They scarred my face, and broke my leg with rods from the fire. The next time I was sold, down here to Mumbai, I wasn’t worth as much. In the brothel, no matter their race, girls lose value the older and uglier they get.’
Meena stared at the scar on Nahita’s face. It wasn’t wide, but it twisted and discoloured her skin. It would have been agony to heal. Meena didn’t want to think of the injury that had caused her limp. ‘Was your baby a boy or a girl?’ Meena finally asked.
‘I named her Iraira.’
‘A girl,’ Meena whispered.
‘Yes, she was,’ Nahita said, and she dropped the hair back over her face.
‘Now listen,’ Meena’s uncle explains early the next morning, after the girls have dressed and done each other’s hair. ‘We’ll take rickshaws over the border. I’ll go in one, and you two can travel in another.’
Meena can’t help but giggle. Now that the night is gone and she feels pretty again in her new clothes, familiar bursts of excitement tremble to escape like steam in a pressure cooker. Rajit’s baa has explained the jobs they would be interviewing for; hotel jobs, like waitressing, cleaning or kitchen duties. They are important, steady paying jobs the girls could learn easily. Meena just hopes she looks professional enough to make a good impression.
‘Do you understand?’ her uncle interrupts her thoughts. ‘We will take two rickshaws.’
‘But we’d all fit on one, Uncleji. Putali can sit on my knee; she’s only little. We don’t mind squishing to save money—’
‘No!’ He snaps, then takes a deep breath and smiles. ‘We’ll do it my way. I know what works best. We travel separately. We keep our mouths shut. Understood?’
Meena nods politely to show she won’t question anymore and P
utali does the same, keeping her eyes down.
‘At the border, the police might ask you questions. Tell them you’re going to visit Meena’s father’s mother. If they ask more questions, explain that you won’t be away long because you need to help plant rice. I’ll meet you at the other side. Then, we’ll travel together to the big city. From now, until we meet again, you do not know me. Do you understand?’
Putali opens her mouth and shuts it again. Meena squeezes her hand, feeling the uncertainty in it. ‘We understand, Uncleji,’ Meena speaks for both of them.
They catch their rickshaws just outside the hotel. Meena helps Putali up first, then climbs onto the shiny red seat beside her. Rajit’s baa watches their every move, so Meena tries to smile to let him know he can trust them, but the man doesn’t smile back. A small breeze blows up the street, bringing the scents of snack vendors and dust and rubbish. From somewhere a bird calls out, as if in warning. Meena grips the rickshaw arm rest and they jerk into motion.
‘I wonder if your grandma is expecting us,’ Putali mumbles without enthusiasm.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure my uncle knows what he’s doing,’ Meena returns, but when she sees his cold, hard stare disappear into the rickshaw in front of them, she feels a nagging discomfort. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she says, more to herself than to Putali.
The rickshaws travel one behind the other to the busy intersection leading out of Bhairahawa, then they swap places almost as if following previously arranged instructions. As the road nears the border check-point at Sunauli, traffic slows. Rickshaws, full of goods or passengers, jostle for road space. Stalls selling fruit or ice cream or drinks of crushed cane sugar fill the roadside. Meena even sees a few white-skinned tourists trudging under heavy packs—it isn’t even mid-morning and they are wet with sweat. The police are busy too, checking passengers on motorbikes or rickshaws, sometimes questioning, sometimes frisking. Gradually, Meena and Putali’s rickshaw creeps forward, closer and closer to the police check-point. Meena glances back to see where Uncle is, but he glares at her so severely she doesn’t do it again.
‘We’ll be next,’ Putali whispers as they roll to a stop behind another rickshaw. They watch the police call a female passenger down from the rickshaw, leaving the man she has travelled with alone. The woman is directed to the side of the road and questioned. The woman gestures and argues and finally opens her handbag to display its contents. The officer seems satisfied and lets her return to her ride.
‘I hope that doesn’t happen to us,’ Putali croaks.
The police officer beckons to their driver to move forward and they roll up slowly beside the check-point.
‘Where from?’ The officer in blue camouflage asks the question in a bored tone.
‘Bhairahawa,’ the driver answers.
The police officer’s eyes dart from Putali’s face to Meena’s. He is more handsome than Santosh. Much stronger too. Meena can’t help but smile.
‘Where are you going?’ The officer directs the question to Meena.
‘We’re going to visit my father’s mother,’ Meena answers as instructed.
The man looks lazy, but he studies them a bit longer and then glances at the traffic behind. Meena can’t help herself, she looks back also, but Uncle is nowhere to be seen. ‘We’re going for a week,’ she explains quickly. ‘But we’ll come back soon, to help Baa plant the rice.’
The officer nods and waves them on, already turning his attention to the young men crowded in the rickshaw behind. Meena feels Putali relax, and lets out a sigh. Up ahead, a huge signboard blocks the view to India. It is a painting of a man, a girl and a bag of money. Under the illustration are the bold black letters of words Meena can’t read. Her uncle is right; there are a lot of people trying to make money these days. Great big signs are even made about it.
Fourteen
‘Meena? Are you still in bed?’ Sharmila woke Meena the next day. It was mid-morning as far as Meena could tell.
‘Maa sent me to look for you. She said she’d asked Kani to tell you to come to the office. I guess you didn’t get the message. Have you been here all morning?’
Meena remembered a shorter girl coming now, telling her to go see Maa. But she hadn’t really listened. She hadn’t wanted to move.
‘Come on I’ll take you,’ Sharmila offered, taking Meena’s hand. ‘You’ll get used to things in time.’
‘Some things you never get used to,’ Meena whispered, but she dropped her stubborn legs over the side of the bed anyway and followed Sharmila from the room.
Maa’s office door was open. The dark-skinned Indian woman sat hunched over a desk full of paperwork. Her shiny pen moved over a form in one of the open files until she noticed Meena waiting.
‘Aacha, good. Come in.’ Maa pointed to an empty chair with her pen. ‘Sit down.’
Meena obeyed. The shutters were closed today, probably to keep the hot air out. Meena glanced up at the non-functioning air-conditioning unit attached high on the wall behind Maa’s desk.
‘Warm, isn’t it?’ Maa acknowledged Meena’s observations. ‘We don’t spend our donor’s money on luxuries here. There are more pressing needs. But ... it’s good you’re with us, Meena. How are you feeling now? Are the girls taking care of you? Are you comfortable? Is there anything you need?’
Meena didn’t answer. She wished for the window shutters to be open again, so she could see outside. Maa checked her paperwork briefly. ‘I see you’ve only attended one of our educational seminars so far. How did you find it? Sometimes it feels a bit much at the start, but you will get used to it and find Sharmila’s sessions very helpful. Now, let’s see ...’ Maa checked a list on the paper in front of her, ignoring the fact she’d just asked a question. ‘Our nurse comes twice every week. It will be good for you to have a check-up soon.’
‘Why? I’m taking my medicines from the hospital. I’m getting better,’ Meena interrupted.
‘I know, you are doing everything correctly and we are pleased. But we need to monitor your progress and make sure you are being properly treated for whatever your body is dealing with. Have you been experiencing much abdominal pain?’
‘I told you, I’ve been taking the medicines.’
Maa took a deep breath. She made some marks on the paper in front of her, then pulled open a grey file. ‘I want the nurse to speak to you about your blood tests,’ she said. ‘One of the reasons you may not be gaining strength as quickly as you’d like could be that there are conditions we are not treating. Conditions we can only know about once we take a sample of your blood. Syphilis, for example, needs a blood test to be properly identified and if left untreated, can have serious implications—sterility for one. It would be good, if you are feeling comfortable, to have your blood tested as soon as possible.’
Meena stared at her hands.
‘You don’t need to worry. At Little Sister, we follow strict pathology standards. HIV testing is recommended, especially if you have been exposed to unprotected sex. Did you use condoms in your brothel?’
Meena nodded. She suddenly felt too hot, Sarita’s scarf too tight around her neck. There had been many, many times without a condom. In fact, it wasn’t until she had moved from the rooms upstairs that Sarita had taught her how to use them. Too many men trusted sex with a young virgin to cure infections. And others became dangerous at the suggestion of protection. Meena’s mind crowded with images she didn’t want to see. Her stomach churned. She lifted her gaze to Maa, unable to answer the woman’s question, her mind spinning back to the hotel where she’d left Putali. Had anyone taught Putali to ask clients to use a condom?
‘Never mind,’ Maa continued gently. ‘Even if your test comes back HIV positive, we won’t treat you any differently.’ Meena watched the Indian woman’s thin lips move as she talked. She was speaking about counselling, craft groups, literacy programs, bundles of sanitary pads available in Didi’s of
fice upstairs. Meena took some of it in and let the rest of the words fill the room. Finally, Maa leaned forward on her desk until her bosom almost fell out the top of her sari blouse. ‘Routine is good, Meena. It will help you recover. Don’t be afraid to begin again.’
And then, as if on cue, Sharmila appeared.
‘Take her to Didi, she can begin her chores today,’ Maa said, closing three of the files open on her desk and dropping them into a tray.
Meena pushed her body upright. She looked at Sharmila, her pretty make up, her styled hair. Sharmila was smiling, with her hand out again to help. Meena pulled one foot after another. She walked past Sharmila, out to the office and then down the stairs. The sun was warm on her hair, just like a memory. Warm sun above, cool mud around the ankles. The pleasant feeling at the start of rice planting before your back got sore and the mosquitoes made your legs itch. Who had planted rice in their place the year they’d disappeared? Would Putali’s mother have been strong enough to work the days required? Meena felt the familiar rise of frightening emotion.
‘Didi’s over here.’ Sharmila’s directions interrupted Meena’s thoughts, and she blindly followed where the older girl led, ducking the clothesline full of dripping shirts and unwelcome thoughts. A woman Meena now knew to be Didi hovered near a group of girls chatting as they pulled weeds from between the bricked paving. Didi was tall and broad shouldered. She wore her hair cut short, even shorter than Nahita. Her T-shirt was baggy and modest over her rear, her legs in old, unshaped jeans. The woman glanced at Meena and flashed her large teeth. Her smile was full of something Meena couldn’t read.
‘You must be Meena. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Come and join us, we need another gardener this morning.’
Meena stopped walking. Some of the girls, Asha and Kani included, waved. Sharmila returned to the office and Didi placed a kind hand on Meena’s shoulder. ‘How strong are you feeling? Would you like to work with the others on the bricks, or should I find you something to do, so you can work seated?’