by Penny Jaye
Meena eyed the other girls. They girls pulled weeds in a squatting position, shuffling forwards and sideways to reach more of the stubborn plants, their faces bright and open in easy conversation. Meena wobbled slightly.
‘Sitting perhaps?’ Didi chuckled. Her laughter wasn’t unkind. ‘Come over here. The girls forgot to weed the garden bed near the stairs before they moved to the paving.’ Didi held Meena’s elbow and guided her across the bricks to the small flowerbed she spoke about.
‘Maa probably told you how strongly we believe in keeping busy, yes? Staying in bed all day doesn’t help a mind heal, but gardening seems to. It’s funny that, isn’t it?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but lowered Meena onto the cool, prickly grass. Meena’s knee knocked the garden’s brick edging. She swore under her breath.
‘Just work on that little patch for today. Pull out the weeds and pick off the dead marigold tops—it encourages more growth.’
Meena didn’t move. She felt Didi rub her gently on the shoulders before returning to join the other girls working on the paving. ‘You are a strong girl, Meena. I can tell.’
Meena watched Didi squat down with them. The older woman joined their work and conversation as if she were one of them. Meena turned back to the garden before her. It had been planted with flowers: wide-mouthed petunias and yellow marigolds, but their colour was choked by weeds. Like a fat man on a little girl. She hesitated to touch the plants, to feel the cool flesh against her fingers. She looked back at Didi. The woman laughed at something one of the girls said. Meena reached out, gripped the base of a thick weed and pulled. A tiny grey butterfly escaped from the leaves and brushed her fingers as it flew away. Something in her chest began to hurt. She tugged at the weed again, pulling it from the damp soil, and accidentally catching a new, unopened bud of a marigold between her fingers. A forbidden sob rose in her throat as the butterfly darted away and the marigold bud fell to the dirt. Something hot ran down her face. Meena brushed it away. Her hand was trembling, her shoulders tense. Meena forced her eyes open, willing them dry. She hadn’t cried. No, she hadn’t.
‘Meena?’ The quiet voice was Didi’s. ‘Would you like to pull weeds with us instead?’ Her words were gentle.
Meena looked away. She reached frantically for her tough face. The one Sarita would be proud of. The one Madam expected. The one Vishnu wouldn’t laugh at.
Didi squeezed Meena’s shoulder ever so gently. ‘It’s alright to cry, Meena. Alright to cry here,’ she whispered. Meena shook the woman’s hand away. She glared at the weeds and the garden and the glowing marigolds.
Didi squatted by Meena’s side, she began to pull weeds. Slowly. Talking softly as she worked.
‘Did Asha tell you she’s made contact with her family again after five years away?’
Meena shook her head. She kept her eyes averted but sensed the calming presence of the older woman beside her. She could hear the light, cheery conversation of the other girls over the pounding in her head now.
Didi kept talking. ‘Yes, Maa is arranging for Asha and her parents to meet soon. If that meeting goes well, Asha will be able to return to live with them.’
‘But she is a whore,’ Meena croaked.
‘No.’ Didi paused her work briefly. ‘Asha is not a whore. Neither are you.’
Meena felt her chest grow tight again.
‘Sometimes people need to be re-educated, to learn how to love again,’ Didi continued softly. ‘Asha’s parents may have old and restrictive ideas, they might not know how to care for a girl who has been trafficked, but if they are not comfortable taking Asha back this time, we’ll keep trying. She’s their daughter and regardless of what they think or understand, I know they truly love her.’
The older woman didn’t say anything else for a while, but then she leaned close enough that Meena could smell the cloves and cardamom on her breath. ‘You know, Meena, sometimes it’s ourselves we have to re-educate. It’s ourselves we need to learn to trust again.’
Meena and Putali barely speak as the rickshaw carries them across the border and down a long stretch of Indian road. They just hold hands, and hold on, soaking in the sights. Eventually their rickshaw stops by a greasy tea shop and bustling jeep station, where Meena’s uncle waits. He hands a wad of dirty rupees to the sweating rickshaw driver, then beckons for the girls to follow him to a crowded jeep nearby.
‘Climb in,’ he directs.
The girls squeeze into an empty space and lean as close to the window as possible. In many ways, India feels just like Nepal, but it is also very different. Women wear longer kurta-suruwals, faces are narrower, noses longer, skin darker. As they travel further, fields become less frequent and buildings more common. Little stalls grow into stores. Then, stores change to fancy arcades. Their jeep weaves its way between rickshaws, taxis, buses and private cars, until it stops outside a cluster of hotels and restaurants deep within a city. Meena and Putali climb down and follow Rajit’s baa into another hotel where he books them a room and orders three plates of food in the downstairs restaurant. Rice, vegetables and chicken curry arrive and they begin to eat hungrily. Then, Meena’s uncle hands them each a tall glass of cold, freshly-crushed cane sugar juice. ‘You’ve been very good,’ he says.
Meena grins and sips her juice, savouring its super sweet taste. Her uncle nods, obviously pleased with them, and sits back to eat his meal slowly.
‘When is our interview, Uncleji?’ Meena asks. ‘Is it this afternoon?’
Rajit’s baa shakes his head. ‘No, not yet. I have to meet an acquaintance first.’
‘Can you trust him?’ Putali asks in a small voice.
Meena’s uncle almost frowns, but quickly checks himself. ‘I only make acquaintances with people I can trust. Finish your food, then go upstairs to rest. I’ll come back once I’ve found my friend.’
The girls drain the rest of their juice and finish off their rice, nibbling the chicken right back to the barest bones—it is so tasty.
‘I am soooo tired,’ Putali mumbles as the two of them stagger up the stairs to the room Meena’s uncle had reserved. Meena agrees. She follows Putali into their room and only just manages to shut the door behind them before her knees buckle and she crumples onto the closest mattress. She didn’t think travel and chicken would make someone so sleepy.
***
Sometime near midnight, Meena awakes. She stares with groggy eyes around the room. Putali is asleep, her mouth slightly open in soft, sour snores. Her uncle sits with his back to her on the edge of the second bed, and there is another man; a stranger with arms crossed over his chest and gold on his fingers. They are talking in whispers. Gesturing sharply. Meena tries to sit up. She tries to make her hands into a greeting, to be polite to her uncle’s acquaintance, but her arms will not respond. Her mouth refuses to shape the words she is already forgetting. The two men turn around to watch her. She blinks. Again. Then the sweet sleepiness closes the room from sight.
Fifteen
The nurse’s office was clean and neat. Two posters with captions Meena couldn’t read hung on the wall. A measuring tape was stuck beside the door frame, and a set of scales lay on the floor beside it. Along one wall stood a long, thin bed with a skinny white mattress, on the opposite wall stood a tall metal cupboard with one door slightly ajar. In front of the cupboard was a large desk, identical to the one in Maa’s office, and sitting at the desk was the nurse.
Meena lingered by the door as Sharmila introduced her to the nurse, handing over the grey file that had been on Maa’s desk the day before. The nurse motioned Meena inside with a wide, toothy smile and opened the file. ‘You can go now,’ she said to Sharmila with a voice as bland as salt-less dal.
Sharmila closed the door behind her, leaving the nurse and Meena alone. Meena propped herself on the arm of a waiting chair. She stared at the nurse, who stared at the words and boxes in the folder. The woman was young, but o
ld enough to be married. She wore no nose ring and had very little jewellery.
‘Okay,’ the nurse said finally, using the English word Meena recognised. ‘Climb up onto the bed and I’ll take a look at you.’
Meena did as she was told. The nurse began checking her eyes, pulse, blood pressure, all the while talking. The nurse had cold fingers. Her questions repetitive of those asked by Maa and the hospital staff. She took Meena’s height and weight and commented on small improvements since the details written in the grey file.
Then she turned to gather some supplies from the metal cupboard. ‘Do you like it here?’ the nurse asked.
‘It’s okay,’ Meena answered. In Hindi. She could see the other girls doing exercises on the pavement between the two main buildings. They looked ridiculous, copying Didi’s actions like clumsy, disconnected dancers.
‘Do you understand why I need to take a blood test today?’ The nurse returned to Meena’s side. She had a curved bowl now with a packeted syringe, a length of rubber tubing and several clear test tubes lying in wait.
Meena hesitated. She rubbed her arm where she knew the needle would be placed. ‘You want to see what diseases I have. If I have HIV or AIDS.’
‘Well, HIV is the virus, AIDS is the illness. A person can have HIV without being sick with AIDS,’ the nurse explained briskly. ‘And we’ll test for other conditions too and get some basic blood counts. Do you have any questions?’
‘When will I ...’ The words were getting stuck in her throat. She felt dumb, uneducated, but she needed to know. ‘How long will … until I d ...?’
The nurse looked up startled. ‘Die? How long until you die?’ She shook her head and pulled on some gloves. ‘I don’t know. We’re all going to die one day, but I can’t tell you when. You certainly won’t die from a blood test!’ The nurse almost chuckled.
Meena tried to re-frame her question. ‘What about AIDS, I mean HIV? Maa said if we hadn’t used condoms ... but Madam said if the customer says no condom, it’s no condom ...’
The nurse let out an impatient sigh. ‘Listen, a diagnosis of HIV doesn’t mean certain death! We test today, and again in three months. If the results are negative, that’s a good thing. But a positive result is also a good thing because it teaches us how to look after your body, how to keep you healthy for as long as possible. Yes, an HIV positive person will most likely die of AIDS, eventually, but there are very good drugs available now to control the condition. Death is a long way away if you are committed to being healthy. Look outside. I can tell you that one third of the girls doing aerobics this morning is HIV positive. But, at the moment, they are perfectly healthy. HIV isn’t everything, Meena, no matter the result. It doesn’t define who you are.’
Meena just sat. She could feel the thin mattress beneath her. Could hear Didi’s instructions from the yard.
‘Stretch deep, girls. Aacha, good. Now lunge. Lunge.’
The nurse pulled Meena’s arm out straight. She tied the rubber tubing round Meena’s upper arm until the veins inside her elbow stood out. Then, with gloved fingers, she pushed the needle into Meena’s vein. The blood flowed fast and red—deeper than the red of Leela’s lipstick—into the glass tube. One by one the nurse filled the tubes until she pulled the needle out and passed Meena a ball of cotton wool to press on the tiny hole.
‘Well done,’ the nurse said. ‘I’ll see you again when we get the results, okay?’
Meena tugged the scarf at her neck. Her body felt heavy, her arms thick. The nurse replaced the cotton ball with a tiny sticky plaster, then waved at the door. ‘You can go now,’ she said.
***
Meena shuffled down the office steps. The paving rose uneven beneath her feet. Her head felt light and foggy. Didi rushed over from where she had set the girls to jogging. She put a firm arm around Meena’s waist, steadying the wobbling world.
‘Are you feeling alright?’ Didi’s voice was soft. Meena attempted to raise her arm.
‘Did you have your blood test?’
Meena just wobbled in answer.
‘Don’t worry. Come with me. I’ll get you into bed for a lie down and organise someone to bring you a drink. You probably just need a little rest.’
Meena leaned on Didi’s arm as she struggled up the four stairs to the dorm room. Didi lowered her onto the waiting mattress.
‘Will you be alright in here, with just Purna to keep you company?’ Didi asked.
Meena nodded. She unwound Sarita’s scarf from her neck and drew the shimmery purple to her chest. What would Sarita say about blood tests? Had she ever had one? At the drop-in centre? Had Putali?
She was vaguely aware of Didi softly leaving. Of Kani coming in with a cold glass bottle of soft drink. Of Purna rocking herself on her bed across the room. The other Nepali girl mumbled sounds that were more animal than human language.
Meena squeezed her eyes shut. Didi said she needed rest. But there was no rest where her mind was racing to. For three years she had hidden the truth, hidden from the memories that accused her, blamed her and filled her with fear. But now? Why now?
Meena dug her face into the Little Sister pillow, but the images merged even faster. Flashes from a consciousness she’d avoided: walking the streets, herded along by the man, Mohan; a girl with a twisted hand applying too much make up; blood; and a feeble frightened voice calling her name ...
‘Meena?!’
She snapped her eyes open to the blackness of the dorm’s pillow, her breath coming in panicked spurts. Suffocating in the darkness. She sat up. Her heart pounding. The dorm room empty now. Even Purna had gone. The yellow walls mocked emptiness. Pain. Guilt.
‘Meena?!’
She crushed her face into Sarita’s scarf. Faces flashed through her mind. Devi. Deepa, Lalita, Zeshaan. Zeshaan?
Meena’s chest tore with the agony of unreleased tears.
‘You don’t cry about it,’ she could hear Sarita’s voice, loud in the silence of the empty dorm. ‘Tears won’t change fate. They just keep you weak.’ In her mind, Sarita leaned forward, her lips bright, her eyes painted, a large round blood stain on her neck from yesterday’s business. ‘You put tears away, or you’ll never leave.’
But Sarita’s voice faded to the past and before Meena could stop them, the tears came. Screaming from wherever she’d buried them. Tears burning of shame and stinging with humiliation. She choked over them. Catching as they came from deep within her, mingling with anger; a deep, wretched anger that pointed fingers and called names and declared hatred of herself. Meena flung her pillow as far as she could. The bottle of soft drink thrown against a wall. A voice grew inside her. A scream. The cry of someone broken.
‘I told her I’d come back!’
She tore the sheets beneath her.
‘Bastards!’
She stood and kicked the leg of Leela’s bed. The yellow wall shouted back at her. The calm, closed wall. She beat her fist into it. Again. And again.
‘Bastards!’
Grief welled. Her face was against the wall now, her fists tight against her chest; her head slamming against the yellow concrete wall. Over and over again, beating the wall with her head until it hurt similarly to the tears in her throat and the ache in her chest. ‘Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!’
The floor crumpled up to her. Her shoulders heaved. If only she could close her eyes. If only all there would be was blackness. Nothing. Not the past. It was too hard to see. Too hard to feel, even in replay. If only she could curl in the lap of her mother like she had so long ago. To be rocked, and stroked by fingers soft from spinning wool ...
But mother was gone. And the wool spinner had been splintered many, many years ago. And there was no one left to rock her, and no one who ever would. Not if they knew.
Meena opens her eyes to see Putali on the end of the bed, tugging a comb through her rumpled hair.
�
��I think we’re traveling again today,’ Putali says wearily, pointing to Uncle’s bag already packed near the door.
Meena groans and sits up. Her head feels thick, her tongue dry. ‘Where is he now?’
‘He said he was going to order khana, food. Have you ever eaten so much?’
Meena shakes her head and scratches her flea-bitten stomach. She hasn’t felt hunger for days now, ever since they’d hopped on the back of the boys’ motorbikes.
Putali passes her the comb. She’s just finished braiding her hair when Rajit’s baa appears at the doorway. ‘Come downstairs, I have someone I’d like you to meet. Bring your bags.’
Meena and Putali follow him down the dusty stairwell to the hotel restaurant. A man sits at one of the tables in front of two uneaten plates of food. He seems oddly familiar to Meena.
‘Sit down,’ Meena’s uncle instructs.
The strange man pushes a plate of food—rice, dal, chicken curry, vegetables, pickles—towards Meena and indicates for her to start eating. He does the same for Putali. ‘We’ve already eaten,’ he explains softly to Putali’s raised eyebrows. Meena’s uncle nods his agreement then begins the introductions: ‘This is my close friend, Mohan. He has been living in India for ten years now. He has found you some very good jobs, and you won’t even need interviews.’ He talks as if he has been practising. ‘He’ll take you after you have eaten, so be as obedient and helpful as possible. Make me proud.’
‘But ... aren’t you coming with us, Uncleji?’ Putali frowns and lifts her hand from her plate of food.
‘No. I got a call on my mobile,’ he pulls a new, slim phone from his pocket. ‘My mother’s very sick. Ke garne? What to do? I need to return to Pokhara. But, Mohan is more than capable, and I believe I can trust you girls to make the most of this opportunity, can’t I?’
Meena nods around a wonderful mouthful of chicken and potato, even if it isn’t as tasty as yesterday’s meal. Putali looks to her for reassurance.
‘We might have time to go shopping,’ Mohan suggests, studying Putali’s reaction. ‘There is time, before you need to start work waitressing. Would you like that?’ Putali nods shyly, but there is something cool in Mohan’s voice that makes Meena pause on her mouthful.