by Penny Jaye
She watches her uncle stand, and Mohan also. The men walk several steps away until they are out of hearing distance and begin to talk. Mohan passes a package to Uncle who suddenly looks like a stranger.
‘Uncleji,’ Meena calls out, desperate for some sort of familiarity. But Rajit’s baa doesn’t seem to hear her. He shakes Mohan’s hand, strides out of the restaurant and is gone.
Meena swallows a too big lump of potato. She feels suddenly sick. But Mohan is returning to their table. His eyes are steady, his lips turned up in a smile as sweet as last night’s sugar cane. ‘You girls are very pretty. How old are you?’ he asks after ordering them each a fruit juice. Meena doesn’t answer. She watches Mohan stir the juices carefully before handing them out. Mohan’s eyebrows raise in expectation.
‘She’s twelve,’ Putali rushes and then fades off, ashamed.
Meena swallows hard. ‘Putali is eleven. We might be young, sir, but we are hard workers. And strong.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ Mohan murmurs. ‘Now, finish your drinks and we’ll get going, yes?’
Meena nods. She feels bad, like she is wasting all this amazing food. But for reasons she can’t understand, she no longer feels like eating. She pushes her half-empty plate aside and does as she is told. She finishes the too sweet juice and waits with Mohan for Putali to do the same.
Sixteen
Meena wasn’t sure how long she lay there. How long she curled with one shoulder against the wall, her back against the bed leg. All she knew was the stinging of her eyes when she forced them open, and later—after the sun had set—the dawdling of girls returning to the room, assessing the mess she had made; torn sheets, flung pillow, the spilled drink. It was Leela who saw her first, a look of frustration crowding her wide, weary face. The older girl swore. ‘What’s going on? What’ve you done to yourself?’
Meena didn’t answer. Leela swore again, then scooped her rough hands under Meena’s shoulders and pulled her upright, away from the wall and the leg of the bed.
‘Get up!’ She dragged Meena with surprising strength onto her bed. ‘Keep your head upways. I don’t want your filthy blood on my pillow.’
Meena allowed Leela to lay her down. She could feel the bumps of Leela’s make-up collection through the pillow. She forced her eyes to remain open.
Leela glared at her, an unreadable expression flickering beneath the open disgust. ‘Sharmila!’ she practically hollered. ‘Sharmila, you bitch! You don’t leave the new ones alone like this.’
Leela marched across the room to fetch Meena’s pillow, yelling out the doorway again until Sharmila ran inside.
‘What is the matter?’ Sharmila puffed.
‘Matter? You left her alone. She lost it.’ Leela sat down beside Meena now. She reached into her blouse and pulled out a cigarette and a squashed box of matches.
‘Not in here, Leela,’ Sharmila warned.
Leela lit her cigarette and sucked a few breaths, blowing smoke in Sharmila’s direction. Then she gently placed the cigarette between Meena’s lips.
‘Leela, you are not helping her!’
‘Well, what are you doing?’ Leela snapped.
Nahita, Asha and Renu crowded the doorway behind Sharmila. Sharmila’s face surged with colour, but she clamped her lips tight. She pulled the sheets from Meena’s bed and remade it, dropping the torn one to the floor to wipe up the Coca-Cola, and using Meena’s blanket as a top sheet. Then, without looking at the other girls, and ignoring Leela’s puffs of smoke, she helped Meena across the gap between the beds and onto her own bed again.
‘Nahita, get a washer,’ Sharmila ordered. ‘And gloves.’
Meena heard the bathroom door open and the squeal of water in the pipes. Then Nahita was beside Meena, holding out the wet washer and gloves.
Sharmila snatched them, frowning at Meena. ‘It doesn’t do any good to beat yourself up,’ she muttered as she struggled to get her fingers into the gloves.
‘Do you want me to do it? Nahita asked.
‘It’s not my fault she lost it,’ Sharmila muttered, her face flushing again.
‘Didn’t say it was,’ Nahita said calmly. The Bengali sat on the edge of Meena’s bed and began inspecting her fingers, one after the other.
‘Do you want the gloves?’ Sharmila asked.
‘No, I’m right,’ Nahita lay the folded washer over Meena’s throbbing head, dabbing at her forehead, wiping away the warm wetness and making it cool again. She frowned, but didn’t speak. Leela snorted and dropped the half-finished cigarette to the ground.
‘You’re a bitch, Leela.’ Sharmila trod out the cigarette on her way past.
‘Aren’t we all?’ Leela snapped back. She reached for her pillow, and the mirror underneath. Meena heard the mirror click open.
‘You’ll be alright,’ Nahita murmured.
Meena let her eyes close. This time she didn’t see the brothel. She saw a bird: the Indian roller bird that used to dart among the trees near the fields at home. She remembered it now, through the fog and ache. The Indian roller was plain and boring and grey; Leela wouldn’t like it. But when a tiny bug darted past the bird, it would thrust its wings open to fly. Blue feathers, more brilliant than the sky set against the mountain snow, revealed themselves. But the bird in Meena’s mind’s eye lay still, bent and twisted against the side of a cage, its blue feathers nowhere to be seen.
***
Meena didn’t get up the next day. While the other girls rose and dressed and moved out of the room with bundles of laundry or sachets of shampoo, she watched them through half-open eyes. Seeing, but not seeing them. Once the room was empty, she just stared at the window at the end of the room, the one Nahita would so frequently jump from. Her head was pounding where she’d hit it against the wall, her chest aching. Every now and then another slow tide of tears would come. Sliding down her cheeks in silent lines of defeat. And no one came to beat her. Sometime mid-morning the scents of cooking potatoes and rice wafted in from the kitchen. Someone walked into the room and lay a plate of hot food on a chair beside her bed, but she didn’t look up to see who it was. On and off she slept and cried, not touching the food, aware of the occasional visitor following Sharmila’s new orders to make sure she was never alone too long.
Eventually the girls started coming back in for the afternoon free time. Leela and Asha were arguing again. Purna mumbled something in no particular language and began applying generous amounts of potent nail polish to her toes. The smell of it gave Meena a headache. Just before the evening meal, Nahita arrived, through the dorm door, her kurta shirt damp down the front and under the armpits. She glanced over her shoulder at Meena as she pulled a clean set of clothes from her little cupboard and placed them on the windowsill.
‘Have you been here all day?’ she asked.
Meena didn’t answer.
‘Hasn’t moved,’ Leela coughed.
Nahita limped back to Meena’s bedside. She picked up the half-eaten morning meal with raised eyebrows and seated herself beside Meena. She smelt of sweat and mud and spices. Where did she go each day? What did she do? Meena asked the silent questions but Nahita didn’t answer them.
‘It’ll get better,’ was all she said. She spoke like someone old, someone who’d grown up too fast. ‘But it will always hurt.’
Meena stared at the cold, uneaten curry.
‘Did the nurse come see you today? To check your head?’
‘No,’ Meena mumbled. ‘I saw her yesterday.’
‘Oh.’ Nahita nodded with understanding. ‘Did you get your blood results yesterday? Is that what happened?’
Meena shook her head.
‘Are you HIV positive?’ Nahita’s question was firm.
‘I … no ... I don’t know. She said it takes time. She said ...’ Meena looked at Nahita.
‘Said what?’ Nahita’s voice took on a sudden h
arshness. ‘What’d she say about me?’
‘Nothing,’ Meena mumbled, confused. She felt Nahita’s gaze, studying, prying, waiting, but there was nothing to say. Her hand trembled, the plate tipped and rice spilled in cold, hard, curried lumps to the floor. Nahita rose, she rolled her eyes. ‘I haven’t got time to clean your mess.’ She limped quickly to the other end of the room, leapt clumsily to the sill where her clothes waited and, without looking back, dropped herself out the window.
Leela lay back on her pillow and made a laughing sound. ‘She’s got more than laundry, that one. You didn’t know, did you? She’s HIV pos’. She and Manju, and Renu, and Laxmi, and me. Oh, and probably Purna, but no one would know because the little bitch won’t talk. Will you, Purna?’ Leela sat up to straighten her trousers. ‘You got HIV, Purna? Are you ever going to talk to anyone? About anything? In any language?’
Purna tucked her legs up to her body, knocking the nail polish over. She watched the thick red spread and her eyes widened in panic. Nahita’s voice ran shrill through the open window. ‘Leela! If you don’t shut up, I’m going to hit your face so hard you’ll never have to apply lipstick ever again!’
Leela laughed again. ‘You’d better pick up your mess before Sharmila finds it,’ she said to Meena. But Meena just rolled her back to Leela and shut her eyes to the room.
Seventeen
Several days later, when Meena’s head didn’t ache so much and Sharmila had coaxed her from the dorm and back into the Little Sister routines of chores and seminars, Maa requested a meeting.
‘I’ve been hearing good reports of your progress.’ Maa smiled as Meena entered the office and sat in the expected chair. ‘Sharmila says you are attending most educational seminars and Didi has been impressed by your diligence in gardening the flower beds. She has suggested that you may be ready to begin vocational training. Have some of the girls shown you their bead work? Do you think that might interest you?’
Meena shrugged.
‘They make bracelets, necklaces and earrings. To sell. The beads and materials for starting up are a gift from Little Sister, but once they begin making income, they purchase their own materials. It’s a good little business. Many of our girls enjoy doing it. What do you think?’
‘Nain,’ Meena answered. She’d seen Renu and Laxmi’s beading the other day.
‘No beading, then.’ Maa frowned slightly. ‘What about macramé? I know Sharmila would be happy to teach you how to make her bags—’
‘Nain, I don’t like bags,’ Meena lied. She didn’t really want Sharmila teaching her anything.
Maa’s frown deepened. ‘Well, the tailoring class is full at the moment, all the machines are being used, but Didi is a very good knitter. Maybe you could learn to make a scarf first? You look like you need a new one.’ Maa eyed Sarita’s scarf. It was knotted loosely around Meena’s neck, little bits of dirt and leaves stuck in the tasselled ends from her work in the garden.
Meena folded her arms over the ends of Sarita’s leaving scarf. Her leaving scarf. ‘I don’t want a new scarf, I like this one.’
‘Well’—Maa paused, obviously thinking—‘What about a cardigan then? You might find it more challenging than a scarf, but I am sure Didi could teach you? Why don’t you go upstairs and see if Didi is available now? Tell her Maa sent you to learn how to knit.’
‘But—’
‘No buts.’ Maa shook her pen in Meena’s direction. ‘It is important to keep busy; active bodies and minds heal faster than lazy ones.’
Meena raced her mind for an excuse, something to prevent her going and begging to Didi, but none came fast enough.
‘Off you go now. Tell Didi I sent you.’ Maa waved Meena towards the door.
Meena eyed the corridor and the stairs leading upwards. ‘I don’t know where to go,’ Meena mumbled.
‘Go upstairs. Then down to the end of the corridor. Didi’s door is always open, unless she is outside. Off you go, hurry up.’
Meena muttered a swear word under her breath, something Sarita had taught her, a word learned from an Arab client.
The stairs to the upper level of the Little Sister office block were uneven. When she reached the top, she stopped and gripped the concrete railing to catch her breath. There were more offices upstairs than Maa had said, each with a label on the front in two languages. Inside the first office was a man dressed in a suit, with his top two buttons undone because of the heat. His brow was scrunched in concentration as he spoke on a mobile phone. The next office also contained men. Two of them. Their suit jackets slung across the back of chairs, one of them drinking tea, a wide smile on his face, the other more serious. There was a computer on the desk between them, one with a photo on the screen of the serious man and his family. The men noticed Meena at the door and smiled politely. They didn’t let their eyes wander. They didn’t study the curve of her body.
‘Didi’s office is that way.’ They pointed down the hall.
Meena continued in the direction they had pointed, conscious of the noise her flip-flops made, then stopped. A framed painting hung on one of the corridor walls. It was a painting of a place she knew by heart, painted by someone just wanting to make money. She could tell which lazy strokes miss-shaped the Annapurna range, which lines made the Machhapuchhre mountain look crooked. But even with the mistakes, Meena felt part of herself try to stand up. She brushed her fingers lightly over the canvas, feeling the ridges in paintwork—they were dusty. How had the painting ended up down here in India, in a hall where the sun couldn’t shine on the peaks? She untied the scarf from around her neck and gently dusted the mountain tops. Did the sun still set golden upon them? Would the view still be visible from the front of Putali’s house? She felt her chest constrict at the longing of it, torn by a succession of painful thoughts: Who lived in that house now? Putali’s aama, mother? Or had she died without medicine to heal her? Without Putali to care for her? And what about Putali’s father, her beloved baa—had he come back to find his daughter gone, his wife dead, his tiny son raised by someone else?
‘Meena?’ Didi startled her. ‘Are you feeling alright? You don’t look well.’
Meena felt the blood drain from her face. The hallway wobbled. What had she done?
‘Come, come, you need to sit down.’ Didi hurried to help Meena through the next doorway to her office. She lowered Meena into a sagging lounge chair and quickly poured her a glass of water, waiting until Meena had taken a few sips before she sat in the chair opposite. ‘Are you alright now? Do you want to talk about how you feel?’
Meena shook her head. The faintness was gone now, even if the questions lingered unspoken.
‘Welcome to my office, then.’ Didi waved a hand around the tidy office. Meena took in the tall, metal cupboard with a mirrored door, the desk under a window that looked over the courtyard, the pretty canisters holding pens and pencils and the large poster of two children on a swing.
Didi picked up a knitting project of bright blue. Her fingers began moving, threading the wool over the needles too fast for Meena to watch. ‘Were you looking for me?’ Didi asked without stopping her fingers.
Meena hesitated. ‘Maa sent me. She says I have to learn to knit.’
Didi smiled. ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’
‘I probably can’t do it,’ Meena answered, watching Didi double loop her wool before making another stitch. ‘I can’t even read. I’m not clever like that.’
‘Rubbish!’ Didi lowered her knitting. ‘You have been abused, Meena. But that doesn’t make you unintelligent.’
‘But if I had been smart, maybe I wouldn’t have ... we wouldn’t have ... she’d still be ...’ Meena struggled for the words. If she had been smart, she wouldn’t have convinced Putali to leave Nepal for promised waitressing jobs. She would have seen through Rajit and Santosh’s promises. She’d have found a way to get medicine without running away and Pu
tali’s mother would be healthy. Her little brother clapping at Putali’s class six graduation. She was stupid. Foolish and stupid, and she hated herself. A hot wet tear slid down her cheek.
Didi put her knitting aside and crossed the room. She squatted down to look into Meena’s eyes and placed a hand on Meena’s knee. ‘One day, when you are ready, I would like to hear your story. I am sure, if you heard it told back to you, you would hear how what happened was not your fault.’
‘But it was!’
‘Was it? Really? Did you ask to be sold into slavery? Did you choose to be broken to the point of no longer believing in yourself?’ Didi’s voice was firm, steady, just like her gaze.
Meena felt the sobs heaving from her chest now. She sobbed until her throat hurt and the tears, for the moment, had finished. Only then did Didi speak again.
‘Would you like to be able to knit?’ she asked.
Meena nodded weakly.
‘Aacha, good.’ Didi patted Meena’s knee. She stood, a little stiffly, and opened the metal cupboard. ‘What colour would you like?’
Colour? Meena tried to think. Red was for married women. White for death.
‘What about blue?’ Didi held out a skein of bright blue, similar to what she had been working with.
Meena shook her head. Blue belonged to the roller bird. ‘Black,’ she offered.
‘Okay.’ Didi rummaged among noisy plastic bags before pulling out two skeins of thick black wool and handing them to Meena. She fished two long knitting needles from a drawer and placed them on the desk. Then she untied the first skein on Meena’s lap and found the loose end.
‘A skein is too hard to knit from,’ Didi explained. ‘You get all tangled up. So we begin by rolling it into balls. Wind it around your hand at first, then, when it is quite thick, pull it free and turn it into a ball. Once you’ve done that, we’ll start our lessons!’