Out of the Cages

by Penny Jaye

  Meena wound the wool around her fingers as directed. Soon it became too tight, so she removed it and changed the lump into a ball. The thread kept slipping, the wool occasionally tangling around the skein, but she continued winding, detangling and winding again until the ball began to steadily grow.

  ‘You’ll be a good knitter,’ said Didi after a while.

  Meena looked up.

  ‘Yes,’ Didi nodded. ‘You have perseverance.’

  The sides of the streets are crowded to bursting, so Mohan hurries them into a rickshaw, all three of them this time. Putali’s bony bottom digs into Meena’s lap.

  ‘What is this city called?’ Putali asks shyly as they start moving.

  ‘Gorakhpur,’ Mohan answers without extra explanation.

  The rickshaw weaves through the city until it turns into a wide intersection and inches its way between buses and trucks and taxis to a huge cream building, twice as big as the biggest cinema in Pokhara. Enormous pillars hold up a wide entrance. People are shouting, cars honking to get into position and rumbling behind it all is another noise, like huge machines drawing in and tugging away, unseen behind the cream walls and crowded buildings. Meena strains over Putali’s shoulder to look. The rickshaw stops and Mohan climbs down. He doesn’t attempt to help the girls, so they jump down on their own.

  ‘Are there shops in there?’ Meena asks, amazed at the huge cream building. Perhaps it is a ‘shopping mall’ like in American TV?

  ‘That’s the train station,’ Mohan pushes the girls in front of their parked rickshaw and towards the gaping entrance.

  ‘Train station?’ Putali bursts in excitement, ‘Are we going to see a real train?’ She wobbles a bit in excitement. Mohan doesn’t answer, he just keeps walking, expecting them to keep up. Meena grabs Putali’s hand, more because of the gnawing, uneasy feeling in her stomach than for any other reason. They follow Mohan under the huge, teeming doorway, past many sweating people to a bustling platform. A train, a real train, with faces pushing up against windows and arms leaning out, is dragging itself along two metal tracks. It moves slowly, noisily, closer, until it almost leans over the concrete platform they stand on. The girls wobble together, Putali’s mouth gapes like she has started to say something and then totally forgotten what it is. Meena isn’t sure it is just the excitement that causes their jitters anymore. She grips Putali’s hand tighter and staggers backwards. The train’s motion stops and suddenly there are men and women and children and bags and baskets and boxes pouring onto the platform. The wave of bodies push Meena and Putali close to Mohan. A woman carrying a basket of oranges is knocked, the basket’s rope slips from her head, the basket falls. People begin shouting, oranges spill out under sandals and business shoes and glittery heels. Meena watches the oranges rolling, bumping, bruising, bursting—bewildered. Men begin swearing, cursing the woman and her oranges.

  Mohan’s mouth is moving too, his hands gripping their shoulders and pushing them forward. A voice on a scratchy loudspeaker makes an announcement in Hindi and then in another language. Meena can’t understand either of them. Mohan pulls three pieces of paper from his jacket pocket and points towards the open train carriage in front of them.

  ‘Go inside,’ he leans close to Meena’s ear to shout it. ‘We can look inside the train. Go!’

  Putali’s eyes are wide but her little legs aren’t working, so Meena shoves her forwards. Now that the wave of people is rushing away, there is space to move. They climb the few steps into the train carriage and Mohan prods them down an aisle. It is narrow; seats run along each side and metal fans hang from the ceiling. Only half of them work. The seats are like those on a bus, only taller, and the windows have metal bars along them.

  ‘Stop here,’ Mohan interrupts their tour. He is only half watching them, his eyes darting over details on the papers in his hands. Putali keeps walking. Meena grabs her shoulder to pull her back. Her little friend trips a little, her face pale.

  ‘Here, sit down,’ Meena tugs Putali towards one of the seats.

  ‘No, not that one. Here, sit here.’ Mohan wears something of a smile. Putali shuffles across the aisle to where Mohan stands and sinks into one of the red vinyl-covered seats. ‘Aye ... I feel funny,’ she mumbles under the noise of the train. She looks up at Meena and something like fear flashes onto her face. Meena glances up at Mohan. He has tucked his pieces of paper back in his jacket and is watching them. ‘She feels sick,’ Meena explains, as if waiting for Mohan to offer his own explaination in return.

  But he doesn’t. He just watches Meena like he is waiting for something to happen. Meena shakes her head. Her eyelids grow heavy under his study. Why has her uncle left them with this man? She tries to say something, but another announcement is being made on the platform. People appear at both ends of the train’s carriage. Bags are lifted to shelves above and boxes shoved under seats. Bodies find their way to seats and settle in as if waiting for something. Perhaps the same thing Mohan is waiting for ... Meena looks down at Putali for reassurance but her little friend’s face has gone completely blank. Meena can’t understand it: in all the busyness and excitement Putali has fallen asleep. Meena’s head spins.

  A Nepali voice boards the train. She hears it ask a question, a question about the train making the connection to Mumbai, but Mohan’s voice is running over the top of it. His voice is close in her ear, so she cannot hear the other answer.

  ‘We’ll go shopping later. And then I’ll take you to the hotel. You be a good girl now, just relax. Later, later—you can trust me.’

  Eighteen

  ‘Let’s finish up for the day.’

  Meena’s thoughts were interrupted by Didi. The older woman smiled, as if aware of how far away Meena had been. Had she really been rolling wool all afternoon?

  She hurried to pack up her wool into the bag Didi had given her and together they walked past the painting, down the stairs. Didi lived on the Little Sister compound in the white building to the left of the dorms, so she didn’t have far to go. Meena hesitated at the office doors and watched the men climb onto their motorbikes, a waft of regret and blame hid in the bikes’ exhaust. The office was quiet now. Classes were finished, most of the girls were lingering in the courtyard, collecting dry laundry or somewhere inside the dorm. A soft rustling sound came from Maa’s office.

  Meena stepped back, the plastic bag holding her skeins and knitting needles gently bumped against her knee. She glanced into Maa’s office. Maa was still there, hunched over the big desk. Her narrow face was deep in concentration. Her hands moving over a stack of small papers. No ... Meena frowned. The small papers were photos! Meena could hear the blood pounding in her ears as she inched forward, willing her flip-flops silent, to stand in the office doorway. Maa didn’t notice, so deep was her focus on the small photos. First one, then the next—studied, perused and then moved to the back of the pile, all the while moving her lips. Moving her lips like a brothel madam doing her sums.

  ‘Wha ...’ Meena stammered. She tried again, louder. ‘What are you doing?’

  Maa looked up, surprised. She returned the pile onto her desk. ‘Meena, you startled—’

  ‘What ... are they?’ Meena forced the words out.

  The woman glanced down at the photos, a look of knowing spread over her face.

  ‘These are photos.’

  ‘Of girls,’ Meena accused.

  ‘Not all, some are boys.’ Maa held up one of the photos: it was a stained picture of a small, shy-looking boy. She displayed another: a girl dressed in fancy wedding red. Meena’s fingers tightened on the handles of her plastic bag. The photos were not unlike the ones Madam used to send out with the broker boys, or the older girls, to bring in clients. The brokers flashed photos in the streets to loitering men and drew them upstairs to the waiting room. Meena stared at the Indian woman behind the desk. She felt choked.

  She’d posed for a photo once. Dresse
d in green sparkles, gold bangles too rich for her wrists, make up too bright. She’d spun as instructed, while Putali clapped. Clapped. Why hadn’t they known? But she knew now. She glared at Maa.

  ‘Exquisite?’ Meena’s voice was a whisper now. Of course, this was why they had fed her, nursed her under the guise of helping her recover. ‘Is this how Little Sister works?’ she spat.

  Maa’s brow crinkled with a frown, ‘Sit down, Meena.’

  ‘Nain!’ Meena jumped backwards, like Devi ducking Vishnu’s grasp. ‘I will not work for you. Not anymore. Not now.’ She pushed out the words before she could take them back.

  Sharmila appeared at the doorway. Her eyebrows raised, eyeing Maa, then Meena, then Maa again. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, coolly.

  Meena stumbled backwards. ‘Get away from me!’

  Sharmila stepped forwards, her heels clacking on the concrete floor. Her hands reaching out. To grab, catch, grip.

  ‘No!’ The hall spun. The steps of the office building were under her feet before she knew it. She stumbled forward, fell, and scrambled to her feet again. The paving was still warm from the heat of the day.

  ‘Meena!’ Sharmila came down the stairs after her. ‘Don’t panic. Everything’s going to be alright.’

  Alright? Meena’s head pounded. No, it wasn’t.

  It’d never been alright.

  It would never be alright.

  She started to run, forwards, sideways, away from the stares of the girls under the clothesline, away from Leela at the dorm door with a strange expression on her face. The gate was still open. Meena spun towards it. Panic filled her lungs. Familiar, sick, horrible panic.

  ‘Meena.’ She could hear Maa’s voice now, calling from the office building doors. ‘Come back. I can explain.’

  But Meena kept running. The gate released her before the guard had staggered from his hut. Sharmila’s heels clattered on the paving behind Meena. She could hear the older girl calling, but Meena didn’t look back. The road was wide, unsealed and empty. Meena forced her legs to run, really run, for the first time in years.

  She stumbled on rocks so small they shouldn’t slow her. She ran until she reached the end of the narrow road, then turned down the main street the taxi had come the day she’d arrived. It wasn’t until she had rounded another bend that she slowed enough to breathe and check behind her. No one was following. No one chasing. But neither was the road empty. People hurried along its edges, buses kept their route; no one noticed her. She sagged against a power pole for a moment, trying to catch her breath. Her chest pounded; her head full of noise from breathing and blood. She had to keep moving.

  She walked down the street, almost dragging her exhausted legs, pushing herself forwards, further and further away from Little Sister. Signposts stood at intersections, telling her directions to place names she couldn’t read. Something knocked her knee. She still had the bag of wool Didi had given her, one of the knitting needles now poked through the plastic and dragged on the ground. The other one was gone. Meena kept walking.

  Finally, to the left of a busy T-intersection, she found herself in a busy bazaar. Stalls lined the adjoining streets selling clothing, imitation backpacks and nail polish. Men with fruit carts called out their wares to everyone but her. She stopped by a snack vendor. His bowl of steaming lentil stew reminded her she hadn’t eaten since the morning. He filled a few puffed pastries with stew for a female customer, who paid her money, and then ate in front of Meena.

  ‘Do you want some?’ The man behind the stew asked.

  Meena nodded without thinking. She watched the pastries go soggy as the stew went in. He held it out to her. She took it.

  ‘Money?’

  Money?

  She shook her head. She had nothing, nothing but the silly bag of half-rolled wool and the lonely knitting needle.

  ‘No money? You think I give food away for free?! You stupid girl! Give me that, thief!’ The man snatched the paper plate from Meena spilling the hot lentils on her wrist. ‘Go! Get away!’ He shooed her like she was a stray dog.

  Meena staggered backwards. The signpost above the intersection pointed in four directions. Even if she could read the words on the signs, she’d never know where they meant. She was lost. Strength drained from her legs. She wobbled, staggered forwards, then back. If she didn’t sit, she’d fall, but where could she sit—without money? Without anyone? Without ...

  Someone gripped her forearm and spun her around. Meena squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the blow. For the fist, or the beam of wood, to strike her face ... but the attack didn’t come. Instead, there was a voice—annoyed, angry and in a Bengali accent, ‘What are you doing!?’

  Nineteen

  Meena didn’t breathe. She opened her eyes. A narrow Bengali face scowled at her. A face dotted with sweat beads and cupped on either side by strands of short, damp hair. Nahita.

  ‘What are you doing out here like a buddhoo beggar? You’re making everyone look. They’ll start tossing paisa at you soon!’

  Meena forced herself to focus, to see Nahita clearly. She was dressed in her old kurta-suruwal, rolled up to the knees and wet down the front.

  ‘They ... they have ...’ she tried to explain. ‘They have ... a stash ... of photos ...’ She couldn’t believe Nahita, with all her sarcasm, would knowingly be working for a madam.

  Nahita gripped Meena’s arm even tighter. Her hand was wet. ‘What are you talking about?!’

  Maybe Nahita didn’t know. ‘Photos. They have photos. Maa is just another Madam.’

  At the word ‘Madam’, the woman who’d been waiting beside them for the bus quickly hurried away. Nahita glared at Meena. ‘Don’t you know when to shut up?’ she growled. ‘Come with me.’

  ***

  Meena let herself be dragged two shops away to a small restaurant that made the front of a hotel. Two storeys of windows looked down on them. The windows were all closed, their curtains drawn shut.

  ‘Where, where are you taking me?’ she pulled her arm back. Nahita rolled her eyes. ‘This is where I work. You’re allowed to visit, as long as I still get through all my jobs.’

  Meena stepped back, almost into the path of a mini-bus. Nahita swore and tugged her out of the way again.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Meena felt sick. ‘You still work? After everything you told me, about the beating and iron rod and your little baby, Iraira ...’

  ‘Shut up!’ Nahita snapped. She pulled Meena close, her body smelling of sweat and old garlic and Clinic Plus shampoo. ‘You just shut up or I will surely sell you to the next real madam I meet!’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘Now follow me, shut up and just sit down.’

  She pushed Meena onto a bench at the back of the restaurant. Disgust and anger written all over her face.

  ‘Don’t move!’

  Nahita stalked to the restaurant counter and forced a joke, making those watching turn away with a grin. Then, she poured a glass of milky tea from a saucepan on the stove and carried it over to Meena.

  ‘Drink.’ She thrust the hot glass into Meena’s hand. ‘Just shut up and drink.’

  Meena hesitated. The milk began forming a skin on top of the tea, calm and steady. Nahita positioned herself in a squat, close to Meena, and beside a barrel of water and a bowl of dishes. One by one, she scrubbed the plates and cutlery with a piece of steel wool and then dunked them in the water to rinse. Meena watched her pile the clean dishes in a basket and then carry the basket to a courtyard behind the restaurant, where the last of the day’s sunlight shone in. When she returned, she brought with her another basket, this one full of clean and sun-dried dishes. Without speaking, she stacked the clean dishes on shelves behind the counter: stainless steel plates upright along the back and cups in rows along the front. Then she collected dirty plates from tables and started all over again. Meena stared. ‘Is this .
.. your job?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Nahita was still mad.

  ‘What about ... at night?’

  ‘Shhhh! No, I don’t do that. You know I don’t.’

  Meena glanced at the restaurant owner. She was leaning heavily on the glassfront cabinet displaying cheap alcohol. Her eyes were fixed somewhat blankly on the street outside.

  ‘Do they ... do they pay you?’ Meena asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t work if they didn’t.’

  ‘And all you do is wash dishes?’

  ‘No. I wash clothes sometimes. And remake the beds after there’s been a guest. Sometimes I have to cook, but not often—they don’t like what I cook.’

  ‘Maa hasn’t sold you?’

  Nahita sighed and sat back on her heels. Her hands dripping suds over the basin. ‘Why would she sell me?’

  Meena stared at the dishes waiting to be washed. Curry scraps swirled in finger lines along them. The skin of a tomato lay like the broken wing of a butterfly.

  ‘They have photos,’ she choked.

  ‘So what?’ Nahita flung her fingers up, letting drops of water scatter over her work.

  ‘Photos like Madam ...’

  ‘Stop now!’ Nahita growled, lowering her voice to a plea. ‘My boss doesn’t know about that, so hush up. If they found out, they’d get me to do other stuff. You know what these places are like.’ She glanced across at her boss nervously.

  ‘But Maa, she’s got photos ... like ...’

  ‘Broker photos?’ Nahita was almost whispering, her face down over the bowl of water.

  ‘Yeah,’

  Nahita sighed again. She shook her head, barely making eye contact over the bowl of dishes.

  ‘Maa doesn’t have broker photos.’

  ‘Yes, she does! I saw them in a file on her desk.’

  ‘Mostly black-and-white photos? Some colour? Pitiful looking photos? The kind they take before you start school or get married or something?’