Out of the Cages

by Penny Jaye

  Meena hesitated. Now that she thought about it, the photos had seemed quite plain. None showing girls made up and sparkly like in a brothel waiting room. ‘But if they weren’t broker photos, what were they?’

  Nahita dipped her hands back into the water and pulled out a clean plate. ‘They’re photos of missing people. When parents find out their daughter—or son—has disappeared, they can give a photo to an organisation like Little Sister. The photos get passed down until they get to Mumbai. When Maa gets a new girl, she checks her photos, sees if she has their picture from someone looking for them back home. Sometimes she gives copies of the photos to the police when they do raids, to try and find other girls. That’s how she found Asha.’

  ‘So they are not going to ...’

  ‘No.’ Nahita propped her dripping hands across her squatting knees.

  Meena held Sarita’s scarf over her trembling mouth. No broker photos. No clients. No beating. No pain. No more.

  Nahita stood up. ‘Listen, I need to finish up before the night boy comes. You stay here. Don’t go anywhere. Then we can go home.’

  Meena nodded numbly. She drank her now cold tea and watched Nahita clear dishes from customers, wipe down the benches and fold some laundry from the restaurant courtyard. Eventually, after Nahita’s boss had switched on the evening news, a boy about twelve years old with a scar on his top lip arrived at the restaurant. Nahita stood, dried her hands on her wet top, and handed him the steel wool. She then collected her payment from the boss and offered Meena a hand.

  ‘Let’s go.’ She sighed.

  ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘Yeah. He works nights.’

  They left the restaurant and crossed the now even busier intersection. It was dark outside, but the streets were well lit and the bazaar had a sort of festive atmosphere at the end of a long day.

  ‘What will Maa do?’ Meena asked, following Nahita closely as she appeared to be taking a short cut back to Little Sister.

  ‘To you? Not much. You might get a lecture about staying safe and not taking unnecessary risks, that’s about all. It’s Sharmila you need to be worried about. Sharmila’s the one with a temper.’

  ‘So, why don’t we go somewhere else?’

  Nahita stopped walking. ‘Where else do girls like us go?’ she asked. ‘Little Sister is stuffy, they have too many rules and if they’re cross with you, it’s like living with a vulture—peck, peck, peck. But it’s safe. And it’s a place to stay until you decide what you really want to do. At least that’s the way I see it.’ Nahita started walking again.

  They passed a mound of warm and rotting rubbish waiting to be collected, before Nahita led them down a narrow alley. The houses on each side rose up behind high walls topped with shards of glass.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Meena asked suddenly.

  ‘Me?’ Nahita kept walking. They passed under a streetlight and Meena almost thought she saw the girl smile—a dreamy sort of smile, like the heroine in a movie before she bursts into song about her true love. But the light was gone before Meena could be sure.

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ Nahita finally answered. Then she stopped at a black gate at a bend in the alley. ‘Here we are.’ She poked her hand through a hole in the gate to unlatch it and pushed the scraping gate open. ‘Come on. Sharmila’ll be mad, but she won’t hurt you.’

  Meena paused. She recognised the rear of Little Sister property; the old shed, the side of the chicken hut, the rusted tin bin for burning rubbish. Nahita pulled Meena through the gate and shut it behind them both. The padlock threaded through the handle and clunked loudly in the night air. Meena felt her shoulders tense.

  ‘Nahita? Is that you?’ Sharmila’s voice rang across the compound. She sounded like she’d been running.

  ‘Here she comes,’ Nahita muttered, as the older girl burst, flustered and red-faced, into view.

  ‘Nahita. Meena ran away. Did you see her in the bazaar—’ Sharmila’s eyes landed on Meena.

  ‘Yeah, here she is,’ Nahita said. ‘You shouldn’t let Maa frighten people like this.’

  ‘Maa didn’t frighten her,’ Sharmila snapped back. She glared at Nahita.

  Nahita rolled her eyes and stalked towards the dorm. Meena made to follow, but Sharmila grabbed hold of her arm on the way past. Her eyes were furious, something akin to panic burned in them.

  ‘Don’t you ever, ever, do something like that again!’

  ‘Wake up. We’re almost there.’ Mohan’s hand is on Meena’s shoulder, tight and hurting.

  She tries to sit up, to look awake, but she feels squashed and stale, like the oldest cabbage in the bottom of a doko basket.

  Mohan stands in the aisle of the train. He is pulling Putali up, directing her to wait in front of him as he had done earlier that afternoon when he’d retrieved their bags from the previous train. How long have they been traveling through this city, this place where buildings never stop and fields have been forgotten? Where Meena has to crane her neck to see the tops of apartment blocks, only to marvel at buildings growing even higher? She’s never had to look so high to see something man-made before.

  The train is slowing now, and people stagger to stand, squeezing past Mohan towards the doors.

  ‘Get up,’ Mohan commands. He inches back against a straight-faced business man to give Meena space to stand.

  ‘Where are we?’ Meena asks.

  ‘Mumbai Central,’ Mohan answers.

  ‘Mumbai?’ Meena breathes and Putali echoes her.

  Mumbai—the home of Bollywood? Mumbai—one of India’s most famous and wonderful cities?

  The train screeches to a stop and they move with the crowd onto the platform. Meena grips Putali tightly as they walk, almost in a daze. She can feel the distance from home in the air, in the architecture. Even the people are foreign, a thick mix of cultures, everyone focussed on their own agendas.

  ‘Don’t let go,’ Putali calls as the crowd heaves together onto the platform and then disperses like ants towards uncounted ant-hills beyond the station walls. Mohan herds them forwards, never letting the girls drift too far. Meena wishes it had been her uncle, and not this stranger, guiding them through this mass of people.

  But Mohan, at least, seems to know exactly where to go. He leads them confidently down the road, then weaves into a tightly packed suburb, until they reach a tea-shop between two hotels.

  ‘I didn’t realise we’d be going so far to get a job,’ Putali mumbles, as she stares up at the balconies full of drying laundry.

  Meena doesn’t comment. She notices the colours of the hanging saris. She watches the women hanging them out, some laughing. Several of the upper floor balconies have bars over them, as if they are cages—to stop birds flying in, perhaps, or people falling out? She feels like asking, but Mohan hurries them inside, sits them down with another plate of food—some samosas this time with a Fanta each—and begins talking to the restaurant owner.

  Something about this place doesn’t feel right, but Meena can’t quite name it. Perhaps it’s just that they are so far from home, or the silent knowledge sinking in that, even if they wanted to change their minds and go back to how life had been, they’d have to ask Mohan to help and he wouldn’t likely agree. Not after spending so much on train fares and food for them.

  ‘I don’t like it here,’ Putali whispers while Mohan’s back is turned.

  Meena nods, but tries to force a cheerful smile for the both of them. ‘It’s different to what I’d expected, but it must be what my uncle had planned ...’

  ‘Maybe.’ Putali sounds unconvinced. Worry flashes across her little, round face and Meena can tell she is thinking about her mother. What is she doing now? Will she be worrying? Will Meena’s father be worrying? Meena at least knows the answer to that question. She takes a deep breath. ‘Pir na-garra, it’ll be okay,’ she says. ‘It’s just new and dif
ferent. If we stay together and work hard, we’ll be rewarded. We’ll plan a trip home as soon as possible and surprise your aama with the money we’ve made.’ She gives Putali what she hopes is a convincing smile, then hurries to finish her food. The samosa doesn’t taste so good anymore, and it’s getting harder to believe the promised job will be as good as Rajit and Santosh had described.

  Mohan returns as soon as their plates are clear. ‘Go out the back and tidy up. Do your hair, wash your face and here’—he holds out the most unusual thing for a man; a thin tube of lip gloss—‘put some of this on.’

  Meena hesitates, but Mohan pushes the tube into her hand and turns her towards a doorway leading to the back of the restaurant. There is a water tap out there, and a grimy mirror. The girls do as they are told. Smoothing down fly-away strands of dark hair. Rinsing the spice and crumbs from their fingers and corners of mouths. Then, Meena applies the lip gloss first to herself, and then to Putali, just as she’s seen movie stars do in television advertisements. It makes their mouths look wet, but pretty.

  Mohan is pleased when they returned. ‘Good, let’s go.’

  ‘Are we going shopping now?’ Putali asks nervously, as if she doesn’t want to be disrespectful.

  ‘No,’ Mohan answers. ‘There’s been a change of plans. We need to go to your hotel now, the manager wants to meet you as soon as possible.’

  Meena watches Mohan’s face as he answers, a familiar disbelief rising in her chest like when her father would promise to buy rice on the way home from work.

  Mohan doesn’t wait for any more questions. He just takes their hands, one in each of his as if they are little children, or something more precious. And despite the dreams of new jobs and opportunities, Meena feels her stomach cringe.

  Twenty

  Meena squatted on the concrete by the water tap and dropped her dirty clothes into a bucket under the flowing water. As she prepared her clothes for washing, she was conscious of Sharmila's unceasing gaze from the office window. Already today, Meena had endured the promised lecture from Maa about staying safe and not putting herself, or the other girls at Little Sister, at risk. Apparently, now that she knew how to get there and back, Meena was permitted to visit Nahita at work—something Sharmila disapproved of. But Maa had insisted on Meena attending every educational seminar for the next two weeks, with her permission to leave Little Sister property being revoked if she did not comply. This seemed to satisfy Sharmila, who had taken personal offence at Meena’s disappearance, but the older girl continued to keep a strict eye on Meena whenever she could.

  Meena pulled her new kurta-suruwal from the water and began to work soap into the fabric. Maa had purchased new clothes for some of the girls last week and Meena had been allocated several garments. But her period had come yesterday by surprise and the stain was thick and dark on her trousers. She pushed the bar of strong smelling soap into the stain and rubbed the fabric with her fists. The sun was cooking her back, warming it like a perfect blanket would. Nahita joined her, sharing the water as they worked together in silence.

  ‘So, how long were you in hell?’ Nahita asked after a while.

  Meena stopped her scrubbing. ‘Hell?’

  ‘Working? In the brothels?’

  ‘I think it was three years,’ Meena answered. ‘I was twelve, now I’m fifteen—I think. You?’

  ‘I think I was two years at Hotel Happiness because we saw two seasons of that American show about those couples that aren’t couples that live in the apartment together. I don’t know how long I was in Kolkata—I wasn’t allowed to watch TV there. And before that I was married for about a year to the old butcher, so I’d count that as well.’

  ‘How old were you when you were married?’

  ‘I’m not sure—ten or eleven, I suppose. There were too many daughters in our house and not enough food, so my parents thought they’d solve the problem by arranging marriages, one for my older sister and one for me.’

  ‘Child marriages are illegal in Nepal,’ Meena said, glancing at the office where Maa had joined Sharmila at the window.

  ‘They’re illegal in Bangladesh too. Doesn’t mean they don’t happen. Out in the villages, where no one cares, who’s going to stop it? You can’t tell me it doesn’t happen in Nepal.’

  Meena shook her head. ‘No, it’s the same.’

  Nahita squeezed the soapy water from her shirt and plunged it back into the bucket. She talked as she worked:‘My father arranged my sister’s and my weddings. She was fifteen. She got the handsome one with a motorbike and new clothes. I got the old butcher and his ugly first wife.’

  Meena listened as Nahita spoke of beatings, of being made to do all the housework. She told of how she soon learned to cook, and that she had to wait until the entire family had eaten before she was allowed to eat; if there was nothing left, she was accused of not cooking enough. Eventually she had run away and met an old widower who promised to take care of her. But she had been sold to the brothel instead.

  ‘How’d you get out? Did you pay back your debt? The money your madam spent when she got you?’

  Nahita made some sort of snorting noise. ‘I don’t think anyone ever pays back their debt. They just end up older and not worth as much, so madams don’t really care anymore whether they stay or go. In my case, the top half still looked young, so I still brought in money. But there was a client, a nice one ...’ She looked up to see if Meena understood.

  Meena nodded. She knew—nice clients were the gentle ones, the ones that said sorry, or bought thoughtful gifts or offered to help. Madam didn’t let many of them into her hotel, said they weakened her girls.

  ‘Well, he asked questions, every time he came, and eventually he said to me, ‘You don’t like it here do you?’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I told him I hated it, I said I wanted to escape. The next time he came he snuck me out the back door. When the guards saw us we started running. But he was holding onto me too tight, like he owned me or something. So I pulled away, kicked him in the groin and ran like an athletic superstar.’

  ‘In a sari?’

  ‘In a sari.’ Nahita laughed. ‘Somehow I found a drop-in centre where they hand out food and condoms, and offer free medical check-ups for what they call ‘sex workers’. The people there were good. They told me about Little Sister and I’ve been here ever since.’ Nahita sat back on her heels and stared at the water for a time. ‘But one day I’m going to leave.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I can’t go back to the village. You heard what Leela said, I’m HIV positive.’ Nahita ducked her head and wrung her shirt too tight, the dye ran in a coloured stripe down her arm.

  ‘My parents would say I am not their responsibility—they married me off, I don’t belong to them anymore. I belong to the old butcher. But he’ll turn me away because I’ve been ‘defiled’. The first wife will insist on the death penalty for adultery, to preserve the ‘honour’ I have taken from their household and to get her own back once and for all. The community will shun me. What’s the use of learning from Sharmila and the nurse how to live ‘a long and healthy life with HIV’ if I go back? I might as well die right now.’ She paused, then tipped her water out, mixing it with what was left of Meena’s.

  ‘But you’—Nahita looked up—‘unless you have an old butcher husband with a witch of a first wife, you should go back.’

  Meena stared at the wet fabric under her fingers. ‘I haven’t got a husband,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Parents?’

  Meena thought of her father. ‘No, not worth counting.’

  ‘Friends?’

  Meena stood up. Three girls sat chatting on a mat under the tree. Their fingers busy making beaded necklaces to sell.

  ‘I had one friend—she was younger than me. Her mother was nice, she made tasty pickles ...’ Meena’s voice ca
ught at the memories.

  ‘Then you should go back,’ Nahita said. She stood and began hanging her wet clothes over the wire clothesline. There were no barbs here. Nothing to catch and tear their shirts. Had anyone found their clothes beside the river? Taken them back to Putali’s aama? Is that how she found out? Or had she gone looking, seen the abandoned bowls by the stream and searched the river bank for their bodies? For Putali’s body ...

  ‘You should put henna through your hair.’ Nahita fingered the end of Meena’s braid, interrupting her thoughts.

  Meena stared at her, forcing her mind back to the present, willing the guilt weighing so heavy to keep out of sight. But Nahita just grinned, oblivious. ‘Your skin is pale. It would look nice. I’ll buy you some on the way home.’

  ‘Don’t use your money on me,’ Meena protested.

  Nahita shrugged. ‘I can if I want.’ And she left Meena alone in the sun by the dripping clothes.

  ***

  Two days later, Sharmila caught up with Meena on the way back to the dorm. ‘You and Nahita seem to be good friends now.’ It was more like a question than an observation. Meena tilted her head to the side.

  ‘She’s not always a good person,’ Sharmila went on. ‘You don’t want to be too much influenced by her ideas.’

  Meena shook her head, confused. ‘I don’t understand. We talk, but I hardly see her. I attend all your seminars and she’s often in the bazaar working.’ Now that she thought about it, Nahita had been attending less and less of Sharmila’s talks and spending more time away from Little Sister.

  ‘Exactly,’ Sharmila agreed. ‘She refuses to accept the help we offer here and at the same time, actively resists the attempts made to re-unite her with her family in Bangladesh.’

  ‘I don’t think Nahita wants to go home, she has other ideas of what she wants to do.’ Meena remembered the far off look in Nahita’s eyes.

  ‘What ideas? She obviously didn’t tell you that Maa has found her family. She has contacts in Dhaka who are willing to support Nahita’s return, but Nahita won’t go.’ The colour in Sharmila’s face rose.