by Penny Jaye
‘Does she have to go if she doesn’t want to?’ Meena asked.
‘No. We don’t force people to do anything, but Nahita won’t even try. She refuses to discuss it. She is stubborn and obstinate and ungrateful—’
‘Ungrateful?’
Sharmila glanced across the yard at the gate. ‘I’m allowed to stay here, Maa needs me. I have an important job to do. But some girls make up lies and disrespect Maa, yet take all they can, ignoring the rules. Nahita’s like that, she’s irresponsible.’
‘But she brought me back from the bazaar the other day. If she was so bad she’d have let me keep running. She wouldn’t’ve helped.’
Sharmila opened her mouth to say something but a car pulled up outside the Little Sister gate. The sound of its horn made Sharmila jump. She glanced at Meena, her face flushed as if she had almost said too much, then turned and hurried to Maa’s office.
Twenty-one
The guard pulled open the gate and a taxi inched its way inside, then proceeded to do a five-point turn, so it was ready to leave again. The exhaust fumes admitted to bad mechanics until the driver switched the engine off.
‘Meena, go tell Asha her taxi’s ready,’ Sharmila called from the office window. Her face was the normal colour now, but her voice still strained.
Meena obediently stepped up into the dorm. Purna, Leela and Asha all sat on their beds. Purna was rocking, her face towards the wall. Leela sat trimming the ends of her hair with nail scissors. Asha was on the end of her empty bed, gripping a bulging Chinese bag.
‘Your taxi’s here,’ Meena announced.
Leela grunted. Asha looked up as though someone had whacked her in the stomach.
‘Where are you going?’ Meena asked.
Asha blinked twice before replying, ‘Going? I’m ... I might be going home. That’s why Maa told me to pack all my stuff. They might decide to keep me.’
‘If you’re lucky,’ Leela said.
‘I thought that was happening later, sometime next month, or something?’
‘Yeah, so did I.’ Asha stood up, she ran her fingers over the end of her bare mattress. ‘But Maa said my parents want to see me. She said they love me. We’re going to Delhi on the train, we’ll meet my parents in a park, and if they want me ... Maa will come back here, and I’ll go back to the village.’
Meena didn’t understand. How could Asha go home, just like that, after everything? ‘But what will you do? Don’t they know you worked in the b—’
‘They know,’ Leela muttered. ‘But Maa’s bribed them to take her back.’
Asha’s face flooded with quick anger. ‘No, she hasn’t!’
‘No? Well what’s that you were telling me about the chicken business starter loan? You think they would have been so willing to have you back if it wasn’t for the chickens Maa’s going to organise? “Oh no, we don’t want a chicken business, we’ll just take our beloved daughter.” What did you think?’
Asha’s eyes smarted with tears but she held them from falling.
‘At least I can go home,’ Asha mumbled. She drew the Chinese bag up to her chest and walked over to Purna’s bedside. The Nepali girl shuddered and hugged herself tighter.
‘Goodbye, sister,’ Asha whispered. Purna turned away, her face was wet.
Leela snorted. She dug under her pillow for the make up she kept hidden there. ‘Don’t bother saying goodbye to me, I’m not going to miss you,’ she growled over the top of her mirror. It wasn’t even five o’clock yet. Her face was taut, the lipstick went on thick. The taxi outside sounded its horn again.
Meena watched Asha turn around slowly, her wide eyes memorising all that was in the room. Then she walked out the door.
‘Little whore,’ Leela spat. Asha’s flip-flops clapped down the hall and away. ‘Stupid little whore.’ She glared at Meena, daring her to say something.
‘You think they’ll take her back? With her tight jeans and wasted thighs? With the sweet curve of her lips, they’ll take one look and chuck her back where she came from. That’s what they’ll do. That’s what they all do.’
Meena stared at her. There was something very sad under the smeared lipstick and caked foundation. ‘Is that what happened to you?’ Meena asked.
Leela tipped her head back, her mouth open. A harsh, horrible laugh escaped her. Lipstick globs dropping from her mouth in red sweating lumps. Her laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started, then she leaned across and spat blood-stained saliva onto Meena’s lap.
‘You’re disgusting!’ Meena said as she stood up.
‘Am I? Well, you know what? I should have left you on the floor, on the stupid stinking floor like trash,’ Leela shouted, her voice too loud for the room. ‘That’s what you are, all of you.’
Purna began whimpering.
Leela slumped over her now foggy mirror. Her lips sickly red, her eyes smudged. Her cheeks too coloured even for a joke. Meena’s hand rolled into a fist but didn’t move. She strode to the end of the room and climbed up onto the windowsill as she had seen Nahita do.
‘You don’t have to stay in here with her if you don’t want to,’ she called to Purna. Then she dropped to the ground, grazing her elbow on the wall. She heard the sound of glass smashing against concrete, then the panicked scurry of Purna’s flip-flops escaping the other direction. Leela screamed, ‘Whores! You’re all whores, filthy, pus-weeping, disgusting whores ...’
Meena slipped from the shadows to the cool wall of the water tank. She could see the other girls now gathered around Asha. Some joked, others forced conversation. Sharmila stood at the back of them, an automatic smile plastered across her face. There was a small movement at the top of the dorm stairs and Meena could see Purna whimpering, tense and clinging to Didi at the top of the stairs as if afraid someone would push her into the taxi also.
‘Come and say your goodbyes,’ Maa called out as she joined the group. She carried a stuffed red-and-black backpack, plus a shopping bag full of fruit. Didi crossed the lawn to wrap Asha in a hug, the embrace triggering big wet tears on Asha’s face. It was like they were sending her off to get married. Meena fingered the tasselled threads of Sarita’s scarf. Had Sarita ever planned to take her leaving scarf home?
Maa shuffled to the taxi and tugged the back door open. Asha hesitated. She let her eyes move from girl to girl. Sharmila offered several bland well-wishing statements. Asha glanced in Meena’s direction. At least Asha knew she didn’t have HIV—what would it be like to go home positive? To face people’s hatred, their fear and suspicions? Meena looked away.
She heard the taxi door shut. Heard the girls call out their farewells and good wishes for Asha’s future. Only when the scrape of metal on bricks told her the guard was closing the gates, did she look up again. Didi and a small group of girls lingered by the gate, some were smiling, some crying. Didi was handing out little packets of tissues. Meena bent and twisted the water tap on. Water spurted out in a crooked stream, spraying the knees of her trousers. Slowly, Meena unwound the scarf from her neck. The silver threads she had admired so many times now clung together under the purple cottons, as if they were afraid of what the sun would do to them. Meena lowered the scarf under the water. The stream from the tap dragged the scarf from her fingers and crumpled purple to the ground. Meena squatted by the concrete tank and watched as the force of water dug and darkened the delicate fabric. The silver threads broke free from the dust and light streaked in sharp reflections into Meena’s eyes. A heavy certainty set in her chest. She could never go home. No matter how strong the mountains called her, how much she longed for familiar tastes and smells, there was no home anymore. Not without Putali.
Mohan must have messaged the hotel manager because when they arrive, she is already waiting, leaning somewhat comfortably against a ground floor doorframe.
‘Beautiful!’ She gushes in an accented Hindi as Mohan introduces them. And s
he leans forward and grabs Putali’s cheek. ‘Very, very beautiful!’
Putali shrinks back and the manager just smiles at Mohan like he is her favourite son, even though Meena is sure they are about the same age. ‘Very nice. Do come in.’
The hotel manager leads them through the doorway, the only one, Meena notices, that does not have a cage grill across it. Mohan prompts the girls forward but Meena hesitates. She glances quickly up the front of the hotel, looking for clues. Something, anything that might explain what is really going on. But the windows above the row of caged doorways are like all the others in this suburb—flapping with gaudy laundry. Tired, bored-looking girls lean elbows over balconies in slow conversation, ignoring Meena’s gaze and unspoken questions. One of them has a scar across the side of her face.
A man squeezes past Mohan into the hotel, his eyes greedy on Putali in a way Meena recognises. She’s seen that look before on one of her father’s drinking friends. She takes a step backwards. The hotel manager notices and, dropping her wide smile, slaps the man roughly on the back, hurrying him inside and out of sight. Then she turns a silent, measured gaze in Meena’s direction.
‘We get all types here.’
Meena thinks she understands what the manager is saying, but she isn’t sure. Her Hindi is learned only off the settlement TV. The hotel manager holds out a mehndi-covered hand to Putali. ‘Enough waiting around,’ she speaks quickly, making it even harder to understand. ‘Come in. Come in. You must be hungry now. And thirsty too? Mumbai’s hot these days, don’t you think?’
Putali nods shyly at what she thinks she understands and Mohan gently prods her forwards. Up the steps, between the cages, and into the dark coolness of the hall inside. Meena hesitates only a second longer, then hurries after Putali, Mohan taking up the rear as if to make sure no one will follow them.
The hallway is long, dully lit, with doors off both sides and various sitting rooms decorated with lights and posters of scantily-clad Bollywood film stars. There are women everywhere, their conversations drawing to a hush as Putali and Meena walk past. One woman says something very inappropriate to Mohan and Meena flinches, expecting him to tell her off. But he doesn’t. He just retorts something of his own, something in Hindi that feels to Meena equally rude, and hurries Meena forwards.
They come to a stop at a wide sitting room, partitioned from the rest of the floor by a heavy and ornate curtain. Inside is a navy upholstered lounge suite, a glass-topped coffee table, a flat-screen TV, and a variety of ornaments and vases poised full of bright fake flowers. Wealth is obvious and smells sweet, too sweet almost. Meena and Putali sit together on a small lounge. Mohan takes up another chair and the hotel manager the final one.
‘Ganga!’ the manager yells to someone beyond the curtain. ‘Drinks!’
A Nepali girl, with a crooked hand and too much make up, enters with a tray of drinks. Sweet, warm tea. But the girl leaves again without lifting her eyes or speaking. Meena holds the tea between her hands but doesn’t drink. It isn’t even hot. Putali inches closer to her until their hips are together. This doesn’t feel like a hotel. It doesn’t even feel like a tea-shop. There are no waitresses. There isn’t the comforting smell of frying onions or marinating chicken ...
‘Is this really a hotel?’ Meena blurts the words in Nepali before she can stop them.
The manager woman glares. Mohan stumbles over his words, a mixture of Hindi and Nepali. Putali puts her tea down and looks up at Meena, confused. ‘It’s okay,’ Meena mumbles, patting Putali’s knee, but she is watching the adults. It doesn’t feel okay. It feels wrong. And too far from anything that is home.
‘Of course, it’s a hotel,’ the manager woman speaks slowly. Each word articulated as if they are deaf. ‘And I praise my cousin for bringing you here to work for me.’
Mohan stands as if on cue. The manager woman stands also, positioning herself between Mohan and the girls on the couch. She hands Mohan an envelope. ‘I’ll take them both,’ Meena thinks she says, followed by the cryptic, ‘Ask Ganga to take you to Princess before you leave.’
Meena watches Mohan blush.
‘Mohanji?’ Meena begins, gripping Putali’s hand now. But Mohan just tucks the envelope deep into his pocket and disappears behind the curtain as if the girls had never been his concern.
Twenty-two
‘I think it’s clean now,’ Didi said gently.
Meena blinked against the sunlight. Her eyes hurt, her back was stiff. Didi stood above her, on the grass beside the water tank, a dripping purple scarf in her fingers.
Meena stretched. How long had she been squatting here, staring at the water, at the sunlight, at nothing? Her head felt hot, her legs stiff and tingly.
Didi turned the tap off. She offered Meena a hand.
‘Was it a gift?’ Didi asked. She pulled Meena upright and kept a hold of her hand until Meena stopped wobbling. ‘Was it a gift from a client?’
Meena shook her head. She took the scarf from Didi and stared at the silver threads—they weren’t afraid of the sun anymore. Meena carefully wrung the scarf out.
‘I need to hang it up,’ she mumbled.
Didi walked with her to the clothesline. Meena straightened the scarf first, so it hung straight and flat. Drips of water ran down to the tasselled edges.
‘It was Sarita’s.’
Didi leaned forwards. ‘Whose?’
‘The girl I shared a room with. It was her leaving scarf. Like a promise to herself that one day she’d be free.’
‘And she gave it to you?’
Meena nodded, unable to articulate what had happened that last day at Madam’s. Unable to understand the implications of what Sarita had done, or even if Sarita had known what they would be.
Meena turned and stared at the gate. ‘Asha’s really gone, isn’t she?’
‘Yes. Maa will bring news in a few days.’ Didi put her arm around Meena’s shoulders. ‘Her family love her, we have high hopes they will be willing to take her back.’
Meena nodded. ‘I saw photos the other day. On Maa’s desk. Nahita said Asha’s parents had been looking for her.’
‘Yes, that’s true. It doesn’t always work. But for Asha, it did. And it helped her have the confidence to try again. Would you like to see Maa’s photos?’
‘Now?’ Meena asked, surprised. ‘I’m allowed?’
‘Of course, they aren’t secret, just sad.’ Didi took Meena by the hand and led her across the paving to the office. She pulled a key from around her neck and unlocked Maa’s office, she flicked on the light-switch and walked to the back of the desk.
‘Here, you can look at these.’ Didi pulled a stack of photos from Maa’s top drawer and handed them to Meena. Faces and faces of young girls, and the occasional boy, stared up at her. There were close-up shots of unsmiling girls in school uniforms, a few creased photos of red-and-gold saris and the tiny frightened face of a bride peeping out. She could tell their race by the shape of their nose, or the colour of their skin, or the style of clothing. Girls from Bangladesh, Pakistan, fair-skinned Indians from the north and dark-skinned ones from the south, girls from the Himalayan regions of Afghanistan, Nepali girls—lots of Nepali girls from almost every district. Meena’s fingers began to shake.
‘Are they are all locked up in brothels?’
‘We don’t know. Possibly. Sometimes young people just run away, they get lost, they get sick, they die. Sometimes they’re able to find good jobs but don’t know how to write, so they can’t send a message home to reassure their parents. Unfortunately, in our experience, a lot of young women and girls do end up in brothels, even if they have not deliberately been trafficked to them.’
Meena stared at the faces. ‘But some of these pictures are just little girls. Little girls grow up, they change, they wear make up and fancy clothes and look so different you can’t tell who they are anymore.’ Meena remembered Put
ali, plump, dressed and twirling like a beautiful tiny bride.
‘It is difficult. The photos you saw the other day were probably about to be scanned. Sharmila takes copies of the photos we receive to local police stations. We also have some men who work for us in the red-light districts.’
Meena frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We hire them to pose as clients. They go into brothels, pay for time with a girl and use that time to find information on people being held against their will. We then use this information to make a raid. But sometimes, even the police are corrupt. If everyone worked together, trafficking could be eliminated ...’
Meena stopped listening. She laid the photos, one after another, onto the table, searching for a face she knew—a small, kind face with soft cheeks and a serious smile. She’d recognise the face immediately if it was there. And it would be proof someone was looking. Looking for Putali. That her mother hadn’t died, and maybe, maybe ... But the last photo landed on the desk. A stranger. ‘Are there anymore?’ Meena asked, her voice barely a whisper.
‘More photos?’ Didi rummaged in the drawer. ‘I can’t see any. I think that’s all Maa has at the moment. She doesn’t keep them for long; they get passed on to other rescue organisations in the city. Trying to rescue victims of slavery is an ongoing battle, Meena, the photos are just one step.’
‘But the little girls are always locked away, only seen by the highest paying customers, and then only the ones Madam trusts. So a man pretending to be a client would never see them. And even if he spoke to the older girls, the ones downstairs or the ones that call men from the street, there is no guarantee they even know who is locked upstairs. Madam only lets her trusted girls travel the floors and hand out food, girls like ...’ She was about to say ‘Sarita’ but stopped herself. Meena felt suddenly angry. She knew she was getting worked up but she couldn’t help it. In her mind, she could see Devi’s mouth moving behind the partition, prattling on about police raids and lipstick colours. Lalita’s cheeks were wet behind the secret wall. Sarita was arguing with Madam behind the curtain and Putali ...Where was Putali? ‘You haven’t got a photo of everyone!’ she burst.