Out of the Cages

by Penny Jaye

  Didi smiled kindly. ‘Then we can only pray that we find them.’

  Meena shoved at the photos on the desk, spilling them onto the floor. Didi shook her head. ‘Do not scoff at prayer, little sister. You got out, didn’t you? And you didn’t have a photo.’

  Meena stepped backwards, knocking the chair. ‘But why?’ Her voice was too loud. Warped by angry sobs. ‘Why did I get out? It was Sarita’s scarf! And what about the little girls upstairs? What about girls no one knows are there? Girls rich men with bulky jewellery bargain over, like they’re goats in the market? What about Putali?!’ Meena was shouting now, tears hot and wet down her cheeks. She spun from the office, shoving Sharmila on the way past, and ran across the yard to the dorm. She only slowed to snatch Sarita’s scarf, still dripping, from the line and wrap it about her neck.

  ***

  The following day the nurse called Meena into her office.

  ‘Your blood tests came back,’ the nurse said without smiling. ‘You have mild anaemia, so I’ve ordered you some vitamins. And so far you are negative for HIV. So that’s encouraging, but we’ll need to do another test in a few months to double check.’

  Meena glared out the window at the empty driveway. What good was a negative test result if it meant she had to be tested again? It meant nothing. Nothing at all. Meena strode back across the paving in agitation, annoyed and irritated by everyone and everything. Maa hadn’t returned from taking Asha home. Sharmila continued her hawk-eye surveillance of Meena and the dorm felt empty without Asha’s stubborn positivity to balance Leela’s unpredictable moods.

  Meena had tried to keep busy as Didi had suggested. She attended the lectures given by Sharmila, she listened as she explained the benefits of learning to read and even completed the chores allocated to her. One afternoon she attended a counselling session Maa had booked before she’d left, with a social worker who asked questions Meena didn’t want to answer. In her free time, she worked the wool Didi had given her, slowly but steadily until the last skein ran out. Then there was nothing to do but climb the stairs, walk past the painted mountains in the hallway and face Didi again.

  Didi was sitting on her couch with another girl when Meena arrived. This was a girl from one of the other dorm rooms. She had a crooked top lip that puckered in concentration as Didi taught her to weave the wool around her needles. Meena waited with her plastic bag by the door until Didi looked up.

  ‘Come in, Meena. Sit down.’

  Meena moved herself to the empty chair and tucked her legs tight under her knees. She gripped the bag on her lap, conscious of the missing needle lost somewhere between Little Sister and the bazaar. The other girl looked up briefly, but didn’t smile. Meena stared back. The girl knew how to knit. She moved her painted fingers confidently, following the strange instructions that Didi was giving: knit one, decrease two, knit three. Meena fingered Sarita’s scarf. She wouldn’t be able to learn this. It was too hard. She stood up.

  ‘Don’t worry, Meena, Jaya is almost finished. She was just wondering how to shape the sleeve of her cardigan.’ Didi never lifted her eyes from the other girl’s work as she spoke. ‘Sit back down.’

  Meena sat. She waited. Eventually Jaya leaned back and began to knit without Didi’s help. Didi grinned, she stood, stretched, then dragged the chair from under her desk to beside Meena’s elbow.

  ‘Okay, let’s see how those balls of wool turned out.’

  Meena lifted the balls, one by one, from the bag. Didi hummed with satisfaction as she inspected each one. ‘See, I told you you could knit.’

  ‘But I can’t do that.’ Meena pointed her needle at Jaya’s speeding fingers.

  ‘Well, Jaya has been learning for a while. This is her fourth project. And’—Didi took the lone needle from Meena’s fingers with raised eyebrows—‘she does have two needles.’

  ‘I ...’ Meena began but Didi just grinned.

  ‘It’s fine, I’ve got lots. Just try not to lose this set, okay?’ Didi pulled a new pair of needles from her drawer and began teaching Meena to ‘cast on’. The needles felt clumsy in Meena’s hands, pokey and in the way. But eventually Meena could wind the thread, slip the needle underneath and pull new stitches out. One after the other after the other, until she had completed a row.

  Didi squeezed Meena’s shoulder. ‘Look at that!’ Didi praised. ‘You’re knitting!’

  Meena just stared at the stitches tight and black against the needle. Stitches made by her fingers. Stitches she had made. She felt a tiny smile rise onto her cheeks.

  ‘Do you think you could keep going like that?’ Didi asked. ‘Once you’re confident, I’ll teach you a different stitch and then we’ll begin making a simple cardigan.’

  Meena nodded. She watched Jaya pack up her work and walk outside. Meena did the same. But she hesitated in the hallway to stare at the painting again. The imperfect view clashing with her memories. Pickles. Stories. Home.

  ‘Do you miss Nepal?’ Didi came up behind her to ask.

  ‘No,’ Meena lied, but she didn’t shift her gaze.

  ‘Is it really as beautiful as this painting?’

  Meena felt her heart swell with unexpected pride. ‘More,’ she whispered. Her heart ached for it. The longing rising stubbornly from wherever she’d locked it. ‘But I can’t go back.’

  Twenty-three

  Meena dropped her bag of wool and needles and newly-made stitches on the end of her bed, then she climbed out the dorm window and slipped through the side gate. She knew the way back to the bazaar now: up the alley, past the pile of rotting rubbish, the stream of passengers climbing in and out of buses.

  There were only a few customers in Nahita’s restaurant. One of them, a long thin Indian man, lounged against the side wall, his face lazy and happy. His long legs poked out the end of too-short trousers and ended in tough plastic sandals. His hair was oily, parted down the middle, trying to be trendy.

  Meena slipped past him to where Nahita’s dish-washing bowl was. Nahita was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘She’s out back,’ the young Indian said. Meena ducked her head to avoid eye contact, and passed through the tables to the courtyard. The wire clothesline that spanned the open space was full of dripping washing. Meena could see Nahita’s legs moving under a stained bed sheet. She was dancing, the off-tune lyrics from a dance song wove themselves round the open space.

  ‘Just chill, chill, just chill ...’ Nahita danced, her limping leg keeping speed with her other. Meena poked her head between the sheets. Nahita stopped dancing, slight concern crossing her face.

  ‘Hi,’ Meena said in English.

  Nahita frowned and ignored the greeting. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming today.’ She glanced over Meena’s shoulder to the restaurant.

  ‘I didn’t think I had to ... I came to buy henna.’

  ‘I said I’d buy it,’ Nahita snapped.

  Meena was confused. Usually Nahita was pleased to see her, to share the dish-washing or bench wiping with someone. But today, the Bengali was agitated. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Nahita flustered.

  Meena lifted the sheet and followed Nahita’s gaze to the restaurant. The Indian man was sitting now, leaning forward, staring into the courtyard, staring at her. Meena tensed.

  ‘Nahita, what’s going on?’

  Nahita pulled Meena back, out of view from the restaurant and glared at her. ‘Don’t tell Maa, just promise me you won’t tell Maa.’

  Meena shook herself free. ‘Tell Maa what? They already warned me about you ...’

  ‘Warned you?’

  A dark hand shoved the sheets aside. ‘Is she hassling you?’

  It was the young Indian, his face tight, almost mad, his eyes on Nahita. They knew each other. They knew each other well.

  ‘No. She just ...’ Nahita reached out almost touching his hand before she pulled back,
remembering Meena was with them. ‘What are they saying about me?’

  Meena frowned. ‘Sharmila says you don’t follow the rules. She says you’re a rebel.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter now, does it?’

  Nahita glanced up at the Indian. He flicked his fingers upwards in question. Nahita answered, ‘This is Meena, she’s a friend.’

  ‘And him?’ Meena was cautious.

  ‘He’s my “breaking the rules”.’ Nahita waved the man off. He nodded at her, then disappeared through the restaurant onto the street. ‘His name is Ramesh.’

  ‘A boyfriend?!’

  Nahita limped back to the shop and squatted by the bowl of dishes, her head down.

  ‘You have a boyfriend?’ Meena whispered again. ‘But he’s Indian!’

  ‘So? I’m Bengali. He comes from a village north of Mumbai. He came in here to find work. We met. We like each other.’

  ‘But you are HIV ...’

  ‘So?’ Nahita glared at her. ‘Just because I have to watch my CD4 cell count, does that mean I can’t live my life and be happy when I can? Is that what they’ve been telling you?’

  ‘No, I mean ...’

  ‘You don’t know your result yet, you don’t know what it’s like to have to live life like this.’

  ‘But,’ Meena stammered, ‘that’s not what I meant. I was just wondering, does he know?’

  Nahita took a deep breath and lowered her voice again, ‘He knows, but she doesn’t, so watch your words.’ She pointed with her lips to the restaurant owner stretched out on an empty bench, her head on a folded newspaper, her eyes closed.

  ‘But if he knows ...?’

  ‘He’s the same.’

  Meena didn’t understand.

  ‘He’s positive. Drug user, not now, used to be.’

  ‘How do you know he isn’t now?’ Meena asked, remembering the relaxed, lazy expression that had been on Ramesh’s face when she’d walked in from the street.

  ‘You’ve been with drug users. You can tell those who are, those who were. You can tell. He said he quit. I believe him. He’s kind. He buys me presents—’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ Meena hissed. ‘Even Leela probably had clients that bought her presents and said they loved her.’

  Nahita let her hair flop forward; it was just long enough to hide her eyes. ‘He’s not a client, and he won’t sell me.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just know.’ Nahita ended the conversation. She turned her attention back to the dishes, scrubbing furiously.

  ‘Can I stay?’ Meena asked after a few minutes.

  Nahita paused. She studied Meena. ‘Will you tell Maa? Sharmila?’

  ‘About Ramesh?’ Meena shook her head. ‘Why would I?’

  Nahita relaxed and passed Meena a wet clean plate. ‘You can stay. But be useful. We’ll buy your henna after.’

  ***

  That evening, after dinner and a special seminar on personal hygiene, Nahita called Meena into the dorm bathroom. The pink-tiled room was small, damp and windowless. The shower head was dripping and the area around the raised toilet platform newly cleaned. Nahita grinned as Meena came inside. She swirled a plastic bowl under Meena’s nose. It contained dark, wet henna, mixed with water to form a sludgy green paste.

  ‘Don’t you love the smell?’ Nahita inhaled deeply.

  Meena scrunched her nose. Wet henna smelt like old grass. She held out her hand. Nahita released six tiny drops in the pattern of a flower onto the side of Meena’s thumb. ‘Is it ready?’

  Meena checked the consistency. ‘I think so.’

  Nahita dragged an upside-down laundry bucket from under the sink. ‘Sit,’ she instructed.

  Meena sat. The dampness from the base of the bucket immediately seeped into the rear of her trousers.

  Nahita scooped the henna paste onto Meena’s hair and began massaging it in, from scalp to ends.

  ‘Little Sister Beauty Parlour.’ She laughed when she finally rinsed her hands and tore open a plastic shopping bag to wind over Meena’s head, sealing the henna underneath.

  Meena stood up and eyed the reflection in the stained bathroom mirror. She hadn’t really looked at herself since the time with Leela’s mirror. She looked different now, and not just because of the plastic bag wrapped around her head. Her face was more rounded, evidence of the good health she’d gained since her arrival. And there was something else, something she’d never seen in Sarita’s mirror: the echo of her mother. A silent tear slid down Meena’s cheek.

  Nahita didn’t comment. She just dried her hands on a towel behind the door.

  ‘When do I take the bag off?’ Meena asked.

  ‘If you keep the henna in overnight you’ll get a better colour.’

  ‘Won’t the plastic come off? I’ll stain the pillowcase.’

  ‘If it was Purna, I’d worry, but not you. You sleep like a cut tree.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t move. You close your eyes and snore away, completely still, like you used to get in trouble for wriggling or something!’

  Meena turned the tap on and rinsed the six little drops of henna away. They left the stain of a tiny flower against her thumb. Nahita held her hands up, they were pale orange all over.

  ‘I remember when I married the butcher, my aunt drew the henna in whirly patterns all over my feet and hands, almost up to my elbows. I think she drew them so slowly and so beautifully to help me forget about being afraid. It worked for a little while; I stared at my hands for the whole ceremony, they were so beautiful. I traced the vine lines and found tiny birds and hidden forests. I pretended I was a princess in a palace, with exquisite clothes and fancy food to eat every day. Some palace I ended up in ... I don’t think I’ll paint my hands when I marry Ramesh.’

  ‘Marry Ramesh?’ Meena stepped backwards and knocked the bucket over. ‘What do you mean?’

  Nahita brushed the hair away from her face in defence. She lowered her voice, ‘We’re going to go back to his village. He’s going to work his father’s land and I’m going to have his baby.’

  ‘Are you ...?’ Meena glanced down at Nahita’s stomach.

  ‘Not yet. But once we’re in the village and settled. I’ll get pregnant and no one will take my baby from me. I’ll keep her and teach her to be strong and safe and independent ...’

  ‘But can HIV positive girls have babies? What about AIDS?’

  ‘I haven’t got AIDS yet. Neither does Ramesh.’ Nahita glared at her. ‘I’ve been listening in on Sharmila’s lectures, even if she thinks I haven’t. And I’ve spoken with the nurse. As long as I’m careful, I can have a healthy baby just like everyone else. I’ll go to a good hospital and get special medicine. There is a risk, but many HIV positive women have HIV negative babies. I’m not going to let my past, or HIV, take away my dreams.’

  ‘But can Ramesh afford to send you to a good hospital? Would he let you go anyway? Women die because their men refuse to take them to hospital.’ Her mother stared at her from the reflection.

  Nahita shrugged. ‘We’ve already talked about it. Ramesh understands. He says I can have a baby if I want. He wants a son but I told him I want a daughter. He said “Okay”.

  ‘He said okay? To a daughter?’ Meena didn’t believe it. Men wanted sons, not daughters.

  But Nahita just restyled her hair, covering the scar on her cheek carefully. ‘I’m going to marry Ramesh, and I’ll have a daughter. You can come to her naming ceremony if you like.’ Nahita smiled.

  ‘Will you invite Maa and Sharmila?’

  ‘Those old ladies? No way. They’d come and lecture me about STDs and contraception and the proper way to address the prime minister.’

  Meena laughed. ‘Sharmila isn’t old.’

  ‘No. But Maa is
, and Maa thinks all love marriages result in trafficking.’

  ‘But, isn’t it true? Isn’t that what happened to Sharmila?’

  Nahita sighed, annoyed. ‘Yes, but she was stupid. And Leela’s boyfriend dumped her, pregnant, with a Nepali broker—he didn’t even marry her. But just because it sometimes happens, doesn’t mean it always will. Maa’s too controlling. She doesn’t even let us find our own friends or arrange our own weddings. You haven’t been here when Maa arranges a wedding. She does it as often as she can. The last wedding was for Urmila. They couldn’t find her family, so Maa found her a husband, some man whose wife had died and left him with a baby he couldn’t look after. They held the ceremony here, I think it was to make sure Urmila went through with it. Maa provided the sari, the gifts, the feast. I don’t even think his family came. Then Urmila was gone, faster than Asha. If I keep avoiding their attempts to return me to Bangladesh, they’ll arrange a marriage. But I’ve told them I’m not going to marry anyone they choose.’

  ‘And that’s why Sharmila doesn’t trust you?’

  ‘Yeah, and because I think she’s jealous. She’s in the same situation as me—her family don’t want her. She’s afraid of what will happen if Maa decides she no longer needs her to work at Little Sister. So, every time I argue with Maa in lectures, or climb out windows—’

  ‘I did that the other day.’

  Nahita laughed. ‘Oh dear! No wonder they’re worried about you. I might be leading you astray!’

  They are upstairs now, that much Meena knows. The mind-numbing effects of whatever it is Ganga adds to their meals is becoming more and more familiar. It makes them dozy. Makes them lean up against each other, gripping hands until their hold weakens and fears melt to fatigue. She can’t count the days since Mohan left them at the hotel. Putali can’t either. They just know that every day they wake heavy-headed to plates of lukewarm food, flavoured with unfamiliar spices and accompanied by sour tea. And if they don’t eat they are beaten. A young man with a small goatee and accurate fists hits them. It took only a few days to realise it is safer to eat, even if they feel sick doing so, than to face the young man’s fists. Their faces are healing now, the bruises softening. But there are other changes too. For one, Meena can feel the sleeves and waist of her kurta-suruwal growing tighter as days pass. And she has had her first menstruation—an event that was all but ignored except for the inconvenience of her requiring new clothes.