by Penny Jaye
Sometimes, in odd waking times when food isn’t before them, they talk. Putali worries about her mother and Meena tries to reassure her, making up stories of how neighbours will come to help her or how Putali’s little brother has grown up so much and will be able to take on the family responsibility. Putali rests her head on Meena’s shoulder as she listens and Meena can feel the silent trembling of tears. They aren’t waitresses. They aren’t doing work of any kind. They are waiting for something. Being fed, left alone mostly, sleeping, dozing, but always waiting.
It is, Meena thinks one day as she watches Putali eat more than she needs, as if they are skinny goats being fattened for a festival they know nothing about.
Twenty-four
Meena sat knitting on a plastic mat under the courtyard tree. Slowly, carefully, she lifted and wound the soft black wool around the knitting needles as Didi had taught her. Knit, knit, knit. The lines of wool, rows of stitches, wobbled under the needles. Didi had said she’d be able to knit a sweater, that she had the skill and the patience, and just needed a bit more practise.
Meena paused. It was three days since Maa had returned from taking Asha home. Returned alone. From what she could gather from the bits and pieces of information that floated around Little Sister, Asha’s parents had been cautious but welcoming. Asha had chosen to return with them to the village, promising Maa she’d stay in touch and give them regular updates on how she was settling in. Since then, Maa had been too busy to speak with Meena individually. And today, she appeared preoccupied also. From where Meena sat she watched Maa and Didi come down the office steps to talk to Sharmila in the sunshine. Sharmila spoke with her hands, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Didi and Maa responded without the extra motion. Every now and then they looked towards the gate, and then over to Meena. She guessed they were waiting for someone and talking about her. Meena resumed her knitting and began another row. Didi and Maa returned inside and Sharmila crossed the paving to Meena. She slipped her heels off at the edge of the mat and sat cross-legged beside Meena.
‘Your hair looks good. How long did you leave the henna in?’ Sharmila asked.
‘Overnight,’ Meena answered.
‘I can never do that; wriggle too much.’ Sharmila laughed. She smoothed the hem of her kurta top, her fingernails perfect, her hair sprayed softly into place, her make up gentle, highlighting her natural features. Her appearance was perfect, right to the decorative bindi worn low on her forehead, matching the colours of her outfit.
‘Why are you so pretty today?’ Meena asked.
Sharmila blushed, ‘Pretty? No reason.’
Meena didn’t believe her. Sharmila was obviously dressed up for a reason.
‘Didi says you’re much improved since you arrived,’ Sharmila said, changing the subject. ‘She said you’ve been seeing the counsellor regularly too. That’s really great. Maa’s impressed with your commitment to rehabilitation.’
Meena hesitated over a stitch. She’d skipped several counselling sessions in the last week and gone to see Nahita instead. Obviously Sharmila hadn’t received this report.
‘Rehabilitation is something they don’t count on, those traffickers. They think if they break us, we are broken forever. They forget we can heal. They don’t realise that a girl who has once been trafficked can, in fact, become their strongest enemy. I know a lot of girls who have left Little Sister to become advocates, or community educators, for anti-trafficking organisations. Maybe that’s something you’d like to do one day? After you return to Nepal?’
‘I haven’t thought about it,’ Meena admitted. The future was blank and unfriendly before her.
‘But hasn’t Maa told you the good news?’
Meena looked up from her knitting. Sharmila tossed her hair over her shoulder, unusually oblivious to Meena’s reaction.
‘What news?’ Meena asked.
‘The man from Stop Trafficking Nepal is coming to see Maa today.’
‘Stop Trafficking Nepal?’
‘It’s an organisation like us, sort of like Little Sister’s big sister.’ Sharmila laughed at her own joke. ‘They have three rehab homes in Mumbai, plus four drop-in centres, one in each of the large red-light districts. Their main focus is rescuing Nepali girls, though they’ll help anyone they can. One of their senior staff is coming here today. He’s really nice.’
‘Is he Nepali?’
‘Oh no!’ Sharmila made a face. ‘He’s one of the managers. He organises travel for groups of Nepali girls who have been rescued from brothels. They transport the victims back to Nepal, locate their families and reintegrate them into their communities. Maa’s going to talk to Tarak to see if he can take you and Purna back.’
Sharmila continued to talk but Meena was no longer listening. Take her and Purna back? Back to Nepal? But they weren’t ready. She wasn’t ready. Meena struggled to focus. She dropped a stitch, tried to pick it up and lost another one. Sharmila kept talking. Her words were long and foreign sounding: reintegration, assimilation, reeducation, stereotypes, poverty. They circled in Meena’s mind with a little voice from the past. A voice uncertain, trying to be braver than eleven-year-olds need to be: ‘I didn’t realise we’d be going so far ...’ Meena dropped her knitting.
‘Are you even listening to me?’ Sharmila asked. But the sound of a motorbike at the front gate interrupted her. The motorbike honked its horn and the guard hurried from his hut to unlatch the gate and swung it open. Sharmila sat up straight, she pumped her lips and tossed her hair, so it hung soft around her shoulders.
‘He’s here,’ Sharmila said, trying to keep her voice calm.
‘Who?’ Meena studied the man astride the motorbike, the focus of Sharmila’s attention.
‘The man I told you about, the man working for Stop Trafficking Nepal. His name is Tarak,’ Sharmila spoke his name as if it were sacred.
Meena couldn’t help but grin. ‘You like him.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Sharmila stood quickly and tugged the creases from her jeans. ‘I just work with him when he comes here. We’re professionals. Would you like to meet him?’
‘No. I’m not going back to Nepal.’
Sharmila gave her a strange look, ‘Perhaps you have been spending too much time around Nahita—’
‘No. I’m just not ready to go back, not yet.’
‘That’s what Nahita says. Every time Maa tries to arrange a reintegration for her, she has a new excuse. She says she wants to learn to read first, but then she never makes the time to attend literacy classes. Some of the girls think Nahita has a boyfriend, and that’s why she’s always out there. Maa’s worried about her.’
‘Nahita isn’t stupid.’
‘No, but even smart people do stupid things,’ Sharmila said. She slid her feet into her shoes with another glance at the Stop Trafficking Nepal man. He formed a greeting with his hands for her. Her face flushed as she returned it.
‘See you later,’ Sharmila said.
Meena didn’t say anything. She watched Sharmila cross the lawn to the motorbike and swing her hair again. She could hear Sharmila chatting to the Stop Trafficking man. She was using her super sweet voice, trying to make a good impression. Sharmila was smart, but she was stupid eyeing off a guy like that. From the way he walked, the tie around his neck, the wafts of after-shave that blew even far enough to reach her, Meena could tell he was rich. Well educated and far above girls like them—unless it meant easy sex. But when choosing a wife, which was what Sharmila would be dreaming of, a man like him wouldn’t think twice about a girl who had been a sex worker. He wouldn’t even learn her name. Sharmila was stupid.
Meena pushed her knitting onto the mat and stood up. Little flecks of wool stuck to her knees.
‘That’s Meena,’ she heard Sharmila saying, pointing in her direction.
Meena ducked her head, avoiding eye contact with Tarak. If she left now and stay
ed in the bazaar for two hours, Sharmila’s Stop Trafficking man would be gone. She dug her feet into the plastic flip-flops Little Sister had provided her and slipped out the back gate.
Twenty-five
She didn’t stop until she reached the bazaar intersection. Two young women, made up and fancy, caught her attention. They were scanning the shelves of a beauty shop, fingering bangles and tubes of henna paste. They looked so much like Sarita. Not in physical appearance—they were nowhere near as pretty as Sarita—but from the way they cocked their heads and scanned the bazaar. They were out shopping on their time off, always keeping an eye open for a client. She watched them pump their lips at a tall Indian with greasy hair. One of them gestured towards him, beckoning him into a deal, but the Indian turned away, disinterested until he was facing Meena. Then his face flashed reluctant recognition. It was Nahita’s Ramesh. ‘Where’s Nahita?’ his voice was tense, his fingers gripping tightly on the bag of fruit at his side.
‘Isn’t she working?’ Meena asked, pointing her lips to the restaurant.
Ramesh strode across the intersection. Meena waited. She saw Nahita emerge from the shadows. Ramesh gestured to her and tilted his head in Meena’s direction, then Nahita pulled him inside the shop. Meena waited for two buses to pass, one of them carrying a bleached-haired Nepali fare-collector, then she crossed the road and walked under the shade to find Nahita.
‘What do you want?’ The restaurant owner was heaving herself off the bench she had been resting on.
‘Nahita.’
‘She was doing the dishes, the lazy girl!’
Meena waited for her eyes to adjust to the restaurant’s dimness. Nahita’s spot by the bowl of dishes was empty. She walked between the tables and benches to the back courtyard. Washing hung on the line but Nahita was nowhere. Meena forced herself to think slowly: Ramesh had come in, with Nahita ... Meena walked back to the restaurant and scanned the benches again. She couldn’t see either of them. Surely the restaurant owner wouldn’t let her dish girl have a room during working hours? Meena turned back to the courtyard. The door at the end was slightly ajar. Meena pushed it. Past a grotty kitchen, she could see another alleyway. She hurried through and came out in the sunlight on the other side just in time to see Nahita and Ramesh turn the corner at the end of the alley.
‘Nahita?’ Meena jumped the drain and ran after them. At the corner, she could see Nahita and Ramesh slow down to check the road ahead. Ramesh was pulling his wallet from his pocket. They were getting ready to wait for a bus. Meena sped up, ‘Nahita!’ She pulled the Bengali girl round to face her. Nahita’s cheeks were flushed dark with excitement.
‘Where ... are you going?’ Meena struggled to catch her breath. ‘Are you going to leave? Just like that?’
‘Ramesh got paid.’
‘So?’
‘She’s mine now.’ Ramesh frowned at her under his greasy hair. ‘We’re catching the next bus.’
‘But your things? At Little Sister. You can’t run away to get married without your things.’ Meena looked to Ramesh for understanding. ‘If she leaves with nothing, you’ll have to spend all your money buying her new clothes,’ Meena pressed. She knew what men were like. If Nahita cost him too much money, Ramesh would start regretting his choice; he’d be able to justify treating her like filth.
‘She can’t go back.’ He tugged at Nahita’s arm. She blushed like a virgin and turned to Meena.
‘Ramesh got paid today,’ she explained. ‘If we don’t leave today, his friends will come asking for loans to play cards or buy cheap drink and he can’t say no. You know how it is, his money will be gone. We can’t wait ’til next time.’ She followed Ramesh further along the bus line.
‘But ...’ Meena’s mind raced. ‘Clothes cost money, so do blankets, and you have nothing but his bag of bruised bananas.’
‘I know,’ Nahita lowered her voice. ‘But Maa knows I work from morning to evening. If I go back and pack my stuff, they’ll get suspicious, they won’t let me leave. We have to go now. We’ve got no choice.’ Nahita ran her finger up the scar line on her face. Ramesh jittered on the spot. Two women carrying over-dressed babies stared openly at their discussion.
‘Listen.’ Meena pulled Nahita from the bus line. Ramesh frowned but didn’t move. ‘I haven’t got regular habits like you, I can go back and get your things. I’ll bring them to you, I’ll meet you at the end of the alleyway in a few minutes.’
‘Don’t believe her. She’ll run back and tell them everything.’ Ramesh’s voice was strained now. Nahita glared at Meena. ‘We’re leaving now. We’re going!’
‘I’ll get your stuff.’ Meena stepped backwards. ‘If I don’t come back, you can leave.’
‘What about Sharmila and Maa?’
‘I’ll come back!’
Meena darted between the buses making them belch their horns in her direction, then she ran down the alley back to Little Sister. Inside the gate the garden was quiet. She slowed to a casual pace. The guard didn’t even look up from admiring the Stop Trafficking Nepal man’s motorbike as she passed him. She ran up the stairs to the dorm. Everyone else was out, in lessons or the recreation room. Meena hurried over to Nahita’s bed. She found the cupboard key inside the pillowcase and opened Nahita’s cupboard. It was stacked full of food and clothing. There were packets of biscuits, two-minute noodles and two boxed fruit drinks. Several new pairs of sandals, a pile of messy T-shirts and a cheap box of sanitary pads. Nahita was obviously a hoarder. There was more here than Meena could carry.
Quickly Meena reached for the Little Sister blanket that lay on Nahita’s bed, then thought again and ran quickly to her own bed, pulling her blanket, the one she and Sarita had bought, free from the mattress. She lay the blanket on the floor and emptied the cupboard contents onto its centre. She added the pillow from Nahita’s bed then tied up the blanket ends. She hefted the bundle up to the windowsill then, after checking the guard was still occupied, dropped it and herself to the ground below. Balancing Nahita’s belongings on her hip, Meena took the long way to the side gate. Only Purna saw her from where she was hunched under a tree, but she made no move. Once in the narrow alley, she ran.
By the time she reached the end of the alley, her breathing was ragged. She clasped Nahita’s bundle tight and scanned the intersection. Where was Nahita? The line by the bus stop was already eight people long. But Nahita and Ramesh were not among them. Meena staggered forward. Had they left already?
‘Are you alone?’ Ramesh appeared from behind a nearby street stall. Suspicion and distrust clear across his face.
‘Where’s Nahita?’ Meena asked. Ramesh pointed with his lips towards the rubbish cart. The Bengali girl had been waiting, ready to run if Meena had turned up with anyone else. She came forwards now, eyeing the blanket bundle sceptically. ‘That’s your blanket.’
‘So they don’t notice you are gone so quickly.’
Nahita pursed her lips together. Ramesh unfolded his arms. ‘Let’s go then.’
‘Okay.’ Nahita took the bundle from Meena without looking at her face. ‘Did you empty my cupboard?’
‘As much as I could carry.’
Nahita let a tiny smile flick onto her face. Then she hefted the bundle onto her hip. ‘We’re really going,’ she said, part dare.
Meena couldn’t reply. Exhaustion from her task caught up with her. Her throat felt tight and dry. All she could do was stare. At the Bengali girl with the scar down her cheek. What would her daughter look like? Would she be safe and strong like Nahita’s dreams? Ramesh began crossing the road to the bus stop. Nahita tilted her head in acknowledgment to Meena before limping after him.
Meena watched them go. Doubt crowded her mind. Questions squeezed into the cracks but she pushed them away. The Indian snack vendor saw her and began hurling insults in her direction. The foul odour from the rubbish cart beside her rose under the hot sun. Still, she didn�
�t move away.
Nahita waited beside Ramesh. He held the bag of fruit, probably their first meal as a couple. They stood below a sign post that displayed a loop of red ribbon. The words beneath the symbol meant nothing to Meena. She couldn’t read. Neither could Nahita. Meena doubted Ramesh could either. A bus pulled up between them, Meena on one side of the road, Nahita and Ramesh on the other. She lost sight of them for a few minutes, then their heads—Nahita, obvious with her hairstyle and Ramesh with his height—appeared again. They sat near the front. Nahita crowded almost onto Ramesh’s knee, her face dark with anticipation.
‘Go well,’ Meena whispered.
The bus ground gears and pulled to the middle of the road. The owner of Nahita’s restaurant glared from the front of her shop, her face red in rage at the disappearance of her dish girl. She spotted Meena and shouted something across the intersection. Meena turned away. Although the sun was bright, heaviness settled itself over her shoulders. Nahita was gone.
Twenty-six
‘What do you mean, “I haven’t seen her”?’ The dorm room light snapped on and Sharmila’s voice split the evening silence. ‘You eat beside her every night. You visit her in that grotty restaurant every day. You went to visit her today. I know you did, because you didn’t want to meet Tarak!’
Meena pulled her thin sheet over her shoulders and rolled away from Sharmila. The other girls either groaned, complained or sat up to watch.