Out of the Cages

by Penny Jaye

  ‘Turn around and look at me! We’re in this together, all of us. We’re all exactly the same!’ Sharmila kicked the leg of Meena’s bed, then swore, obviously angrier at losing her temper than anything else. ‘If you live at Little Sister, you have to obey the rules. And one of them is not covering for someone when they do something wrong.’

  Leela snorted from where she lay. ‘Well, Nahita obviously forgot to replace her pillow when she made her bed this morning. That’s pretty bad!’

  ‘Shut up, Leela, you know exactly what I’m talking about,’ Sharmila snapped. ‘You know exactly what’s at stake!’

  Leela didn’t’ say anything else. She just rolled over so her made-up face was directly opposite Meena’s. Her expression tight, hidden and clouded, daring Meena to defend herself.

  But Meena felt sick. Nahita was gone, somewhere in the swirls of the city Mumbai. Gone with Ramesh, the ex-druggy, who claimed he wanted to marry her. Some part of her heart couldn’t believe it would work out, and that part was now writhing under Leela’s unwavering eyes.

  ‘And where’s your blanket?!’ Sharmila asked and then swore again. ‘Oh goodness, Meena, what have you done?’

  Purna whimpered and began rocking, her bed creaking softly.

  ‘Get up! Maa wants to see you in her office,’ Sharmila ordered.

  ‘She means you,’ Leela said coolly to Meena, never shifting her measured gaze.

  Meena dropped her feet over the edge of the bed and stood up. She followed Sharmila back through the dorm door and across the garden. The courtyard was still. The few outside lights lit circles of brightness: one over the water tap, one over the front gate now locked. Another light shone over the main building’s doorway, and in the light stood Maa.

  Gone was her typical sari. Instead, the narrow-faced woman wore trousers, wide-legged trousers and an oversized T-shirt—probably her sleeping clothes. When Meena reached the steps Maa turned and walked into her office. Meena followed, pushed ahead by Sharmila.

  ‘Take a look at this,’ Maa said as she held out a single photo.

  Meena held the picture up, her anguish barely in check. A thin, bruised and sickly girl stared from the creased photo. She was dark-skinned, with untidy hair and cracked lips, her age indistinguishable, dressed in a too big T-shirt and tracksuit pants. Meena almost didn’t recognise her, but for the scar down her cheek.

  ‘This is what Nahita looked like when she arrived,’ Maa said. ‘Take it. Look at it.’

  Meena didn’t move.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She didn’t want to go home,’ Meena croaked.

  ‘That’s not for you to say.’ Maa sank back into a chair beside the desk.

  ‘She was my friend, I knew her.’

  ‘You did not know her for very long.’

  ‘I knew her long enough to know she didn’t want to go home.’

  ‘And that gives you the right to participate in her trafficking?’

  Meena felt her breath suck inwards so suddenly she couldn’t speak. Maa continued, ‘We have given you time to adjust to our routines. We understand that you have been abused and that kindness can be hard to believe, BUT we expect respect. We expect you to follow the rules of this centre while you are staying here. No matter how much you have suffered, there can be NO justification for assisting in the trafficking of someone you call a friend.’

  Meena staggered backwards. ‘I didn’t sell her. I would never sell anyone.’ Meena stared at Maa.

  ‘Then what did you do? Why is she gone?’

  ‘I ... she ...’ Meena’s mind raced through memories. Promises. Dreams. Lies. They knitted together, dropping stitches, threatening. Putali and Nahita together. Questioning. Accusing. ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘Where’s your blanket, Meena?’ Sharmila leaned forward. ‘Where’s your blanket? Where’s Nahita?’

  ‘Nahita?’

  ‘Nahita!’ Maa’s tongue sliced the word. ‘What have you done to Nahita?’

  Meena focused on them. She pulled a reign on her panic. Nahita. Nahita, not Putali. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘We know that. Where is she? Who took her?’

  ‘I don’t know. She didn’t ... No one sold her. She’s just gone.’

  ‘I wished I could disappear into thin air every time Mr Scrawny came to my hotel room, but that sort of thing never happens, no matter how hard you wish it,’ Sharmila said bitterly.

  Maa scowled at the reference to the brothel.

  ‘She didn’t want to go home. She was HIV, they’d hate her.’

  ‘They could be educated.’

  ‘You can’t educate some people,’ Meena insisted.

  Sharmila didn’t disagree.

  ‘Tell us what happened then.’ Maa sat back, her arms crossed.

  ‘She ran away. She met a man, an Indian. She was going to get married. They left today.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Sharmila cried. ‘Didn’t I tell you, didn’t I say she had a boyfriend in the bazaar—’

  Maa cut her off. ‘But your blanket? Her things?’

  Meena looked upwards. The single bulb refused to light the corners of the room.

  ‘Where are her things?!’ Sharmila demanded.

  ‘I took it to her ...’ Meena admitted.

  ‘In your blanket so no one would suspect anything?’ Sharmila’s voice was incredulous.

  Maa let out a loud, long sigh. ‘You can go to bed now,’ she said. She rolled her chair away from the desk and turned her back to the room.

  Meena returned to the dorm without Sharmila’s escort. She stood in the shadows by the window, ignoring Leela’s unspoken questions, and watched the office until the light switched off and Maa, looking slumped like an old woman, trod across the garden to her flat. Then Meena lay down and went to sleep.

  The next day Meena was called, almost immediately after the morning meal, to Maa’s office again. Maa sat at her desk, dark circles under her eyes, several photos of Nahita spilling from an open file in front of her.

  Meena sat in her normal chair and waited. Maa seemed to be waiting also. Meena heard the toilet under the stairs flush and then a pair of stiff boots marched towards the office. Meena looked up to see a police officer stride in and take a seat in the remaining empty chair. Meena tensed at the sight of his uniform. Was he here to take her back? Back to Madam? Had Maa decided she was too difficult?

  ‘Officer,’ Maa spoke with authority. The officer seemed to sit straighter. Meena waited for the instruction to arrest her, to transport her to Madam’s hotel. But Maa was talking about Nahita. The officer tried to look interested.

  ‘Yesterday one of our long-term residents disappeared. This girl’—she indicated with some distaste to Meena—‘was the last one seen with her. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to question her. So, you can begin your search.’

  ‘Question me?’ Meena stared at Maa, but the woman seemed determined to avoid eye contact.

  The policeman pulled a dirty notebook from his pocket and held a pen lazily over it. ‘Where did she say she was going?’ he asked.

  Meena kept her eyes fixed on Maa.

  Maa answered for her: ‘She said Nahita, who is a long-term Bengali resident in our program, travelled away with an Indian man.’

  ‘She wanted to go with him.’ Meena ignored the officer. ‘They knew what they were doing.’

  Maa finally looked at Meena, ‘No, little sister, they did not. Nahita was HIV positive.’

  ‘So was he.’

  The police officer wiggled further back and tucked his boots under his chair.

  Maa threw him a fierce look, then glared at Meena. ‘Now tell the officer where you saw them leave, how they left and where they were going.’

  ‘Why? So you can bring her back here against her will? Just like she was married to the old butcher against her
will? And held in the brothel against her will? And lost her baby girl against her will?’

  ‘We just want to make sure she isn’t trafficked again.’

  The police officer was sitting back now, watching.

  ‘I don’t think she’ll be trafficked.’

  ‘But if she is? How will we know? Do we just hang her photo out with all the rest and hope no more harm comes to her?’

  Maa flung a set of photos across the desk to Meena. New photos, ones she must have received from Sharmila’s Stop Trafficking Nepal guy. The police officer snorted at Maa’s display of emotion.

  ‘Do you know how hard it is to get girls out of brothels once we learn they are there? How hard it is to convince the corrupt police to make a raid and carry it out without accepting bribes from the madams?’

  The officer coughed at the implication, but Maa kept going.

  ‘If she has gone back, if this Indian who says he is HIV positive to secure her trust, has sold her, we will most likely never see her again. And you have been part of this, Meena. You.’

  ‘Not me.’ Meena stood up. The photos slid from her lap onto the floor. One almost slipped under the policeman’s chair but he trapped it with his foot. The edge of his boot caught over the girl’s plaits. Meena had seen enough.

  She reached for it, but the police officer was faster.

  ‘Here,’ he said. Meena reached out her hand for the photo, but he placed it in Maa’s hand instead. Meena watched the photo drop roughly into the top drawer of the desk. Then the desk slammed shut.

  Maa looked up at her. ‘You won’t help us find her, then?’

  Meena stared at the desk. She knew the girl in that photo. She knew the dark oiled braids. The soft, shy smile. The full cheeks.

  ‘Whatever you know about where she is, you must tell us.’ Maa leaned forwards.

  ‘I don’t know where she is,’ Meena croaked. ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘You silly girl!’ Maa huffed down in her chair. ‘Go back to your room. You are now under strict curfew. You may not leave the compound unless you are accompanied by either Sharmila, Didi or myself. Do you understand?’

  Meena didn’t answer. She stood, stumbled, and somehow, she made it from the office to the stairs and down to the paving. The sun shone bright in her eyes, like when Sarita had carried her onto the street and placed her in the back of the jeep. Putali’s photo was in the top drawer of Maa’s desk!

  Meena tried to sort her thoughts. Accusations. Suggestions. Didi’s voice: ‘Do you miss Nepal?’ Sharmila’s: ‘Hasn’t Maa told you the good news?’ Home. Putali. The thought hit her with the force of Vishnu trying to keep her quiet: someone was looking for Putali. Someone had passed her photo on, recently. Asking for information, seeking their daughter. That meant Putali’s father had returned ... or her aama was still alive ...

  Meena sunk to the concrete at the base of the dorm stairs, the longing of home wrestling in her heart so hard she felt she could barely breathe. But how could she face Putali’s mother now? After all this time? How could she explain? How could she return alone?

  Meena’s mind feels clear. Clearer than it has for a long time. Putali lies beside her, still asleep. Her hair messy and damp with sweat across her cheeks. Meena brushes the hair aside. How long have they been indoors now, without seeing the sun? How pale they must be—like plump, rich women who carry umbrellas everywhere!

  Meena notices other details in her clarity too. She sees boards blocking the windows, the layer of dust on the unnecessary curtains. There are gecko droppings on the floor, and rat droppings by the cupboard where they keep their spare clothes. The bucket they use as their toilet has been emptied while she’s been asleep. There is a new bucket next to it, a clean one with clear water, a dipping jug and a towel and soap beside it. There is a chair she hasn’t noticed before too, to the left side of the locked blue door. On the chair lies some fabric, pink and green, sparkling under the perpetual light. Meena climbs down from the bed, hearing Putali stir behind her and holds up the fabric. It is an outfit, no, two outfits. Full flowing skirts with matching sequined tops. The pink one is too small for her, but perhaps it might fit Putali? The green one seems a good fit for herself.

  There is a scraping sound; the latch shifting on the other side of the door. Meena drops the clothes. She hurries back to hold Putali’s hand as the door swings open. But this time it isn’t another plate of food and sour tea. Meena feels Putali’s body tense as Zeshaan, the young man with the goatee, holds the door open for the hotel manager.

  The woman eyes them both with something of satisfaction. ‘Good, you are both awake.’

  Meena grips Putali’s hand and holds it steady. The younger girl is still woozy. The drugs affect her more than they do Meena.

  ‘Get her cleaned up and put that outfit on her,’ the manager says to Meena. ‘She needs to be ready in ten minutes. You too.’ The instructions are accompanied by a dare for defiance.

  Meena drops her eyes.

  ‘Do you understand, little girl?!’ The hotel madam snaps.

  Meena nods.

  The door is shut again, the latch scrapes back in place. Putali lifts her confused face to Meena’s. ‘Get ready for what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Meena answers. ‘But we’d better do it.’ She pulls Putali to the edge of the mattress and hurries her across the floor to where the towel and soap wait. Working faster as Putali wakes more, they strip off the tight, torn and stained kurta-suruwal and give Putali a gentle wash. Meena tries to make jokes as she helps, but Putali’s fingers still shake. Then they slip the pink outfit over her pale skin. It fits perfectly, as if someone has taken her measurements while they have been sleeping. Have they? Meena feels suddenly sick.

  ‘How do I look?’ Putali asks as Meena reaches for the second outfit and begins changing.

  Meena swallows and forces a smile. The outfit is perfect. Putali tries to spin, dizzily bumping the edge of the bed in her attempt. The latch scrapes yet again, and the hotel madam returns just as Meena manages the final button on her new green bodice.

  ‘Good,’ the manager notes. ‘Now, make up. Ganga!’

  The Nepali girl with the twisted hand enters the room with a tray of cosmetics. Without speaking, she settles Putali on the edge of the bed and begins applying base powder, kohl eyeliner, eye shadow, blusher and lipstick. Then comes jewellery—bracelets sparkling with jewels and gold that Meena can’t decide if they are real or not. There is an anklet too, with bells, and a hairpiece that swings down to dangle on Putali’s forehead. Her little friend has been transformed.

  ‘You look like you’re getting married!’ Meena breathes. A disturbing thought battles the new clarity of her mind. It has been inching forward ever since Mohan left them with the instruction to visit ‘Princess’. But Putali just smiles shyly, as if the thoughts Meena has couldn’t possibly exist. She obeys Ganga’s instructions to stand against the wall, to pose and twirl while the older girl takes several photos on her phone. Then Ganga returns to the bed and motions for Meena to take Putali’s place. She repeats the routine with Meena, including twirling photos against the wall while Putali claps. Then she is finished, and the hotel madam nods and checks the photos on the phone. ‘Exquisite,’ she says with some satisfaction. ‘Now, bring them to the Sitting Room,’ she instructs. ‘One at a time, the little one first.’

  It is then that Putali turns to Meena, fear bigger than she’s ever seen before, wide and panicked in her eyes. But before Meena can say anything, Zeshaan has separated them. The door is shut and Ganga is left to ignore Meena’s questioning until finally Zeshaan returns, alone, to take Meena to the Sitting Room.

  Twenty-seven

  Meena stood at the top of the steps leading into the dorm. She pushed the uncomfortable memories away. The sunlight warmed her hair. The leaves on the trees rustled briefly. She hadn’t left the compound for four whole
days. Sharmila watched her like a hovering hawk, snapping and finding fault in her work. Maa expected regular recounts of educational seminars and chores completed. Meena’s back ached now, from rehanging curtains in the recreation room with Renu. Her mind skittered about, sorting memories from fiction, dream from reality. Didi approached from her room beside the dorm. She must have just finished lunch.

  ‘How about you fetch your knitting and come up to my office?’ she suggested. ‘You must be ready for the next set of instructions by now.’

  Meena nodded.

  ‘I’ll wait for you,’ Didi offered.

  Meena collected her bag of wool from the dorm and followed Didi up the stairs. Even before they reached the painting, she felt the mountains mock her. Accusing her. Questioning her. Did you sell her?! Did she know?

  No! Of course not. Surely Putali knew? Didn’t she? That Meena had been as unaware as her? That they had both been tricked?

  The mountains didn’t answer. They hid themselves behind the cheap acrylic paints, denying any claim she had on them.

  Meena turned quickly from the hall into Didi’s office, blocking their accusations. She sat on Didi’s couch and pulled her knitting from her bag with trembling fingers.

  ‘Show me where you’re up to,’ Didi said.

  Meena lifted her work, a short length of simple knitting hung from one of the needles. Didi murmured approval and began explaining how to proceed. But none of the instructions Didi gave sank in. Although her eyes followed the black wool—loop and pull over the needles—her mind wandered through tightly packed streets with caged balconies, sari fabric flapping between the bars. Cages? It was the word the hospital staff had used. How had she not noticed them for what they were? How had she been so stupid to believe Mohan’s stories of waitressing jobs? Why had she tried so hard to convince Putali it had all been true? But what if she could remember more? If she could describe in detail to Maa, or Shushila’s Tarak, how to get to the hotel Mohan had taken them to?

  She cursed Madam for not letting her out. Sarita would know the area like the empty promises of her most regular clients. She had been allowed out to shop and visit friends and go to the temple. But Meena had been locked away. Madam had called her an asset: valuable due to her age and the colour of her skin. And her memories of the streets of Kamathipura were foggy, too foggy to be of any assistance in a search for one missing Nepali girl. But if she could go back, if she could retrace the steps ...’ Do girls ever go back?’ Meena interrupted Didi’s explaining.