Out of the Cages

by Penny Jaye

  Meena shook her head. ‘But I can’t go. Not yet, not without ...’ She still couldn’t say it. Putali slipped further away.

  Maa leaned forward. ‘I know it feels very rushed. But both Didi and the nurse believe you will heal much better in your own country. Stop Trafficking Nepal have a very good reputation for rehabilitation and many more options for vocational training than we have here. Little Sister is only a small set-up,’ Maa said, apologetically.

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I have a friend. You have her photo in your drawer. Her name is ...’ Meena’s voice began to waver.

  ‘No, I haven’t forgotten about Nahita. And that is one of the reasons we feel you would be safer in your own country. You’re very lucky Stop Trafficking Nepal are willing to add you to their group, sometimes they have so many girls there isn’t enough space for the Nepalis from Little Sister. You must be so excited? Yes?’

  Meena couldn’t respond. Her mind felt frozen thick like blocks of kulfi on wooden sticks. Eventually she would thaw and her words would slip messily all over the place, but for now, she was stuck, silent, dumb and stupid.

  Maa nodded like she understood. ‘You can go now. I’m sure you’ll have lovely dreams tonight!’

  Meena pounds on the door again. Screaming—though her voice sounds like someone else’s. ‘She’s bleeding! Hurry up!’

  Eventually the lock turns. Meena trips backwards as the door swings open. Zeshaan enters and whacks her hard across the face, bruising again her sore eye and knocking Meena off balance.

  ‘Not me—her!’ Meena feels anger rising. ‘They’ve hurt her, she’s bleeding—’

  Ganga enters the room then, she scowls at Meena as if she is a stupid child. ‘Of course she is; all little girls bleed after their first time.’

  Meena feels herself gag with disgust. Zeshaan stands guard over Meena while Ganga approaches the bed. She lifts the skirt, muttering something about a doctor under her breath and returns to the hallway.

  ‘Take her out,’ she instructs as she passes Meena.

  Zeshaan bends to grab Meena but she scuttles backwards. ‘I won’t go, I won’t leave her.’

  He grunts and grabs her arm—the sore one—and squeezes.

  ‘Hoina, no!’ Meena screams, half in pain, half in terror. ‘I won’t leave her!’

  The moaning from Putali increases.

  ‘You can’t make me go. She needs me, she’s bleeding, she’s only little ...’ Meena struggles, wriggling with a strength summoned from somewhere under Zeshaan’s grasp.

  The hotel manager enters the room with a well-dressed man carrying a black case. Zeshaan looks to the manager for instructions. Without making eye contact, she draws close enough to speak without Putali hearing. ‘You’ve already caused us more trouble than you’re worth. Do as you’re told or you’ll never see her again.’

  And Meena feels herself rage forwards at the woman with such ferocity it takes two attempts from Zeshaan to regain his grip, but only one to toss her from the room. The last thing she hears is Putali’s voice calling, confused, weak and full of terror.

  ‘Meena? Don’t leave me ...’

  Thirty

  Meena laid awake in the humidity and stared at the smudgy grey section of roof near the toilet door. The roller bird was grey like that. Grey until its wings spread and it flew away. She remembered the day she and Putali had chased it; over the paddy creek, past the ploughing oxen, up the dirt track to the settlement. She remembered the bitter radish Putali’s mother served beside their rice that day. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stay. She couldn’t climb into the mini bus and wave to Maa and Sharmila and Leela like Asha had done. No, she had to go back. Back for Putali.

  Meena waited until the only sounds that stirred the room were those of unsettled sleep. She slid her legs out from under the sheet and reached under her pillow for the key to her cupboard. The lock clicked like Sarita’s tongue and the door swung open. With as little noise as possible, Meena changed from her bed clothes into a dark kurta-suruwal and tied the ends of another kurta top to make a bag. Into this she placed as much as she could carry from the collection of belongings she’d acquired since coming to Little Sister: the brown glass bottle of vitamins, a bar of soap, a comb and box of sanitary pads, as well as the few changes of clothes. But she hesitated at the bag of knitting. The soft wool, pitch black in the darkness, felt familiar, calming. There was no point taking it, without Didi’s instructions she’d never know how to turn her rows of stitches into a cardigan. Meena pushed the knitting bag further back in the cupboard, then shut the door, closing but not locking her kurta bag of belongings inside. She was almost ready.

  Climbing silently onto the sill of the ever open window, she jumped out, landing softly in the garden bed below. Ducking from shadow to shadow, she crept across the compound yard to the office building. Her heartbeat felt louder than her footsteps. From the shadows beside the doorway, she could hear two voices echo from upstairs—Maa and one of the office men. Their conversation seemed long and engaged, so Meena tiptoed up the steps to the foyer and pushed gently on Maa’s office door. It swung open with a dull groan. Meena held her breath and listened, but the murmur of conversation continued.

  It was dark and empty in Maa’s office. Meena let her eyes adjust until she could see the cleared space that was Maa’s desk and the vase without any flowers. She hurried behind the desk and pulled open the top drawer, the one she’d seen Maa drop Putali’s photo in. She pulled the stack of pictures out, but the light was too dim. She couldn’t pick features among the shadows. Someone moved upstairs. She heard a door pulled closed and steps, unhurried, moved towards the stairs. Meena reached into the drawer again. Pens and hair clips rattled against the cheap timber but there were no more photos. Putali’s picture was either in the bundle she now held, or returned to the Stop Trafficking Nepal office. And there wasn’t enough time to check. She’d have to take them all with her.

  Meena slid the drawer closed. The footsteps upstairs slowed to a stop. The man had forgotten something in his office. Maa’s voice echoed down the stairs. Meena hurried to the door, then hesitated. Maa’s handbag sat—fat, squat and waiting—on the empty chair.

  Money? Meena’s memory jolted to the snack vendor outside Nahita’s restaurant. She wouldn’t get far without money. Quickly she reached into the handbag. Her fingers slipped on cool vinyl under a bottle of water. She pulled the purse out and clicked open the magnetic seal. From the slice of light coming from the hall she could see a photo of Maa and Didi taken at a conference somewhere. Meena squeezed the purse apart until the dirty grey rupees showed themselves. There weren’t as many as Meena had expected, but it would be enough. The footsteps above returned to the stairs. They were coming down.

  Meena steadied her hand. She pulled the money from its place, snapped the purse shut and shoved it back into the handbag. Maa’s conversation wove its way down the stairs. Meena darted out the office and jumped down the steps and into the shadows of the garden.

  ‘I’ll finish the summaries tonight,’ Meena heard the office man say.

  ‘That would be good. The girls leave in the morning ...’

  Meena heard Maa’s voice fade off. ‘I was sure I shut this door earlier.’

  ‘Might have been the wind, it’s that time of year,’ the office man answered.

  Meena hugged herself further back into the darkness.

  ‘I suppose so. I haven’t noticed the doors blowing open before though,’ Maa said.

  Meena gripped the photos and money to her chest. She watched Maa pull her office door shut, and then the large double doors at the front of the office building. She sighed when she turned, her expression hidden by a shadow, but Meena could tell Maa was looking around, scanning the courtyard for anything out of place. Meena held her breath. She concentrated on being still until she felt every pulse as a quake of thunder. Maa mumbled a goodbye to the of
fice man, who climbed onto his motorbike and disappeared out the gate. Meena didn’t move.

  She waited until the guard had locked the front gate and settled inside his little hut with his tin of food. She waited for Maa to slowly cross the paving. She waited for the light at the front room of Didi and Maa’s residence to be switched off. Only then did she creep back across the yard and pull herself up through the dorm window. Sitting on the end of her bed, she held the stack of photos in the scrap of light that came from outside. Her fingers shook as one by one the little girls’ faces shone up at her again. In the shadowy light, their blank expressions seemed to mock her. Their anonymity, their smileless faces; the very number of them taunted that what she was trying to do was futile. Didi would say she was being stupid, Leela would say worse, but the photo she had been searching for finally stared up at her. Two plaits on either side of her little girl face: Putali Maya. Butterfly Love. Meena could barely breathe, so strong were her memories. How had she forgotten? Her heart pounded in her chest. Hope curdling with desperation. Surely it wouldn’t be too late?

  Meena pushed the remaining photos under her pillow. Out of sight. She padded back to her cupboard and pushed Putali’s photo, along with half of Maa’s money, deep into the kurta bag. The rest of the money she tucked down her bra. Then she waited.

  Sometime after midnight, Purna had a nightmare. She cried out so loud Meena was scared the other girls would wake. But although Manju stirred and Leela rolled over, no one woke. Purna continued to cry, softly now, the whimpers rattling in and out with her breath. Increasing in intensity. Meena slid from the covers and stood by the other Nepali girl’s bedside. Purna writhed in her sleep like she was skirting beatings across the floor of a locked room.

  ‘Shhhh,’ Meena whispered urgently, willing Purna to stay asleep. If the girl woke in hysterics, they’d have to call Sharmila and then they’d notice Meena was dressed. Meena leaned closer. ‘Shhhh.’ The sound of it seemed to sooth Purna slightly, but still the nightmare raged. Meena sat gingerly on the edge of Purna’s bed and placed her fingers on the crying girl’s shoulder. ‘Shhhh,’ she whispered again. Slowly the tension eased from Purna’s body and the whimpering lessened. Meena didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her hand was now tucked at Purna’s neck as the girl rolled slightly and continued to sleep. Meena sat like that and waited.

  Eventually she heard the first rumblings of pre-dawn traffic from the bazaar. Meena stared down at Purna. Her mouth was open and soft, little snoring noises came out. Meena eased her hand from Purna’s neck and shoulder and rose. She lifted the kurta bag from her cupboard and laid the key on the shelf with the knitting. The cupboard clicked closed and someone rustled in bed behind her. Meena froze. She held the kurta bag close to her body, masking it in the shadows before she turned around, but the room was still. Even Leela continued to sleep, her face strangely make-up free. Meena tiptoed over to the window and lifted herself up one last time.

  Thirty-one

  Meena gripped her bag to her chest and ran. The back gate was locked, as she’d expected, but she pulled herself up using the hinges for footholds and launched herself over to the other side. The metal spikes at the top of the gate scraped her shin on the way over and she landed too hard and fast on her left foot. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out before hurrying on.

  The pre-dawn bazaar was just waking. Shutters were being rolled open, snack vendors were unlocking their carts. The few tea shops that were open were crowded with early morning commuters, snatching bites to eat before the buses arrived. Meena hurried across the road, conscious that she wasn’t dressed like them for work in an office, and joined a queue. She could feel them watching her, staring at her bag, wondering what her story was. But she kept her head down and refused eye contact.

  The first bus arrived and filled up before Meena reached the front of the line. The ticket conductor flicked her away as the bus drove off. The next bus pulled up empty. Meena poked her head through one of the open doors. It smelt funny, like urine.

  ‘Kamathipura? Do you go to Kamathipura?’

  The ticket collector eyed her with mixed disgust and interest. ‘No. Too far.’

  Meena stepped back onto the street. She tried the next bus and received a similar answer. She asked the third the same question.

  ‘Kamathipura? What do you want to go there for?’ The fare collector spoke Nepali to her. She lowered her eyes. Sarita had been with Nepali men. Meena hadn’t. She felt suddenly shy.

  ‘Hos, okay. I said nothing.’ The ticket collector turned back to the rearview vision mirror, adjusted his earring and rearranged his hair.

  Passengers climbed in after her, trapping her by the open door but without a ticket anywhere. They all knew where they were going. Meena felt the enormity of what she was trying to do rise.

  ‘If you want to go to Kamathipura, you have to get to Mumbai Central,’ the Nepali conductor said. He turned from collecting passenger payments to look at Meena. ‘We go to Mumbai Central. Are you getting on or off?’

  Meena flustered at the bus door. A woman in a suit bustled past her impatiently, taking the last seat. The aisle began to fill. Meena stumbled. The bus engine started. The conductor held out his palm and quoted a fare. She clumsily pulled the money from her shirt to pay, then gripped a handle hanging from the roof. The bus smelt like exhaust and hair oil, men’s perfume and freshly baked pastries. Meena’s stomach growled. She regretted not eating last night’s meal and clutched her bag tighter. The bus heaved away from the bazaar and the sky finally gave up its darkness for the day.

  On and on the bus drove, stopping regularly to let passengers off and allow new ones on until the entire bus population had changed—except for Meena, the conductor and the weary-faced driver. She had a seat now, against the window, close to the door, but nothing she saw was familiar. The city sprawled, as it had the other times she’d journeyed through it, like a never ending maze. She was alone now, really alone, and there was no going back to Little Sister. She’d never find her way back, she didn’t even know what the bazaar was called, or what suburb Little Sister was located in. She had never thought to ask.

  Eventually the bus heaved to a stop.

  ‘Mumbai Central, Mumbai Central, Mumbai Central!’ the Nepali conductor called as the bus began emptying. Meena allowed herself to be pulled along by the crowds. The bus station was huge and bustling. The noise of horns bellowing, drivers cursing and fare collectors slapping the sides of the buses pounded Meena’s mind. Signposts hung from almost every telegraph pole, but no one looked at them. Everyone around her seemed to know where they were going without consulting the signs. Meena felt the crowds writhe around her. There was something familiar about this place. But not quite enough.

  ‘Tea? Donut?’ A pre-teen boy lifted a cage of tea filled glasses before her.

  Meena nodded. The scent of fresh donuts and burnt milk drifted from a nearby stall. Meena reached into her shirt for a few crumpled rupees.

  ‘Where is Kamathipura?’ she asked the boy as he delivered her food. She waited for him to juggle the glasses and plop some chilli chutney on the edge of her paper plate.

  ‘Down that road,’ he pointed.

  ‘Is it too far to walk?’

  The boy shrugged. He went to find another customer. Meena dunked her donut in the spicy sauce. The chilli stung her lips, but the donut was warm and fresh and good. She finished all but the sludgy tea leave dregs at the bottom of her glass before stepping back onto the busy street, heading in the direction the boy had pointed.

  Meena gripped the kurta bag to her chest. Four, five and six-storey buildings leaned over the narrowing streets. In the distance, between the heads of pedestrians, Meena could see the clean buildings lessen. More tin roofs and older style hotels began to crowd closer together, but it wasn’t until Meena had crossed four more intersections that Meena saw the prostitute.

  She was leaning against
the outer wall of a building, her hair untied and loose past her shoulders. Her sleeveless satin sari blouse was stained under the arms and the shoulder section slipped to reveal the wide strip of dark flesh that was her belly. The woman looked tired. A cigarette balanced between her swollen lips. She waited for her child, a boy, to finish urinating into a drain. The woman stared at the footpath, disinterested. Then she yanked the boy, bare-bottomed, onto her hip and began walking away. Meena followed at a distance. The child began to call out for sweets or bananas or twisted toffee candy or whatever other food vendor they passed. But his mother ignored him. She walked on towards the tin roofs and turned into a tired, crowded street Meena had almost missed.

  Meena hesitated. The street was littered with potholes and rubbish and half-clad children. No cars drove up this road. The inhabitants made their home in the street. Cheap wooden beds were pulled out into the morning sunlight. The buildings were old, their timber doorframes chipped. Along the lowest balconies and from the occasional roof, Meena could see the flapping of gaudy clothing, trying to dry in the smog. This wasn’t where Mohan had brought them—there were no grills over doors on this street, and the women were too dark. But it was close. Nowhere else did women lie exhausted on such open beds so early in the morning than in suburbs where their work wasn’t mudding floors and cooking the morning meal. No, the women who lounged in these doorways were like the woman Meena had followed: prostitutes. And this was Kamathipura.

  The light slaps Meena’s face. Excruciating. Putali!

  She struggles to stand, to clear the pain from her head. From her whole body.

  Putali ...

  ‘Get up!’ the voice is foreign. Hindi, harsh and scratched.

  Meena tries to sort the memories. Zeshaan’s beating. Ganga calling for the doctor. The hotel manager. Putali’s torn body ... and her voice. Calling. Calling her.

  ‘Putali!’ Meena calls out.