by Penny Jaye
‘Where are you going?’ Waman shouted from behind stained and flapping curtains.
Meena took another step. Away. She knew it now. She couldn’t go with him. Not even for Putali. Her chest crushed itself with grief. A sob rose harsh and hard.
‘Get back here! You can’t steal from me, you dirty little whore!’
Meena glanced in time to see him storm from the curtained hallway. His belt was loose, his fly half-unzipped, the bulge in his trousers angry. Meena backed away.
‘Come here!’ He grabbed, the fabric of her shirt. She pulled from his grasp. Her feet slipping in the mud.
‘What did you think?’ Waman sneered, holding his balance. ‘That you could back out, and I’d just let you. You think I was going to give this photo back?’ He ripped Putali’s photo from his shirt pocket and shoved it against his mouth. ‘You don’t think I’d have her too? Have her rough and—’
‘Nooooo!’ Meena ran at him. She beat him with all her strength, scraped her nails into his neck. Waman staggered backwards in surprise and anger. She had never fought him in the past, she’d always shut up and laid still, locking the memories away. But not anymore.
‘I’m not your whore!’ Meena screamed at him. The woman from the grotty hotel was now standing in the street. The girls from the beauty parlour gathered to giggle and watch. ‘You don’t own me! You have never been and will never be my babu!’
Something like a growl rose from Waman’s throat. His face surged with anger and humiliation. Meena turned and ran. She ran past the parlour and around the bend, past a water tap and the women lined up waiting. She ran on until she came to the intersection where Good Hotel stood.
‘Putali Maya!’ Meena screamed. The name aloud now. Out for the first time in three years. ‘Putali!’
She scanned the grilled windows, willing one to open, willing a girl with plaits to appear.
‘Putali!’ Pain welled in her chest, hope was slipping. She felt, rather than saw, the crowd gathering, people taunting, teasing her.
‘Crazy bitch,’ they called out.
‘Drug whore!’ someone else spat.
Windows began to open, girls appeared on balconies, men began to stare and watch. The guard at the front of Good Hotel was joined by a girl. A Nepali girl with a twisted hand and angry expression. Ganga. She muttered something to the guard who hurried inside.
Meena ran forwards. Ganga blocked the way. ‘Shut up,’ she hissed, gripping Meena by the shoulders.
‘But Putali ...’ Meena felt the words clog in her throat.
A flicker of recognition twitched across the other girl’s face. ‘You can’t go in. They’ll lock you up.’
‘But she’s in there—’
The girl gripped her shoulders even tighter, as if willing her to understand the most basic facts. ‘No, she’s not.’
‘But I ... I ...’ Meena couldn’t say it. Over Ganga’s shoulder she could see the guard returning with the hotel manager.
The girl shoved Meena hard and fierce. She pushed her face into Meena’s. ‘You were too much trouble, so Anchita sold you. I remember it well. But your little friend, she’s not here either. She jumped, two years ago. Anchita was furious. You don’t get much for a cripple, even if they are young and beautiful.’
‘No ...’ Meena felt her legs dissolve, her eyes lifting to the only open balcony three floors up.
‘She’s not here anymore.’ The girl shoved Meena again. ‘And I don’t know where she is, so run now before Anchita locks you up instead.’
Meena staggered backwards. She felt the faces staring at her, hating her, wanting her, baiting her. Ganga disappeared. The hotel manager pointed. The guard stepped onto the street. Meena turned and began to run. The road cluttered up before her. Tripping her up. The guard came after her, but he was large and clumsy, and a group of older women blocked his way, buying Meena time. She raced on, down a narrow alley, one she could see the end of, one with no neon signs and no posh hotels. Her heart pounded, her tread uneven. On and on she ran. Without her kurta bag, without money or ideas of where to go or how. Only conscious of the instinct to be away.
‘Putali ...’ she sobbed. Weak, wrecked, hopeless. She was an idiot. Leela had been right, and Didi and Maa. Even Waman had known it with his lies and promises to find her friend. She staggered forwards, the world spun about her. Suddenly Kamathipura ended and Meena had reached a main road. She stumbled, staggering clumsy, out of the way of an angry bus, when she heard someone call: ‘Meena!’
‘Meena!’ It came again. And then there was a stream of curses—harsh, beautiful swearing. Meena blinked against the sunlight of the street. Panic paused. Leela, red-faced and make-up free spun into vision. And behind her came Sharmila and a wordless embrace so tight Meena could barely breathe.
Thirty-four
‘What are you doing back here? You idiot!’ Leela barked when Sharmila finally released Meena and stood back to wipe something from her eye.
‘You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?’
Meena wobbled. She felt the ground spin, her head light. She was going to faint.
‘Let’s take her to Maa,’ Leela barked. She grabbed Meena’s elbow as Sharmila quickly typed a message into her phone. Then they turned her back to Kamathipura.
‘No!’ Meena struggled against them. Her legs weak and feet slipping on the bitumen.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sharmila explained. ‘We’ll meet Maa at the Little Sister Drop-in Centre. It’s just around the corner. It’s safe.’
The drop-in centre? Where Sarita had visited. Where she got the card? And Maa? Meena pulled back.
‘I took ...’ She choked, remembering the money, now tucked deep in Waman’s pocket. Waman. She retched.
‘Gross!’ Leela let go but Sharmila frowned until she retook Meena’s elbow.
They led her around the first corner and into an unassuming building with a small cafe at the front. From a side room, in a silent swish of yellow sari, Maa appeared.
Meena drew a hesitant breath. Maa should be angry, furious, and yet the hardness on her face wasn’t fury. She looked much older than Meena had ever seen her, but not angry. It was as if Maa was relieved about something. Meena’s legs gave way. Two strong arms caught her but Meena didn’t look up. She could tell by the smell of yesterday’s expensive aftershave, and the way Sharmila rushed to help, that it was Tarak who had caught her. Tarak was here too?
Meena struggled to find her balance.
‘Let’s sit down,’ Maa suggested.
Meena nodded. Her throat felt like it would break from holding in the pain. She let Tarak hold her up and guide her to a sitting room where he deposited her into one of the upholstered chairs. Then he went to sit beside Sharmila. Two members of staff from the drop-in centre hovered in the doorway.
‘Do you want to go home now?’ Maa asked, and lowered herself into the chair opposite. Leela remained standing, as if on watch.
Meena didn’t answer.
‘We would like you to come back to Little Sister with us. But,’ Maa spoke slowly, as if she knew Meena’s mind was in turmoil, ‘we will not force you. If this is where you want to stay—’
‘She is a bitch if she wants to stay here!’ Leela cut in.
Maa frowned.
‘Please come back,’ Sharmila said.
‘If she wants to stay, that is her choice,’ Maa said firmly.
‘I ...’ Meena ducked her head.
‘You stole my money. I know. But that’s not why we’re here. We care about you, Meena. We want to help you.’
They were the same words Sharmila had said the first time they had met. Meena glanced at the once-prostitute now. Sharmila’s shirt was bright orange, the same shirt she had worn to find Meena in the hospital. But today there were damp spots under the arms; she wouldn’t smell so pretty now. And yet, somehow, although she was almo
st leaning on Tarak’s shoulder, his nose didn’t scrunch up in disgust.
‘Will you come back with us?’ Maa asked.
‘I was looking for ...’ Meena tried again. The words sounded cheap on her tongue.
Maa nodded. ‘I know. Didi told me about your friend, and Purna found the photos under your pillow. I suppose that was what you were trying to tell me yesterday, only I wasn’t really listening.’
Leela swore.
‘Enough of that, Leela.’ Maa raised her voice. She leaned forward. ‘Do you know where your friend is? Were you able to locate her brothel?’
‘Yes ...’ Meena choked. ‘No ... I found the brothel, Good Hotel.’ Meena spat the name from her lips. ‘But she’s gone. The girl said she’d jumped, she said ... it’s too far from the third floor!’
Leela kicked the wall, then glared at the drop-in staff member who frowned at her. Maa looked to Tarak, then back at Meena. ‘Who told you she jumped?’
‘No one. Just a girl ... she told me to run ... told me they’d catch me ... told me Putali had gone,’ Meena stuttered. Her world was shutting down, her head pounded, darkness was creeping in.
Maa tapped the table in front of Meena. ‘Listen. Do you still have her photo?’
Meena groaned, she held her head in her hands. The memory of Waman’s face glared at her.
Maa sighed. ‘Don’t give up, Meena. She may still be there, or she may have survived. Desperation can sometimes be a girl’s greatest strength.’
‘And we’ll organise a raid on the hotel, just to make sure,’ Tarak put in. Meena watched Maa nod without much faith.
‘I wish we could help your friend today, Meena. But we need to go now. Purna needs you.’
‘Purna?’ Meena croaked.
Maa nodded. ‘It was Purna who discovered you had run away,’ Maa explained.
Leela gave a dry laugh. ‘Discovered she had run away? That’s a nice way of putting it, more like she completely lost it and wouldn’t stop punching me and shouting Nepali at me until I promised we’d come and find you ... Why do you think I’m here now? If it wasn’t to get away from a Nepali beating?!’
Maa frowned and Leela looked away, seeming suddenly embarrassed.
‘If you are not yet ready to return to Nepal, we can wait. There is no rush. Nepal will not lift her skirts and move. But we would like you back at Little Sister, if you are willing to return with us.’ Maa looked so tired, more tired than she had looked after Nahita’s disappearance.
Meena unwound Sarita’s leaving scarf from around her neck, its threads slippery between her fingers.
‘Please, Meena, won’t you come home with us?’ Sharmila begged.
Leela put out her hand. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked, her voice hard.
‘You didn’t put your lipstick on,’ Meena choked.
Leela ran a finger over her naked lips, ‘I guess I forgot, ehh? It’s not a big deal.’ She narrowed her eyes, but they held no unkindness.
Sharmila slipped out the doorway with Tarak. Maa stood and followed them to call for a taxi. Eventually it was only Leela and the two drop-in staff members left with Meena.
‘It’s time to leave,’ Leela said.
Meena felt the tears pull at her cheeks. She looked up to the closest drop-in staff member, a pockscarred woman in her forties. ‘Do you know Sarita?’ Meena choked out the question.
The woman hesitated, paused and then nodded. ‘I know two. Although one is no longer allowed to visit us. Something happened three months ago and her madam won’t let her out anymore. Says she has to pay back a debt.’
The sob escaped before Meena could stop it. Leela hurried forward.
‘Can ... can you give this to her?’ Meena pushed the scarf further across the table. ‘Tell her I don’t need it anymore. Tell her that I’m ... that she kept her promise.’
The woman lifted the scarf from the table as if it was something precious. ‘I will,’ she said. Then Leela helped Meena out to where Didi and the taxi were waiting.
The taxi crawled through the crowded streets. Maa sat in the front. She called Didi on a silver mobile phone.
‘Yes, we found her.’ Her voice was weary, but relieved, under the noise of the taxi’s engine. ‘And she’s coming home.’
Meena sat between Maa and Sharmila. They smelt of sweat, both of them. They didn’t speak. Meena kept her eyes straight ahead. Her rib cage felt too small, too tight. She tried not to think.
Eventually Meena recognised the intersection where Nahita’s restaurant stood. The taxi zigzagged through the midday bazaar and after several small bribes from Maa, continued down the unpaved road to the black gates of Little Sister Rescue Home. It pulled up beside Tarak’s already parked motorbike. Tarak and Didi stood at the edge of the paving, Didi had her hands folded across her chest.
Maa paid the driver and climbed out. So did Sharmila and Leela. Meena just sat. The vinyl of the seats was cracked red. Like the lips of a girl with too many sores.
‘Come on.’ Sharmila bent to look into the taxi. ‘We’re home now.’
Meena wouldn’t meet her gaze. Her heart felt left somewhere, forgotten and trampled on in a shuffled alley.
Sharmila leaned further in, her fingernails shiny. ‘Come on ...’
But Meena couldn’t move. The driver fiddled with the gears, preparing to leave. At the rev of the engine a frantic cry sirened from the dorm entrance, ‘Na-jaau! Bahini, na-jaau!’
Purna hurtled down the dorm stairs, almost tripping over her bare feet as she charged across the yard. ‘Na-jaau, don’t go. Don’t go with them!’ Her voice was wrought with tension but the words she used were common-form Nepali, the kind used to speak to children or close friends. Purna shoved Sharmila aside and reached into the taxi to drag Meena out. Her mouth never stopped its movement; the words spilled forth. She practically dragged Meena from the taxi and back across the yard. Only when she had pulled Meena up the dorm stairs and into their room did Purna’s voice soften, like a mother speaking to her frightened child. ‘Aau, come now, lie down. Rest ...’
Meena obeyed. The sob, deep and bitter wrenched in her chest.
‘Na-ru,’ Purna whispered. She climbed onto the bed with Meena and curled beside her. Meena felt the tears break loose and slide hot down her cheeks. She cried for the death of her mother. For the day her father forgot she was his daughter. She cried for the red ribbons she could never wear in her hair. She cried for Lalita and Devi and Sarita. The sobs rose wretched and poisonous.
‘Putali ...’ The name escaped her lips.
Putali Maya. Where was she now? Who was she now? Was she living, alive, free? Or not ...
But Purna tugged Meena closer. She stroked her dusty hair and began to rock. The embrace moved ever so softly to a rhythm from long ago. In her mind, Meena could hear Putali laughing at warm water from a tap, she could smell the pickles on Putali’s fingers. There was nothing else she could do.
‘Gyani nani,’ Purna crooned, her hands as gentle as her words. ‘Good little girl. Good, lovely, beautiful little girl.’
Epilogue
The train pulls into the station several minutes late. A goat, someone had said, ran onto the tracks just out of Gorakhpur and caused the delay. But Meena isn’t listening to their complaints. She stares out the window. The platform is as crowded as the last time she had been here. A young boy is trying to sell cucumber slices to thirsty passengers. He looks like a hill tribe Nepali.
‘Aao, Meena, Purna, come.’ Maa pushes herself from the seat across the aisle. She acts as if her body is heavy after the long journey. She will go no further today. Meena rises. She clutches at the backpack, a gift from Little Sister, full of clean clothes, toiletries and the black cardigan Didi had helped her finish yesterday.
‘Follow me,’ Maa instructs.
They thread through the harried travellers to the end of the car
riage and then onto the platform. The boy selling cucumbers switches easily to Nepali as he spots the girls. Meena looks past him. Maa has found the woman in the turquoise kurta-suruwal suit, the woman they are meeting from Stop Trafficking Nepal. She looks older than Meena, but still young—about Purna’s age—and she greets Maa with efficient politeness.
‘So these are your Nepali girls? Welcome to Gorakhpur. My name is Kausilla.’
Purna sidles up to Maa’s side. She is hugging herself again, and beginning to rock. Maa frowns.
‘Come, you must be exhausted, let’s have tea.’ Kausilla smiles. She leads them out of the station, under the huge arch and onto the busy street in front. Along the footpath a row of small shops stand awaiting customers. Kausilla chooses the third shop. It smells of fried pastries, strong milky tea and cheap cigarettes. They enter, sit on hard plastic chairs and wait for their tea to arrive.
Maa pulls two cardboard folders from her bag and passes them across the table to Kausilla. Meena recognises the folders. They are the ones holding all Maa’s information about them. Details on HIV status, ages, years in the brothel, sickness treated, psychological issues present. They will say that Meena is HIV negative, but Purna has started showing symptoms of AIDS. They will say that Meena has no family, that she was trafficked to India by people not related to her. They will say Purna once lived in a village with a smelly buffalo and that is all she can remember. Somewhere among the papers will be a comment, written in by Maa at Meena’s instruction, that Meena had a friend once, a friend whose name meant ‘butterfly’ and ‘love’.
But Kausilla doesn’t open the folders. She tucks them into a pocket of her fake leather brief case. She smiles at Meena, and then at Purna. ‘Are you ready to go back to Nepal?’ she asks.
Purna looks at Meena for the correct answer. Meena doesn’t reply. She knows what needs to be done, that she must face Putali’s mother. Must tell her story and ask for hope. Their tea arrives to break the silence. Purna slurps it like a child. Maa and Kausilla chat about numbers of girls crossing the border and the weather and the new AIDS drug being trialled in Delhi. Over Kausilla’s silhouetted shoulder, Meena can see a row of billboards. One is advertising a happy couple and a bottle of expensive whiskey. Another is advertising a fair skinned model and a yellow bar of soap. The last one is a picture of a girl and a man, the man is holding a false grin on his face and a stash of money behind his back. She knows, without sounding out the letters underneath, what the poster means now. It is a warning, a pleading.