IF YOU LOOK FOR ME, I AM NOT HERE

  Tara opened my heart as if it was a small but full purse with a tiny clasp ready to burst open. It burst open and all her troubles spilled out.

  ‘Oh my sweet Tara.’ Sweetie-Cutie held my hand. ‘I know how you feel, my princess. I have known for some time. You are different from other boys.’ Sweetie-Cutie pressed my hand against her chest. ‘You are one of us.’ She had tears in her eyes.

  The falling star had fallen, silently. I had reached my destiny. I had grown from Siva to Sivatara to Tara. My own Fibonacci sequence. Suddenly a dusty haze darkened the sky. The trees threshed the wind and made a dry, rasping sound. I watched Sweetie-Cutie’s face soften, as large drops of rain fell from the skies and seemed to wash away her sadness. Soon, rivulets of rain streamed over the ground and the soil bled with reddish sludge. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. It was just a passing cloud. Sweetie-Cutie clasped my hands. ‘You can’t live in your house anymore. You are not Siva. You are Tara. No one will understand this. I will look after you from now on. I am going to Madras in two days. You must come away with me. Meet me at the station at 7 pm. And don’t tell anyone.’

  Tara, who I had shackled deep inside me, surfaced and floated as if on water, uncontrolled and flowing free.

  ***

  The evening light cast an eerie stain on the wall in the room; it shuddered, full of life. Tara felt restless and inadequate. She undressed and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She stroked her arms and felt her skin, her flesh: soft, supple. She took out Rebecca’s bra and Amma’s saree with peacocks and lotus flowers that she had hidden deep inside the cupboard. She dressed up. A warm feeling spread through her and her toes and fingers quivered. She spread her arms out and spun round and round, and round. She could hear her heart beat in her ears.

  Mani stood at the door with a large sweet lime and a knife. He raised one eyebrow and whistled. He tossed the fruit in the air; he caught it but it slipped out of his hand and rolled towards Tara. Mani walked over, picked the fruit up and cut it in half. He pulled down the blouse, and stuffed the fruit cups inside the bra Tara had on. He pressed the sweet lime halves against her nipples, moving them slowly in circles. Citrus juice trickled down her bare stomach and her body went taut and her breath burst out of her nostrils. She shivered with an unfamiliar thrill; it was like standing on the edge of a cliff. Every moment seemed drawn out and electric with meaning. A door banged shut downstairs. Mani ran out of the room. Tara caught her reflection in the mirror and giggled.

  This is how Appa found her. Giggling. With fruithalves inside the bra cups and juicestains on her belly. He opened his mouth then closed it rapidly. A thin wail erupted from his throat. He rushed to her side, pulled the saree off and then the bra. He flung the fruit halves on the floor. Then he turned on her and hit her, hard. ‘Why didn’t you die?’ he said.

  ‘I did,’ Tara said, giggling.

  24

  The late night train to Madras rocked with the rhythm of iron upon iron: turum turum turum. Tara rocked with the train. Front-back-front-back, like the small movements of pigeons when they made those sounds in their throat: guturu guturu guturu. Her stomach made sounds: buru buru buru. She inhaled the smell of the evening. Somewhat scorched, as though the train was burning through a bale of hay. She looked at her toes: they were edged with black dust. Beside her, Sweetie-Cutie had nodded off. Tara pressed her back to the seat and shut her eyes. Soon she was fast asleep.

  The train rushed out of a tunnel; morning light felt warm on her face. Tara looked out of the window: all around the land swelled with clusters of coconut palms, guava and chickoo trees. Here and there, the ripe fruits on the pomegranate trees glistened like jewels. Buffalos waded kneedeep in water and the canals were swathed with mauve lilies. Then there were villages with brick houses, temples, mosques, lush fields around; brightlyclothed women and children who waved at the train; trees, birds, flowers, and cows with garlands round their necks, their horns painted blue, green, red – all drenched by the morning sun. The train squeaked to a stop at a roofless station. Brownfaced men stood on the makeshift platform, squinting as the sun swelled overhead. A frail dwarf swept the ground. Smoke rose from cooking fires in the thatched huts nearby. Vendors with baskets of fruits balanced on their heads went by the train windows shouting out their wares. A woman stood before Tara’s window. Sunlight flashed from the many silver ornaments that she wore; she had on a mustard yellow saree. She held out a bunch of rastali bananas toward Tara. Mustard yellow.

  Tara remembered the plantain tree at the back of the house. The bananas would be ripe now. She heard a familiar drone and she slapped her cheek. She scrutinised the squashed mosquito on her palm. Its palps were not as long as its proboscis, and its wings didn’t have black and white scales. It was not an Anopheles mosquito. She thought of Appa and felt remorse. With her thumb Tara flicked the dead mosquito off her palm, and with it her brief regret. A young boy stood outside the window shouting: coffeetea, coffeetea…

  Sweetie-Cutie woke up. She stretched her arms wide and yawned. Then she leaned across Tara and stuck her head out of the window. She bought two glasses of coffee from the boy and gave one to Tara. ‘Drink up,’ she said, ‘the train will be leaving soon. We have to return the glasses.’

  ‘It’s hot,’ Tara said.

  ‘Fill your mouth with air,’ Sweetie-Cutie said puffing up her cheeks. ‘Take a sip of coffee and swirl it around. It will get cooled.’

  Tara filled air into her mouth and took a sip. The coffee was still hot. Sweetie-Cutie gulped down her coffee in a number of puffing-up, swirling-around actions. She looked funny doing this. I wanted to laugh but I couldn’t. Tara had pressed her lips tightly together. The train began to move. The boy outside the window started to run alongside the train. Tara puffed up her cheeks, took one long sip and handed over the glass to the boy. The coffee scalded her tongue. I felt the raw taste of it.

  The train picked up speed and more villages, temples, mosques and fields shot by. In the midday heat, the carriage filled up rapidly with dust and the smell of sweat. The train shot past forests and hills, past waterless rivers, through dusty towns where peeling walls were decorated with paintings of Gods and men pissed between them.

  ‘When will we reach Madras?’ Tara asked Sweetie-Cutie.

  ‘By evening.’

  ‘Where are we going to stay?’

  ‘In Krishnapuram. My home.’

  ‘Your mother and father live there?’

  Sweetie-Cutie looked away. There was a trace of redness on her cheeks and her nostrils flared. She told me her story:

  She was a boy. Her name was Kamal. He was thirteen. His mother was a whore. His father brought home his friends – taxi drivers, petty traders, shopkeepers – and took money from them. Kamal watched each night from where he slept. Men came and went and he wondered if some fucking stranger could have been his father. Who was his father? Even his mother didn’t know! Then one morning when Kamal woke up he saw his mother’s feet first, not on the floor but dangling midair. Her head was several inches below the fan. His father walked into the room and screamed. Kamal could never forget that nerve-racking scream. After that things became really bad. There was no money in the house. His father didn’t have a job. He kept cursing Kamal because he was not a girl. Kamal could not do what his mother did. His father nonetheless forced Kamal to wear his mother’s clothes and made him sing and dance for the customers. But they never came back. So Kamal had to find another job. Not far from his house was a taxi stand. Kamal washed taxis in the morning; during the day he had to do his mother’s chores at home – washing, cooking and cleaning. And in the evening he worked in a cheap hotel. He cleaned utensils and plates until midnight. When he came home his father would be drunk, passed out. One evening Kamal returned home early, when his father was still out drinking. Kamal dressed up in his mother’s saree. He put on lipstick that smelled of stale oil, and kohl that had hardened lik
e rock. He felt good. His father returned stinking of sour rum and sweat. He put his arms around Kamal’s waist and pushed him to the floor, pulled the saree up and began to touch him. Then like a raging beast he brought his body heavily on top of him. All of a sudden it started to rain. Kamal was confused but he distinctly remembered the fermented smell. Rum? Kamal opened his eyes. In the old mirror against the wall in front of him Kamal saw the motherfucker pissing on him. And then the mirror seemed to merge with the floor, until it faded. Several minutes later Kamal thought he smelled something else: pungent and aromatic. He was not wrong. His father had brought mutton biryani. He was stuffing the rice into his mouth as Kamal watched. It must have been expensive biryani: it had black kismis in it. Kamal didn’t know why he remembered this, but he did. This was how it started. After that day Kamal often dressed up in his mother’s clothes. He felt relieved every time he did. His disgust for his father took on another shape. Kamal realised that his misery was not entirely because of his father, or his mother. They were but two festering boils filled with foul pus, whose smell reminded Kamal he was not an orphan. His ache was deeper. It was connected to the core of him that had misgivings about who he was. Or was not. Then Kamal knew. He was not a boy. He was meant to be a girl. This new knowledge made him happy, but life wasn’t simple anymore. Kamal met Sita-Gita some months later. They were an inseparable pair of hijras. They became his friends and Kamal told them everything. He left home with Sita-Gita. They boarded a bus to Krishnapuram and Sita-Gita took him to Laxmi-amma, their guru. With her help Kamal became Kamala. But she was the youngest, the sweetest, the cutest, so everyone called her Sweetie-Cutie.

  ***

  It was late evening when the train reached Madras. After a hurried meal at a wayside stall Sweetie-Cutie and Tara took a bus to Krishnapuram, far away, almost where the city ended. Tall arecanut palms veiled the slum. Sweetie-Cutie and Tara walked into a narrow lane. On either side, the huts were huddled close and they smelled of old leather – a pungent-musty smell. Women with rugged faces were everywhere, peeping out of doors, leaning over fences, gossiping, laughing and scratching their hair. A radio blared a film song. The lane was strewn with debris: wood fibres, stone dust, and metal bins, garbage oozing out of them. Tara pinched her nose with her fingers and walked on. I could smell the stink. Sweetie-Cutie stopped before a large house made of bricks; it had a tiled roof. ‘This is Laxmi-amma’s house,’ she said. Holding Tara’s hand she walked in.

  It was dark inside. Laxmi-amma was reclining on a mattress. She was short and fat and her thick, pouting lips were painted a ruby red. Fake diamond studs glittered in her nose and ears. Her teeth were yellow-stained with tobacco and pan. ‘Ah there you are Sweetie-Cutie,’ Laxmi-amma said. ‘You have forgotten poor old me, eh? It’s been almost a year.’

  ‘Have I ever missed your birthday?’ Sweetie-Cutie pushed Tara forward.

  Laxmi-amma sat up and surveyed Tara with piercing eyes and a solemn pout. She held her chin and tilted her face then ran her hands over her body. She shook her head at first, then her eyes filled with pleasure. She slapped her forehead. ‘Sweetie-Cutie, take this creature away and feed her. Fatten her up. She must have something to call hips if she is to be a beautiful woman. Even goats are fed and fattened before they are slaughtered. And it’s a tough life for people like us. Make her understand this.’ She shoved her hand under the pillow and pulled out a red cloth purse with bells attached to its strings: Ting ting ting. She took some money out of it and gave it to Sweetie-Cutie. ‘Get her a nice skirt and blouse tomorrow. Now go.’

  Sweetie-Cutie took Tara to a hut not too far away. It was bare except for the three reedmats spread on the mudfloor. Sweetie-Cutie had bought a dozen rastali bananas at the station. Tara had six of them; she was hungry. She was tired. I slept.

  They took a bus to the city the next morning and got off at the market near the station. From a shop nearby Sweetie-Cutie bought Tara a long red silk skirt with gold motifs on it, and a green blouse. It cost her nearly two hundred rupees. Then from a vendor she got two plates of idlis, which they ate. Sweetie-Cutie bought strings of jasmine from a flower-seller, then they returned to the bus stop. It was late afternoon when they reached Krishnapuram. Sarojamma, an old hijra, was waiting for them in the shack. She dressed Tara in her new clothes. Sweetie-Cutie combed Tara’s hair and fixed the jasmine flowers in them. ‘My beautiful princess.’

  Sarojamma clasped Tara’s hand and walked her to a solitary hut at the end of the lane. Inside, in one corner, was a basket of bananas, a jug of water, and on the floor, a reed mat. ‘You will have to stay here alone,’ Sarojamma said. ‘You must have no other thought except that you are Tara. You need time, silence and darkness to get used to the new you.’ She pushed Tara into the hut and locked the door.

  The hut was so small and low that Tara had to crouch. She couldn’t lie down straight or stand up. There were no windows and it was dark inside, except for the sliver of light that came from the edges of the door, until it was deep night. I was afraid but Tara didn’t seem to mind at all. She was used to the dark. Sarojamma let her out next morning to wash and eat. Then she locked her in the hut again for two more days.

  On the morning of the fourth day, when Sweetie-Cutie opened the door, a crowd of hijras greeted Tara. Laxmi-amma stood before her. ‘Are you Tara?’

  ‘Ya,’ Tara said with my mouth.

  The hijras smacked their hands together and hollered, loud and shrill. ‘Welcome home sister,’ Sarojamma said.

  And then, one by one, each of the hijras hugged Tara. They gave her gifts: trinkets, flowers and sweets. Sweetie-Cutie kissed her cheek. ‘You are now one of us,’ she said.

  Being one of them wasn’t easy. All day long Tara had to work in Laxmi-amma’s house with a boy named Arun who shared their shack. He was dark and skinny; upon his upperlip was a scraggy moustache. He was dressed in a saree though. He had come to Krishnapuram a few weeks ago. Arun and Tara swept the floor, swabbed, cleaned utensils, washed clothes, fetched water and, in the afternoon, massaged Laxmi-amma’s legs. By nighttime they were completely worn out. They slept side by side in the shack. Tara couldn’t sleep because of the pain in her arms and the throbbing in her legs. She couldn’t think; her thoughts were tired too. The weeks passed, and each day was no better.

  ‘Don’t you want to run away from here? Tara asked Arun one night.

  ‘I ran away and came here,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  Nothing was matter-of-fact about Tara. When she had the chance, she decided, she would run away. Where? That was the second question. The first, and the more crucial one, was: where would she find the money? She found the chance a few afternoons later. Laxmi-amma had sent Sweetie-Cutie and Arun on an errand into the city but before she did this she took some money out of her red cloth purse. Ting ting ting. She tucked the purse under her pillow then lay back and asked Tara to rub her legs. Tara kneaded them with all her strength. Soon Laxmi-amma was fast asleep. Tara stood back, waiting. When Laxmi-amma didn’t move Tara crept toward the top of the bed and very carefully slid her hand under the pillow. She grasped the purse and pulled it out. Ting ting ting. Laxmi-amma opened her eyes. In a fit of rage she slapped Tara repeatedly, shouting crude abuse. Tara covered her face with both her hands, but this didn’t help much. Laxmi-amma thumped Tara on her head again and again until hearing her shouts Sarojamma rushed into the room.

  That night as Tara lay on the mat Arun put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. Arun grabbed Tara’s hand and pressed it to his bulging crotch. Tara pulled her hand away and crawled to Sweetie-Cutie on the far side and lay down next to her. She couldn’t sleep that night. She screamed loud and shrill in my head.

  I don’t wanna stay here. Am goin.

  There was utter silence. Even the wind had paused. I didn’t know if it was the failure of my imagination, but Tara had gone, like she had long ago by the lake, bit-by-bit-by-bit.

  **
*

  Sweetie-Cutie’s red saree was tied across the window bars and a gust of wind tossed it up and morning light seeped into the room. It was early. The moon was still in the sky, almost full. ‘Wake up,’ Sweetie-Cutie shouted, ‘we must get ready. It is Laxmi-amma’s birthday.’

  Sweetie-Cutie dressed me in the red silk skirt with gold motifs and the green blouse, which was too big for me. She combed my hair into a tight ponytail then twisted a string of jasmine around it. After she had patted my face with talcum powder she smeared bright pink lip colour on my lips and rubbed rouge on my cheeks, pinching them to soak the blush in. And then with her middle finger Sweetie-Cutie stained my eyes with kohl. She pushed me in front of the small mirror on the wall. ‘See how pretty you look, my kanmani.’

  I stared into the mirror. Was this really who I was? One half of me was silent but the other half despaired. I studied my face. I touched my nose, and my eyes, ears, my cheek, my neck – all mine. A wiry hair grew out of my nostril. I pulled at it hard.

  Aooou.

  The hair stuck to its root so I pulled harder.

  Aachooo.

  I heard the voice in my head sneeze. Was Tara back? I was terrified. At that moment however, another feeling overwhelmed me. ‘I am hungry,’ I said, bunching up my skirt.

  ‘Stop crushing your skirt, Tara,’ Sweetie-Cutie said. ‘There will be lots of food to eat later.’ She draped a brocaded silk saree around her body. She put on fake gold jewellery. Her hair was plaited with scented oil; her eyes were blackened with kohl and her cheeks were a bruised rouge-red. With a lurid lipstick she stencilled a pout on her lips. She wiped off traces of lipstick from her tooth with a swirl of her tongue.

  ‘I am hungry,’ I said again.

  ‘We’ll leave soon,’ Sweetie-Cutie said and looped a string of jasmine into Arun’s hair. She looked at Arun in the mirror. ‘There, you look beautiful.’ Sweetie-Cutie cracked her knuckles on either side of his head. Then with a delicate wave of her hand Sweetie-Cutie slapped Arun’s rump. ‘Soon you will be a woman.’