Mr. Malik did not smile at Razaq. “Bring him in here.” It was a growl and his face had grown dark. “Show him what the customer wanted.”
This time Razaq had no choice but to lean over the table, and Murad’s iron arm kept him there. This time there was no Kazim to save him. Now he knew what Ardil had endured and why he had never told. Razaq tried not to cry out, but his mouth bled from biting the inside of his cheek. When it was done, he stood unsteadily in front of Mr. Malik. Both men ignored the trickle Razaq could feel running down his legs.
“I am afraid Sunni’s education has been remiss,” Mr. Malik said. “He didn’t show you everything. From now on if a customer asks what you do, you say ‘massages.’ If they ask what else, you say ‘whatever you want.’ It is double for whatever they want. Understand?”
Razaq swallowed.
“Understand?”
Razaq finally opened his mouth. “Ji.”
“This way you will pay off your debt to me sooner. I will put aside some money for you—twenty-five rupees each massage, fifty rupees for ‘whatever they want.’ Much better that you work for me than be on the streets getting diseases. Samajti hai, do you understand this, Razaq?”
Razaq fought the tears that were pooling in his eyes and nodded.
“Sunni will come for an extra session in the morning and tell you all you need to know.” His mouth tightened as if he had some extra words to say to Sunni. He waved Razaq away.
If Murad hadn’t pushed Razaq down the hall to his room, he wouldn’t have been able to walk. For the rest of the afternoon he lay on his bed, wishing the throbbing would go away. But he knew that when the pain had gone there would be a different pain—that of shame. Nothing washed that away.
Men in the mountains said that badil, revenge, could erase shame, but Razaq wasn’t so sure. Would he feel better if he could kill Murad? Wouldn’t he then feel shame for killing?
The next afternoon, the man returned. He smiled at Razaq as if it was all a game, a game he was pleased to play. “Come on, pretty boy, show me your love.”
Razaq turned around while the man untied his shalwar. He ground his teeth and tried not to think of his mother’s horror if she knew what was happening to him, or how his father would avenge him if he were alive. He would call this “whatever” from now on, even though it was still skewering. Perhaps his mind would cope with it better.
After that day, Razaq watched the other boys. Were they in the same situation as he was? As far as he knew, he was the only malishia in the house. Did the boys have visitors too or were they just learning to dance?
Razaq couldn’t tell Tahira what had happened, though he suspected Danyal knew. He had watched Razaq sit carefully on the bench for his meal the evening after Murad’s “lesson.” Danyal always said Punjabi jokes were the best but that night he didn’t tell any.
One thing Razaq was sure of: he wouldn’t be doing this forever. He made some calculations. If Mr. Malik had paid one hundred thousand rupees for him and since Sunni had said the massages cost up to five hundred with “whatever,” then he had to do two hundred to be free. If he did a few a day, he’d be free in three months.
He wondered what Mr. Malik had paid for Tahira. He could offer to work a few more months for her freedom, too.
Chapter 16
The searching took so much of his time, but Javaid would not give up. For weeks now, he had kept asking in shops in Moti and Raja Bazaars, even though no one had ever seen Razaq. One Friday, Javaid took a bus to a nigeban, a shelter for runaway and lost boys that he saw listed on the Internet. It was an old cement house, bravely whitewashed. Javaid imagined the boys did it themselves.
A Mr. Mahmood took Javaid to his office, passing through a room where a young man was teaching the boys arithmetic.
“Here we teach the boys life skills for when they are ready to leave,” Mr. Mahmood said. “We instill the importance of education. It is the only way to rise from the slums. We train them in simple trades also and try to get the older ones into jobs. And we give counseling.”
He called softly to a boy near the back of the room. “Suneel.” The boy came and stood in front of Mr. Mahmood. “This boy escaped from a carpet factory. He was sold into service to pay off a debt. He is afraid for his parents, of what the factory owner will do to them, but he saw his chance and ran. He cannot go home or his parents will be forced to return him.”
Javaid smiled, but the boy dropped his gaze to his feet. Mr. Mahmood gave a silent command with his hand and the boy sat back on the carpet.
“He has made much progress,” Mr. Mahmood said softly. “He had been abused in his workplace and is still wary of strange men.” He pointed to another boy. “That one we found on the streets. He had lost his parents and was surviving by collecting rags and who knows what else. Before he came here, he was beaten and . . .”
He left the sentence hanging and Javaid felt the old fear uncurl in the pit of his stomach. What would Razaq be like when he found him? He remembered him as a clever and happy child, polite and eager to please. He had a highly protective streak and looked after his sisters and could shoot or trap any animal that threatened his goats. He had even saved one sister from a wild boar. All good attributes for surviving in the mountains, but would that resilience be enough to survive on the streets of a city? Or would he become a shadow like this boy from the carpet factory?
“I am looking for my nephew, Abdur-Razaq Nadeem Khan,” he told Mr. Mahmood. “Has he come here?”
“I do not remember this name, but come into my office and I will check my records.”
Javaid waited impatiently while Mr. Mahmood opened his ledger and put on his glasses. After some time he said, “I am sorry, I cannot help you.” He looked up at Javaid and took off the glasses. “There are so many children in bondage. Many are missing, some ran away from home, others were abducted or tricked. There are so few workers and resources to free them. The government does what it can, but truly the responsibility for their escape has to rest with the children themselves. As with Suneel.” He inclined his head toward the school room.
“I truly hope you find your nephew,” Mr. Mahmood continued, then paused. “If you do not, please consider returning. Many of these boys need a home of their own. We can find a good match for you.”
Javaid was appalled, but he thanked the man. “May God bless your work here.”
“We survive by donations, janab. The government cannot give us much.”
Javaid reached for his money. It was a good cause. Maybe his small donation would help some other boy find his family. Afterward, as he waited on the side of the road for the bus, he had to keep blinking away the tears.
Chapter 17
One evening, six men with suit coats over their shalwar qameezes visited the white house. They came separately, and when they’d all arrived, Mr. Malik introduced them to the boys as uncles. One short man with long fingers had red leather shoes as fine as Mr. Malik’s green ones. Another was very tall. They were not handsome men, but they looked clean and rich. They watched the younger boys dance to the tabla and harmonium. Then Mr. Malik did something very strange: he called for Tahira.
Razaq drew in a sharp breath as all the uncle-men sat straighter on the couches. The younger boys were sent to bed, but Razaq lingered in the hallway. Tahira looked like his Auntie Amina had when she was married, like Razaq imagined Feeba would have looked at their wedding. She wore a red and gold shalwar qameez, red glass bangles up her arms, even a gold pendant on her forehead, and makeup on her mouth and eyes. Farida had dressed Tahira like a bride.
Mr. Malik asked Tahira to dance. Tonight she wore ghungroo, bells. How they jingled; she was such a talented dancer. When the song had finished, Razaq heard the men begin bidding, just like Ikram had with Kazim. But there were six men this time and the bidding started at fifty thousand rupees. It looked as if they all liked Tahira’s dancing.
“It will be the first time this little princess has danced alone for a man,” Mr. Mal
ik said.
“Are you sure?” Tall Uncle said.
“Certainly,” Mr. Malik said, “Dr. Bahadur, MD Fail, has checked her.”
The men looked satisfied.
“To dance for you personally alone,” Mr. Malik prompted, and the bidding rose like a flock of birds into the sky.
Razaq had never heard such sums spoken before, and all to see Tahira dance. How beautiful they thought she was. For a moment, pride lifted in his heart. When she was older, he would marry her. Then, she would dance for him alone. In the mountains, no woman danced for a man unless he was her husband. Razaq’s father would never have allowed Seema or Layla to dance for a male visitor. So it was very odd for Mr. Malik to show Tahira to other men. Razaq frowned. Although Mr. Malik called them uncles, Razaq didn’t think the men were related to Mr. Malik at all. They all looked so different.
The bidding ended with Short Uncle saying four lakh. He said it with a squeak in his voice. There were sad sighs from the other men, but Short Uncle couldn’t hide his triumph. He wrote on a piece of paper, then he led Tahira to a room down the hall. She gave Razaq a furtive glance as Short Uncle opened the door.
Razaq sat on the floor in the hallway to wait for Tahira’s dancing to finish so he could congratulate her. He’d had no idea so much money could be made from dancing. Perhaps Ikram had been right about the soccer, too.
He heard the man’s voice in a low murmuring—he must be telling her a story. Then he heard the bells Tahira wore. He closed his eyes, imagining the way she turned, her hands opening and closing to show the path of the story, her feet making the bells ring with joy. There was silence, another low murmur, an exclamation, then a shriek.
Razaq raced to the door and pounded on it. “Stop. What are you doing?”
Murad was there instantly, and as Razaq was dragged away, he could hear Tahira screaming his name.
Razaq was beaten so badly he couldn’t move until the next morning. On the way to breakfast, he passed Tahira’s room. Farida was in there with a man who had a leather bag on the floor next to him. “She will heal,” the man said. Razaq moved on before he was noticed, but he had seen Tahira’s leg. There was blood on it.
Murad found him in the eating room and hauled him to Mr. Malik’s room. As usual, Murad was not gentle and Razaq soon had new bruises from being banged into the wall on the way down the hall. Mr. Malik was drinking coffee with Bashir when Murad threw Razaq into the room. Razaq landed on his knees.
Mr. Malik didn’t even put his cup down. “I am sorry you had to be beaten, but you cannot disturb my business,” he said.
Razaq didn’t think he looked sorry at all. He kept his mouth firmly shut in case he said what he thought.
Mr. Malik finished his coffee and looked at him closely. “So you want Tahira for yourself, is that it?”
Mr. Malik’s voice sounded calm, but terror struck Razaq like a lightning bolt. In the mountains, a man could be killed for admitting such a thing. Yet Mr. Malik didn’t have the look of righteous revenge mountain men wore when they were about to kill for honor. Razaq glanced at Murad standing by the door. He hadn’t moved toward him on any unspoken command. Razaq forced himself to calm down.
“She is a sister to me,” he said. It was almost the truth.
Mr. Malik kept regarding him, his head on one side. He tapped the side of his chair, his empty cup still in one hand. It was unnerving. Razaq chewed his bottom lip.
“We should have him fixed,” Bashir said. “Bring back that failed medical student you use to check the kids.”
Mr. Malik lifted his hand for silence. His gaze raked Razaq’s face, and he tried not to flinch. “Tahira was untouched. Mr. Hamid was most pleased. He did say she was rather shy.”
Bashir grinned. “He didn’t seem to mind that.”
Razaq clenched his fists. The anger felt better than fear. Tahira had no family to avenge her. Well, he would be her family now. Then a sobering thought struck him. In the mountains, she would be killed for being with a man who wasn’t her husband, unless there were four witnesses to say she was forced. He knew it had happened, but he was underage. Perhaps he and Farida would count as one witness, and also Bashir. Mr. Malik and Murad knew, too, but they did nothing to help her. He tried to clear his eyes of the rage he was sure must show.
“Why don’t we send him to France like that other bebekoof who gave us so much trouble?” Bashir continued.
Mr. Malik smiled his leopard grin. “This will work out for us. Just think, he will never run. We have found where his soft belly is at last. Tahira will control him.” Then he said evenly to Razaq, “You will always do exactly as I say or it will go badly for Tahira.”
Both men watched him as if checking what those words would do to him.
Razaq said, “Soon I will have paid my debt to you and then I will pay Tahira’s.”
The men’s faces dropped a moment in astonishment and then Mr. Malik threw back his head and laughed. “It will take you many years to pay off your debt to me and hers. Do you know how much she’s worth?”
Ji, four lakh, Razaq thought but didn’t say. He would work years for her if he had to.
Mr. Malik turned to Bashir. “We have a new shipment coming in a few weeks. It is time to put Tahira to work. Mrs. Mumtaz has space at the moment.”
Bashir raised his eyebrows. “I thought she only took family members—trying to act like the old high-class kanjar families who ran brothels. Does she provide music?”
“She’s branching out,” Mr. Malik said. “She’s taken a chance setting up in that gali, but I’m backing her.”
“And him?” Bashir inclined his head toward Razaq.
“He will go, too,” Mr. Malik said, as if that had been his plan all along. “He can give massages there as well as here, but,” he addressed Razaq directly, “Mrs. Mumtaz will take no nonsense. She’ll cut you herself if you give her any trouble.”
It was three days before Tahira came to breakfast. She sat stiffly on the bench and stared at the table. Razaq pushed a paratha over to her, and she took it without looking up. That first morning she said nothing, but in the afternoon Razaq found her in the dancing room.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I could have stopped it.”
“No one could have stopped it,” she said.
“I thought it was just dancing. If I’d known . . .”
She looked at him then, with eyes as lifeless as glass. “It was a dance and that is how I will think of it. I used to love dancing; now I hate it.”
“I will work to pay off your debt. Mr. Malik said he will put aside money each time I . . .” he faltered, “. . . do a massage.”
Tahira’s face showed the sort of pity given to someone who is younger and doesn’t yet understand the world. “That wagon man who picked me up sold me to a man in a black turban with a huge gun. I was thrown into a room with other children. We were fed once a day, and after a week I was sold as domestic help to a big house here in Islamabad.” How bleak she sounded. “I cleaned the house and washed dishes for two years. Then the son of the house started talking to me while I was dusting. I thought I would get into trouble and I was right. His mother caught him and said I had to go. I wasn’t the right age any more for their family. She put me in a rickshaw and the driver dumped me on the street at one of the markets. I managed to keep away from the men there and met a boy who showed me a safe place to sleep in a gali. He patted my head and said I was pretty like his sister. Later, I found out he worked for Mr. Malik. It only took Mr. Malik a day to find me. He said he would take me to a safer place and promised me a room in his house and dancing lessons. But he didn’t tell me everything.” She shook her head sadly at Razaq. “He will never let us go. I know that now. I thought he loved me as a true uncle, that he might adopt me, but he doesn’t love me at all. I have been a fool.”
Razaq didn’t know what to say to comfort her. Not when he also wanted someone to tell him how to make sense of it all.
Chapter 18
T
wo weeks later, Murad took Razaq and Tahira out to the car. It was night, and they had no idea where they were going. Razaq was pushed into the back, next to Tahira.
“This is the second time I’ve been in a car,” he whispered.
Tahira nodded. “Me, too.”
The driver was the same man who had brought Razaq to the white house—how long ago? Razaq wasn’t sure. A few months? The driver glanced at them in the mirror. Razaq wondered what he was thinking. Did he know about his boss’s business? Razaq knew now what that business was: enslaving children and making money from them. Wasn’t Mr. Malik educated enough to have a proper job?
The driver spoke. “You kids watch yourselves in the Qasai Gali. Lots of china shops there now, but they say it used to be full of chaklas, brothels. I’m telling you, it still is. Just not as respectable. Now they are ordinary kothi khanas pretending to be the real thing.”
Razaq stared at him in the mirror. He didn’t understand everything the man said, but was he warning them? Were they being taken to a brothel? Razaq carefully tried his door but it was locked.
He felt Tahira’s hand on his. “What is the matter?” she whispered.
“We have to get you out of here.”
“Why? Whatever happens it will happen whether we are at Mr. Malik’s house or this new place.”
Razaq hated how her voice sounded so tired. “We could live on the street,” he said, thinking of Zakim.
“It will be even worse. And Mr. Malik knows many people. They would find us.”
“I know a place,” he said stubbornly.
Tahira looked at him. He could see the sadness on her face as they drove under the streetlights. How would he and Zakim keep her safe at the scrap yard? As soon as the bear saw her, he would tell his landlord, and she’d be sold all over again. How long would Zakim be able to keep Moti safe? Why did men treat girls this way? Razaq had a trade now: he could be a malishia honorably if he worked for himself like Zakim did. Whenever a man said, “What else?” Razaq would be able to say, “Sorry, nothing else, just expert malish, janab.” He gave a sad smile in the dark.
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