Out of the Cages Read online

  But lately Meena’s health had deteriorated past the point of faking it. She was taking fewer and fewer clients, and those who did agree to follow her up the stairs were rough with her weakness and refused to leave tips. Then yesterday, Meena slept in. She woke just before the evening meal, rushed through her dressing, and make up, ready for work, then collapsed beside the squat toilet, leaning in her own vomit. Vishnu, the male guard in charge for their floor, must have carried or dragged her back to bed still dressed, still wearing her sari blouse, skirt and vomit. Meena did the slow calculations: if Sarita had taken off her work shoes and had left with casual flip-flops, then Meena had been in bed, alone, all night. That meant only one thing—Madam had given her time off. Madam had been kind.

  Two

  There was a tapping of long fingernails on the partition wall.

  ‘Ehh, Meena? Are you there?’

  Meena rolled onto her back and lifted the edge of the poster to reveal a round hole in the plywood board. Devi’s stained teeth grinned through the hole. Her mouth was smudged with lipstick.

  ‘I’m here,’ Meena forced the response Devi was waiting for. She could now see the dark lines of kohl around the younger Nepali girl’s eyes.

  ‘You look terrible.’ The dark lines squinted closer to the hole. Devi spoke fluent Hindi. ‘Are you still bimara? Still sick? At least you’re getting time off. Madam’s being kind to you—’

  ‘Kind?’ The word shuddered through Meena like something she was not allowed to remember.

  ‘Oh, I’d give anything for time off,’ Devi laughed. ‘Well, almost anything, not that I have anything left, but you know what I mean.’

  Meena’s head hurt. Devi talked too much. Even with clients she talked too much. Elaborate conversations with men who didn’t come to talk. Meena used to listen in, to focus on Devi’s ramblings instead of the movements of the man on top of her. Devi prattled on asking about world news, about clients’ families, about whether they’d arrange a police raid, and tell them how many minors she thought Madam kept. Once Meena had heard Devi caught mid-conversation with a client, by Madam herself. If Devi had just been speaking Hindi she would only have received a light beating, three bruises to the face perhaps. But she’d been talking Nepali. And Madam forbade it. Devi had disappeared for almost two weeks that time. After she returned, she didn’t talk so much, for about three days, then she was back to normal—though always in Hindi.

  ‘So, where’s Sarita?’

  ‘Out.’ Meena’s head pounded. She wanted to sleep. To sleep without dreaming like she had before she’d become sick ...

  ‘Good, aacha, listen up!’ Devi’s face drew closer. A cigarette rested on her lips for a moment, then she spoke, letting the smoke push itself through the hole into Meena’s room. The smell wrestled Meena’s stomach and tried to dig up a memory. A father ...

  ‘There’s this man, Kamal,’ Devi’s voice continued.

  Meena struggled with the image from the past and by weak force, focused on Devi’s words instead. She couldn’t remember. Not here, not now.

  ‘Are you listening?’ Devi squinted through the hole to make sure, before she continued. ‘Anyway, Kamal was here earlier. The one before the one before the last one. He says he knows someone in the police department. He says there’ll be a raid soon!’ Devi’s voice sounded like a child chasing a kitten. Meena had felt excitement like that once. Somewhere ... but it had been a lie ... somehow ...

  ‘The police know they’re here, under sixteens. So that’s me and Sita, and Lalita and Little Sita, and Manisha and—how old are you?’

  Meena looked away, a sudden numbness surrounding her soul. She’d lost count. She’d been a minor last year. She’d been hidden with the little girls during a violent raid. But this year? She was older. Her breasts were almost full. Her sari size hadn’t changed for a long while. Was she fifteen? Or sixteen? Was she still hidden property or old enough to be open and counted? Like Sarita? Or Bala?

  Devi gave an impatient sigh and continued. ‘This time Madam won’t know anything. It’s going to be a real police raid, with police doing what they are supposed to do. Think of that, Meena. And Kamal said he’ll make sure the leak at the police station—don’t you like the way they call it a leak as if men have nothing else to do? Anyway, he’ll make sure the leak doesn’t find out. It’s really happening this time. We’re going to be free. We’ll go home and ...’

  Devi’s voice ran off. Meena opened her eyes. The girl on the other side of the partition sat further back now. Her eyes lost in a far off dreamland of people and places that for Meena no longer existed. Meena let the poster drop back in place. Raids were a farce—something the police did and Madam navigated. She wouldn’t bother remembering the number of raids she’d been through, even if she could; jammed into hiding spaces, silent on the threat of beatings. All raids did was guarantee tighter restrictions, especially on the valuable girls—the ones who brought in the most money, the youngest Nepali girls.

  ***

  Sometime in the early evening, judging by the sounds in the hallway, Meena drifted awake from a clouded, fevered sleep. Her mind filled with scraps of memory, like shreds of torn paper blowing on a breeze. She forced her eyes to stay open, to take in the sights and sounds around her. To concentrate. Concentrate. No memory. No fear. Just the present. The hotel preparing for an evening’s work.

  Meena knew the routine without thinking. The girls who were allowed out of their own rooms would all be in the kitchen, buying food with tip money. Then Sarita would go to the sitting room and switch on the flashing lights while flirting with Garud who was the guard on that level. She would pump the cushions, letting foul phrases drop from her tongue, then turn on the radio loud enough to drown them out. She’d tidy the younger girls’ hair next, as they came in after eating. Then she’d assign everyone a seat. Meena’s normal seat was three away from the door. Madam would come in and lay down the rules for the day. Threats for the stubborn ones. Debt reminders for the lazy ones. Together, they’d wait for the customers. And when they came it was like a show:

  ‘Look at me, kancho boy,’

  ‘Are you feeling sexy ...?’

  ‘Oh-ho, I can make you feel so good!’

  But Meena knew none of the girls ever felt anything close to good. Some of them moved into automatic once the lights went on. Meena had tried to have a conversation with Priti once, but the girl was oblivious to anyone who wasn’t a client. She was like a machine who took men upstairs and bought money back down to Garud, who sorted out what belonged to Madam and what Priti could keep. She didn’t even realise Garud sometimes kept more than he should.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Meena heard Vishnu shout from the hallway. She struggled to a sitting position. Her head spun. A sudden glimpse of green hills and dry rice fields flicked through her mind. She held herself steady. Focus. But the mental lock-down was breaking. Cracks were appearing. Cracks Sarita had warned her about.

  Meena lunged over the side of the bed and vomited again, just as Sarita reappeared around the curtain.

  ‘Ghinauna!’ Sarita let out a stream of curses, some Hindi, some in her mother-tongue, Tamil, and some English that she’d learned from TV.

  ‘I can’t ...’ Meena tried. But Sarita just swore again and covered the bowl with a piece of newspaper. ‘I’ll empty it later.’ She tilted her head towards the business already beginning beyond the curtain. She propped her hands on her hips, barely tucked into the low sitting skirt she wore. She was already dressed for work, the black heels on, her face made up, her hair shiny with oil. She must have come in and got dressed while Meena was sleeping. ‘I’m guessing you won’t be working tonight, either.’

  Meena stared at the ceiling. She had a vision of red ribbons laughing. The bumps on the roof curved into each other, pretending to be hills from somewhere long ago. A flicker of pain rose in her chest. The fragments were chasing her.

 
‘Where are you?’ Sarita pulled the blankets up roughly, a wary concern flickering in her voice. ‘Are you delirious?’

  Perhaps. Meena cringed from a beating she knew she deserved. She couldn’t afford to remember. And yet she was no longer strong enough to fight it ...

  Sarita studied her for a moment longer then sat beside her, resting a hand on Meena’s knee. ‘I went to the bazaar again today,’ the older girl spoke softly. So softly Meena had to strain to hear. ‘They have medicine. Free for girls like us, and oranges, so I brought you some.’ She laid the round fruit in front of Meena. They glowed through her daze.

  ‘The medicine is just Cetamol. The nurse said it won’t fix you, but would be good for pain and fever. Take two capfuls, three times a day.’

  Meena watched Sarita dig through a plastic bag for the bottle of medicine. She heard the seal break.

  ‘Smells nice,’ Sarita commented then held it out. ‘Drink this, and promise me you won’t vomit it straight back up again.’

  Meena tried to sit up again. Sarita held the plastic cap to her mouth and poured the yellow liquid in. It was sweet and powdery on her tongue.

  ‘Now, go to sleep. I’ll work in Jameela’s room again and make sure Vishnu keeps everyone out of here.’ She paused as if weighing up her words. ‘I asked Madam to call in a doctor for you. She won’t. She says you’re behind payments on your debt. There’s only so much I can do to distract her from coming to check on you.’ Sarita swore, her eyes flicking ever so briefly to her leaving scarf. ‘How far behind are you? Really?’

  Meena laid back. She looked up at Sarita, the girl she had hated for so long until she’d realised she wouldn’t be alive without her. She tried to answer, to say she was fine. That she’d be better in the morning. That the images, the memories that were hounding her could be kept at bay. That she’d be back working, paying off her debt before Sarita could say ‘Namaste!’ But her head spun. Grunts rose from Deepa and Devi’s room and her answers dissolved into nothing. There was a noise—fist against face—from the room next door, but no one cried out. Sarita stood waiting, an unexplained emotion across her face. The fluorescent light shone too bright. Like the sun that defied a cage, and Meena heard laughter, young nervous laughter from the back of a motorbike. Laughter that wasn’t Sarita’s or Devi’s or her own.

  ‘Is there ... a bike?’ she asked. But Sarita was already gone, and the only noises now were those that came from the hotel. Meena closed her eyes, succumbing to dizziness. Laughter rang again. She knew it wasn’t real, and yet it was. It came from long ago, long long ago, and someone she had tried to forget ...

  She is on the back of a motorbike, side-saddle behind Rajit, one arm around his waist the other gripping the back of his bike. Meena’s ridden with the boys before, many times, but never like this. Never so fast or with such purpose. Never with the exhilaration of dreams coming true! She lets out a laugh, excitement bubbling like a spring in monsoon. She can feel Rajit laugh too, the trembles of it rippling his stomach and making her blush. She is glad he can’t see her. Glad he can’t read her thoughts. But there is someone else sharing her laughter. Someone on the back of Santosh’s bike. Someone little, whose nervous delight carries over the noise of the bikes.

  Three

  ‘Where is she?’ Madam’s bark ripped Meena from the dream—if that is what it had been. The images had been so clear. A scent of motorbikes and dust lingered in a memory she couldn’t have. There had been a girl ... younger than Lalita ...

  ‘Why is she still in bed?!’ Madam’s anger jolted Meena’s consciousness back to the present. She heard Sarita’s answer from the hallway, beyond their curtain door: ‘She’s unwell. I’m worried about her.’

  Madam huffed. ‘I’m worried too! I can’t afford for girls like her to be too sick to work. You should know that better than anyone!’

  ‘Yes, Madam,’ answered Sarita.

  The curtain lifted as Madam hustled her generous curves inside. Behind her crowded Garud, Madam’s son and accounts manager, and then Sarita. Meena tried to sit up in acknowledgment of the hotel owner but her head pounded and she felt the room begin to tilt. ‘Nain!’ Madam made a flustered motion with her hand. ‘Lie back down!’

  Madam frowned, hands on her sari-clad hips, and studied Meena quickly, careful to remain as close to the door as possible. ‘So? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Madam.’ Sarita spoke with full respect. ‘She’s been sick for several days now, with fevers, vomiting and delirium. She worked as long as she could, but now I think she may have something more serious. The fever doesn’t even respond to Cetamol.’

  ‘Cetamol?!’ Madam spat the word in disgust at Sarita’s efforts. ‘I’ve told you before, if you’re going to waste money on medicine, get the strong stuff. The antibiotics kind.’

  ‘She’s had them. They didn’t work.’

  Madam took a step back at this piece of information and frowned. ‘Vishnu!’

  Vishnu appeared, his fists twitching for work. Meena felt her mind begin to shut down ready for a beating, a waft of motorbike exhaust filled the room but seemed apparent only to her. Sarita stepped forward as she had so many times in the past.

  ‘No, Madam, she doesn’t need what Vishnu can do. I’d know. I’d tell you if it was disobedience, or laziness—you know I would.’

  Madam untucked the end of her red cotton sari and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She kept her gaze on Sarita; measuring her. ‘Vishnu’s good for other things. He knows where to get stronger drugs. I’ve had a request for Meena. Her babu. Tonight. She needs to work.’

  Meena felt, rather than saw, something in Sarita snap. She’d seen defiance in Devi before, or Bala or Krishni, but never in Sarita. Sarita never flinched, never disagreed. Not when it came to Madam’s will. But something was different. The subtle change Meena had felt in Sarita, the change that had something to do with the leaving scarf, made Sarita’s eyes flash. Meena felt her world, small and reeling as it was, begin to tremble. Vishnu sensed the change too and took a slight step back, a ripple of respect softening his fists. Madam, however, didn’t notice, or if she did, she chose to ignore the tremor.

  ‘Will you order a doctor? A doctor for healing?’ Sarita spoke her request in sharp pronouncements.

  ‘No, I will not, she owes me too much money for that.’ Madam turned to walk out. ‘Vishnu, go see about something stronger than Cetamol.’ She spat the name of the medicine in Sarita’s direction. ‘I do not intend to keep our clients waiting. Meena’s babu will be here at nine. Get her ready to work.’

  The simmering in Sarita rose to a boil. ‘No!’

  Madam may have paused midstep but Meena wasn’t sure. The curtain lifted and then they were all out in the hall again. An ugly silence settled over the floor of the hotel. Even the chatter from Devi’s room stilled.

  No one said ‘No’ to Madam. Not unless they were willing to pay the consequences.

  Meena could no longer see the glare in Madam’s voice, but she felt it. ‘You whore! You know very well who is in charge here, and it is NOT you—no matter how useful you think you are. If I say she needs to work, then we make sure she can work.’

  ‘She needs more time, not drugs. She’ll improve with proper care and time.’

  ‘Which would be fine if we were a hospital!’ Scorn dripped from Madam’s words. ‘But. We. Are. Not. Vishnu, why are you still standing here? GO!’

  Meena heard Vishnu hesitate briefly, then hurry down the stairs. ‘Garud, take over watch duty on this floor until Vishnu returns. Get back to work, Sarita. I should not have to remind you that your accommodation and employment in my hotel is a privilege I can easily revoke.’

  There was a brief silence. Then Meena heard Sarita’s voice again, forcibly respectful this time but no less stubborn. ‘Madam, she is not like Fatima. Please let her be. Give me one more night to care for her. She will not need the expense of
Vishnu’s drugs. Can I trust on your kindness?’

  Meena cringed. Kindness?

  Madam must have had the same thought. ‘Kindness?! This is a brothel, Sarita. We sell love, not kindness!’ And then in a much lower voice so only snippets could be heard, Madam continued. ‘She’s going to ... it’s obvious ... a Madam doesn’t get attached ... be careful ... drugs ease the pain ... he buys them ... the heart and such, whatever is still healthy ... I’ll split the profit if that will keep you quiet ... twenty percent for you.’ Madam’s voice sunk beyond what Meena could hear and then rose again in response to something Sarita had said. ‘For the last time, stop telling me what to do in my hotel! I don’t even remember this Fatima you keep raving about—little Bengali girl, you say? So? They are all little! Some grow up, others move on. When business is difficult we must do difficult things! She owes me money. They all do. If they can’t work to pay it back, I find other means. It’s what I do. It’s why my hotel is as successful as it is. One day you will understand … You cannot get attached to the workers ... No, we will not discuss this anymore … Get back in your place before I forget how useful you’ve been!’

  Meena heard Madam turn on her plastic slippers and tread heavily down the stairs. Garud made a crude comment to Sarita and there was the sound of a quick scuffle before Sarita lifted the curtain and stood—a hollow replica of her usual self—just inside the doorway. It took a few seconds before she even seemed to see Meena.

  Meena felt her gut clench, but not because of the illness. This time it was fear tightening its belt around her—deep fear that whispered of loss and death and panic.

  Sarita saw it too and Meena felt ashamed. But the older girl didn’t scold her this time. She didn’t remind Meena of how fortunate she was or how she should be grateful for surviving. She just looked away, away from Meena’s eyes, and wandered over to her scarf. The purple-and-silver one hanging on the hook. Her leaving scarf. Sarita wove her fingers into the fabric and held it tight. ‘How much did you hear?’ she asked, keeping her eyes away from Meena.