Out of the Cages Page 4

  Sarita’s police officer eyed Sarita again, hungrily. Sarita tilted her head towards Meena in a question. Madam eyed her in simmering distrust.

  ‘Let’s take the sick one, at least,’ the police officer called down to the man in the suit. The response was tangled in echo and curses but the officer cocked his head to one side at Sarita. She flashed him a wide smile, reached up and kissed his jaw, then skittered back to kneel beside Meena.

  ‘What are you ...?’ Meena tried to ask.

  ‘Shhhh.’ Sarita lifted Meena’s head off the ground and wiped the side of Meena’s mouth. ‘Listen, I’m getting you out of here.’ Her voice was hushed and strained in a way Meena had never heard before.

  ‘I tried, I tried to get under the ...’ Meena whispered feeling strangely distant. Sarita seemed to notice the change. She stood up, busied herself with something Meena couldn’t see, then dragged the blanket from the bed to lay it on the dry bit of floor next to Meena. ‘You were always so little,’ she whispered as if admitting something she never wanted anyone to hear. ‘But I won’t let them do to you what they did to Fatima.’ She leaned down. Her forehead pressed against Meena’s for the briefest second. Meena could smell her cheap makeup, and the coconut hair oil and the remains of aftershave from several clients. ‘I—’ Sarita started.

  ‘She’ll get better soon, no need to panic!’ Madam’s words interrupted.

  ‘We’re taking her,’ the police officer snapped with sudden authority, and then to Sarita, ‘Hurry up. Boss is waiting.’

  Sarita nodded. She bundled Meena into the blanket with a dazzling swiftness. It felt as if someone else was being wrapped in the coarse fabric. Someone else was having a small plastic bundle shoved into their chest. Someone else listening to the gentle tone of Sarita’s words: ‘They’ll take you to the hospital. He promised. Get better. Stay safe.’

  ‘What—?’ Meena tried but no one answered her. She felt herself being lifted. It was Sarita’s shoulder her head rested on; Sarita’s breath she felt over her ears.

  She tried to clear her mind. She tried to think: about the rules of the hotel, about what Sarita had said of the tiny girl called Fatima who’d been her roommate long before Meena, about how often Madam let her girls go to the hospital—which she was sure was ‘never’. Confusion danced with fear over the wasteland of her life.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Meena heard the officer order. She felt the brush of the curtain over her face. Dust, lust, stale perfume. Madam was shouting now, ‘My girls always use condoms. It’s not my fault she’s sick.’

  They moved down the stairs, past the waiting room. Sarita’s fingers dug into Meena’s body as they squeezed through the grill gate that kept customers from the lower level. Meena could smell the dried meat and burnt oil of the kitchen, the strong soap and bleach of the lower bathrooms. Then they came to a corridor Meena didn’t recognise but her stomach twisted in fear at the sight of it. She felt the world spinning and she clung to Sarita’s neck. Something akin to panic rose in her chest like a scream she’d started but never finished. A doorway swung open and a breeze—dusty, urgent and free—wove its way up the hall towards her. Meena cringed. She couldn’t look away.

  ‘Sarita!’ Madam’s threat was low and barely heard, but Meena didn’t miss its meaning. She felt a hesitation ripple through Sarita’s body, and then a fierce determination.

  She was aware of the approaching doorway; the night scents of an unwashed city blew over her, air stirred by the wind, whispered to by sunrises and sunsets, travel-weary from plains and himals.

  ‘It’s time to leave’ Sarita murmurred. The door frame passed overhead, as did the short concrete awning, and Meena gazed up—past the leaning, crowding buildings held up by age or scaffolding—and saw, for the first time since long, long ago, a sad and stubborn moon.

  It is several moments before Meena’s eyes adjust to the shadows of the tea shop. A girl her age—dressed in an immodest, sleeveless shirt—approaches with a tray of tea cups.

  ‘Have some tea,’ Rajit instructs as he motions for Meena and Putali to take seats at one of the timber tables. ‘I’ll go tell Baa we’re here.’

  The serving girl hands the friends two hot cups of sweet, spiced tea. Santosh pays and orders himself a small golden bottle of roksi. Meena doesn’t recognise the brand; it isn’t anything her father can afford to drink.

  Eventually Rajit comes back. He mumbles something to Santosh, then sits spread-leggged on the end of a spare bench and waits. It’s only when the tea leaves and other brown dregs are left in the bottom of her tea glass, and Meena is just about to ask for a plate of mo-mos, that Rajit speaks again, ‘Here he comes.’

  Meena looks up to see Rajit’s father, her uncle, step into the shade of the tea shop. He walks with long strides and a dark expression—the same dark expression he wore when he helped Father home after he’d found him out too late drinking. Meena’s never been terribly fond of this uncle, never really spoken to him. But perhaps he is kinder than she thinks? He must be, if he’s thought of her for a job. He knows how tough things get when Baa takes to drinking all his earnings.

  Meena puts on the widest smile she can manage, nudging Putali to do the same. ‘Namaste, Uncleji,’ Meena greets him formally, her palms pressing together at her chest. Putali only hesitates briefly before doing the same.

  Rajit’s father tilts his head in recognition of Meena but doesn’t move to join them. ‘Who’s this?’ He points at Putali, directing his question to Rajit and Santosh.

  ‘Ahh.’ Rajit grins as if he were very clever knowing Putali. ‘That’s the little one I told you about. They’re friends. Always together. Two is better than one, you always say.’

  Meena’s uncle shoots a glare at Rajit as if he has said something rude.

  ‘Her name’s Putali,’ Santosh explains. ‘She’s younger than Meena even.’

  Rajit’s baa stares at the girls. It is as if he can’t see them properly in the dim light of the tea shop, as if he wants to make sure they both have two arms and two legs and necks that join their heads to their bodies at exactly the right place. His studying makes Meena feel uncomfortable.

  ‘How old are you?’ he suddenly asks Putali.

  Putali stammers, then blushes with embarrassment, not used to the attention of a strange man.

  ‘She’s almost eleven, and I’m twelve,’ Meena speaks for her. ‘We might seem young but we’re really hard workers. We’re strong and sensible, and trustworthy.’

  ‘Good,’ he nods. ‘That’s what we want.’ Then he turns to Rajit. ‘Bring them to my tailor, you know the place?’

  Rajit nods.

  His baa studies Putali a moment longer, a glimmer of satisfaction deep in his eyes.

  ‘Would you like some new clothes?’ he asks her without any particular kindness.

  Meena almost laughs. New clothes? For them? How ridiculous.

  Six

  Meena’s head spun. The street was crowded, surging. Down the front steps she went, still hefted in the blanket in Sarita’s arms. Her head brushed against a group of watching women—old women in their thirties with dark skin, cheap lipstick and crooked noses. They were watching her, staring at her, talking amongst themselves about disease and karma and bad types of drugs. Panic rose in Meena’s chest and she gripped Sarita closer. But Sarita was prising her arms free. She was putting Meena down.

  ‘Let go, let go now,’ Sarita said gently and Meena tried to get her bearings. She was being placed on the rough and hard floor of a waiting jeep. A police jeep, by the sound of the murmuring comments.

  ‘No!’ Meena tried to hang onto Sarita; to grip her arms to stay, to force her.

  But something was hardening in her roommate’s expression.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘They’ll take you to the hospital. I made a deal.’

  ‘A deal?’ Meena scanned the night street sce
ne and found the officer Sarita had bargained with waiting, perched smugly on his motorbike. Madam smouldered from the door of the hotel and Vishnu watched on in distaste.

  Sarita stood up and straightened her hair and outfit—as she did 15 to 20 times a night. Meena tried to sit up, to get herself from the back of the jeep, to make Sarita explain. But she couldn’t. Her limbs weren’t responding, her mind kept threatening to slip into memory.

  ‘Just lie still,’ Sarita said, like she’d said so many times in the past. But this was different. This wasn’t on a bed, or on the floor. This was a jeep. And there were no walls. Madam wasn’t in control, and Sarita ...?

  Sarita took a step back.

  ‘No ...’ Meena clung to the door frame, trying to pull herself out. ‘Sarita?’

  One of the younger policemen whacked the side of the jeep with his baton.

  ‘Don’t lose my scarf!’ Sarita called out suddenly. And then the door of the jeep slammed closed.

  Panic swelled. ‘Sarita!’

  She heard the men laughing, she heard Sarita’s working voice, strained now, but still effective, and the moustached officer’s replies. Then everything else was swallowed up by the sound of the jeep’s engine starting and its tired siren working up to alarm.

  Meena gagged as dust and fumes seeped under the red lit gap under the jeep’s back door. She groped for the blanket’s edge and tugged it upwards, as far over her mouth and nose as it would reach. All around was noise: horns, motorbikes, engines, shouting, cursing, laughter. They were taking her somewhere. Taking her through streets so crowded with people she could hear them slap the sides of the jeep as it passed. Her head bumped against the metal floor as the jeep picked up speed. Whatever the minute effects of Vishnu’s drugs were, they were wearing off now.

  She hugged the bundle Sarita had thrust at her a little tighter, as if to hold back the stabbing pain of her stomach. What had Sarita meant about the scarf?

  With aching fingers, she felt in the darkness for the contents of the bundle. There was something soft—thin threads of fabric caught on her fingernails. A small bottle was tucked in there too, and something that rustled under her fingers like paper. Meena twisted the bundle around, groping for an opening, but the movement of her elbow dragged the blanket down from over her nose. Air, choked with thick exhaust, swamped her. She dropped the bundle against the jeep floor as she retched yet again.

  On and on the jeep went until it stopped with a jolt that sent Meena’s body back and her head hit the metal. The jeep’s passenger door opened and someone climbed out. Boots approached the back door and it swung open to show one of the young officers standing in the night. He swore and covered his nose with his sleeve.

  ‘A dog in her own vomit!’

  The others inside the jeep laughed. ‘Get her out then, and clean up her mess.’

  Meena attempted to wipe the spit from her face. The policeman growled in disgust.

  ‘Get out!’

  She tried to obey, but the blanket was twisted around her legs. She struggled to get them free, but didn’t have the strength. The young man swore again. ‘Look, we’re at the hospital!’ He motioned towards a tall, grubby walled building behind, boasting an illuminated red cross. Meena stared. She’d only seen one hospital in her life—it hadn’t been night time, and it hadn’t looked like this. The police officer clapped his hands under her nose. ‘Get OUT!’ His face was red. He must have been shouting at her.

  Meena forced herself forwards, but her legs were still stuck. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?! Just get out, you whore!’ The officer struck her on the face.

  ‘Not so loud!’ one of the men inside called back. ‘They won’t take her.’

  The young officer ducked his head, humiliated. Meena flinched.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you! Just get up.’ He tugged at the blankets until Meena’s legs fell free against the hot metal. She felt his hands tug her shoulders upright. The ground wobbled below her. The cement rolled.

  ‘Get down!’ The policeman tugged the blanket until she tipped off the jeep’s end. Her feet hit the concrete, then her legs crumpled after them. The policeman shoved Sarita’s bundle out after her; it hit the ground with the crack of breaking glass. Something soft and pretty sparkled under the street lights from the bag’s opening. It was Sarita’s scarf, her favourite one, her leaving scarf. The one she had never ever let Meena touch. Meena felt her breath catch somewhere in her chest.

  She heard the policeman yelling something to the men in the jeep. Something about Meena not being able to walk and the other men replied, ordering him to carry her. But all she saw was the scarf. She dragged herself forward to grasp the bundle and pull it closer, but the policeman got there first.

  ‘What’s this?’ He kicked the rest of the bundle lightly with the toe of his boot, causing the contents to come free of the bag, all sticky with the remains of the Cetamol bottle. Beside Sarita’s tightly-knotted scarf, there were one of Meena’s kurta-suruwals, an orange and three notes of dirty money. Money that had this morning been in a man’s wallet, then tucked down Sarita’s blouse, now buried in her bundle. It was hers. Unearned. Another gift, but what for? Meena reached for the notes but the policeman was faster. He snatched them up before her fingers even touched the kurta-suruwal.

  ‘My fee,’ he chuckled and wiped the notes carefully on his trousers before folding them into his shirt’s top pocket. Then he looked at Meena again and kicked her knee. ‘Get up.’

  She pulled the knotted scarf and kurta-suruwal to her chest, watching as the orange rolled away. Then she tried to scoop up the filthy blanket. The Cetamol was sticky on her fingers, the glass sharp and caught in the threads of Sarita’s scarf.

  ‘Take her to Emergency,’ one of the men in the jeep called.

  The young officer swore in displeasure. His rough hands dug under her armpits as he tugged her upright. It took all her strength to hold the remains of her bundle and not to drop them. Her legs felt like carrots.

  ‘Walk!’ he commanded. He smelt strongly of cheap aftershave.

  Meena forced one carrot leg after the other. The blanket dragged, the glass in Sarita’s scarf pricked her fingers. The policeman steered her towards the hospital building and to a wide ramp leading up to a well-lit doorway with big red lettering above it.

  A woman wearing a white sari and holding a broom met them at the top. She eyed Meena without smiling then held the broom across her body blocking the way.

  ‘Outpatients is that way.’ The woman’s voice was dark like her skin.

  Meena’s head spun. Outpatients? What was that?

  ‘She’s Emergency. We found her in The Cages,’ the policeman snapped.

  The woman took a sharp look at Meena and shuffled backwards, making a way for the policeman to half-guide, mostly drag, her under the red lettering and through the doorway. Then the policeman withdrew his support and the cold hard floor came up to whack hard against her joints. Her fingers slid into the slimy wetness of someone’s spat paan but she struggled to remain upright. Her eyes clouding, like the blackness that came when Vishnu beat too hard.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with her,’ she vaguely heard the policeman talking above her. ‘She’s obviously sick, so go find someone to— I don’t know, do something with her. She’s not my problem.’

  Meena tried to lift her head, to make the blackness recede. But the policeman was gone; she was conscious of the sounds of jeep doors slamming and engines starting up again. And then there was silence.

  ‘You should be in Outpatients.’

  Meena turned, barely able to keep her head upright. The woman with the broom glared at her. Meena let her head sink. She had no money to pay for anything, and no strength to leave. But the woman didn’t speak again. She didn’t beat her with the hard end of her broom. She didn’t bolt the doors and tie Meena to a bed. M
eena could just see, through the fall of her own dirty hair, the very dark-skinned Indian woman step backwards three times. Then the straw broom began to move, brushing and brushing, further and further away until Meena was alone.

  Meena felt herself slide down the wall until she lay against the cold hard floor. With shivering fingers she wrapped her kurta-suruwal, the broken bottle and Sarita’s scarf into the blanket and hugged it to herself. She felt tired, so tired. Her head pounded. From where she lay she could see the doorway she’d come in by. The ramp led out into the night. Street lights and night smells—some sour, some spiced—floated in. And no one came to close the door. No one came to lock it shut, or lock her in. Meena hugged the sticky bundle closer to her chest and lay aching, unable to do anything but watch the open door.

  Seven

  It was early morning when Meena opened her eyes to the polished black shoes clacking on the hospital floor in front of her. The space in the doorway was grey now with the city dawn, and the silence that had been the Emergency room was replaced by a soft murmuring of people in pain and being attended to.

  ‘What’s this?’ The Hindi voice belonged to the shoes. Meena forced herself to look up, twisting her aching neck. The shoes were worn by a tall man in a white coat.

  ‘Well?’ The man asked again.

  A young nurse in a crisp white sari answered, ‘I don’t know, Doctor Sir. She was there when I came on duty.’

  ‘But why is she here? We can’t have people squatting in Emergency.’ The doctor sounded angry. Meena felt her fingers go cold. The sari-clad nurse ducked her head.

  ‘Get her on a bed. The ambulance is due back soon!’

  The black shoes clacked away and the nurse called one of her colleagues to help. Gloved fingers dug into Meena’s ribs as they first dragged, then lifted her up. The mattress was cold and vinyl-covered. It wore wide silver tape like a scar over a tear. Meena tried to pull her sari skirt down, to cover her now exposed legs, but her arms wouldn’t cooperate. Her breathing was coming too fast, like a man with a heart condition. She thought she heard the wailing of an approaching siren. The room suddenly filled with white coats and trolleys with screaming bodies. A little girl lay curled under a pile of pink, sparkling fabric. She was crying—no, she was sitting up. Staring at Meena with dreams too big to be anything but lies. Meena’s mind reeled. Vishnu would be coming. And the broken bottles. She clawed out in panic. But then there was blackness.