room the next morning.
I couldn’t face Mrs. Rao. I couldn’t eat or sleep either and wished I’d stop breathing.
I lay in bed, curtains drawn, devastated at what I’d done.
Aunty Shilpa had died, and Grandma too. I didn’t even want to think of what Preeti’s life must be like with that vile man.
When Mrs. Rao buzzed me the next morning, I told her I was sick. She didn’t inquire after my well-being. She was only irritated she had to make her own coffee. I stayed in bed in a haze of sadness and despair, getting up only to drink from the tap in my bathroom.
After one day, I began to feel weak and dizzy. After two days, I thought of killing myself. On the third, I fantasized about murdering Franky and Mrs. Rao, poisoning them with my cupcakes laced with something bad. Meanwhile, the intercom buzzed every morning. Each morning, I told Mrs. Rao I was sick. Each time, she hung up, annoyed.
On the fourth day, I decided to get up.
The previous night, as I’d lain in bed with Preeti’s letter still tucked under my pillow, I’d thought of her and only her. She was still alive somewhere in Goa. I had to find her. I had to help her. How, I didn’t know, but I knew I couldn’t save her lying in bed, feeling sorry for myself.
With the remaining strength I had, I took a shower and stumbled into the kitchen for something to eat.
“Ah, you’re back,” Mrs. Rao said sharply. “I need the laundry done. It’s been piling up for heaven’s sake!” With a snort, she walked out, got in her car and left. I watched her leave, an unspeakable anger gnawing inside me.
Over the next few weeks, I didn’t sleep much. I lost my appetite and got tired easily. When my teacher asked me what was wrong, I told her I had a bad case of the flu and was just recovering. My hands shook so much, I had to redo the icing on the cakes Mrs. Rao had demanded I make. I couldn’t bear to look at her anymore, so I kept my eyes down and went through the motions.
But my mind was racing a million miles a second.
How do I get out of here? How do I get back to Goa? Who can I call for help? How can I tell the police what Mrs. Rao's up to without getting myself thrown in jail first? An image of a white-and-blue police car rushing to our house with sirens blaring haunted me every night. The thought of prison sent cold shivers down my spine. If I’m in jail, how can I help Preeti?
Two weeks after I got out of bed and started work again, the landline was picked up for the second time during my stay at Mrs. Rao’s house.
Ashok was gone somewhere. Mrs. Rao was upstairs cloistered in her bedroom as usual. There wasn’t much time.
I dropped the icing tube on the counter, the pink splattering everywhere, but I didn’t care. I dashed to the den as fast as I could and closed the door gently. I leaned across the big desk and slipped the phone out of its cradle.
Buzzz whirrr buzzzzzz. I nearly dropped the handset. What’s that?
“Hello? Hello?” Mrs. Rao was trying to speak through the crackle and hisses coming down the line.
More static.
“Hello? Hello?” She sounded anxious now.
A crisp female voice cut through the noise with a lilting Hindi accent. “Will you please accept a collect call from India, madam?”
“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Rao’s voice was unusually strained.
“You can go right ahead, mister,” the female voice said from far away.
“Mrs. Rao?” This time, I dropped the phone. It slid down to my lap. I picked it up gently and brought it back to my ear.
“Hello, Franky,” Mrs. Rao was saying in a subdued tone. “May Lord Vishnu smile upon your family. I hope all is well.”
“Yes, yes,” Franky said. He sounded hurried. No, he sounded irritated. “Let’s get to the business, shall we? We have to make arrangements very fast now.”
I clutched the telephone to my ear, not daring to breathe.
“I will find the money, I promise,” Mrs. Rao said. “Please be patient, Franky, please.”
“You ran out of chances. I gave you six months to solve this problem. What did you do?”
“I...er...” I’d never heard Mrs. Rao speechless. “Please, Franky. Give me time.”
Is Mrs. Rao begging?
“No!” Franky yelled so loudly I had to pull the headset away from my ear. “I already made other arrangements. I am fed up, very much fed up. Do you understand?” He sounded furious.
“I’m only asking for one more week. You have to understand. I promise over my dead husband’s grave—”
“That stupid husband of yours was no better. Pretending he was a Brahmin from New Delhi. I paid him well, but he gave me trouble, just like you. You owe me.”
Mrs. Rao let out a whimper. “My husband, rest his soul, did his best for you. He worked so hard. Please do not insult him, Franky.”
Did I have this all wrong? Was Franky Mrs. Rao’s boss? Was he the real snake-head?
“Oh yeah, bless him. Lost all the money he left you to those rich friends of yours, eh?”
“My friends are all I have,” Mrs. Rao whimpered. “They won’t come if I didn’t feed them and entertain them. I’m just a lonely widow, Franky.”
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to over there, Mrs. Rao. You gambled all the money we made. Now you’re losing your house and you’re ruining my business. We’ll be finished, and this is all your fault!” Franky sounded like he was frothing at the mouth.
“You know I am a good woman. I always give a little something to the animal society. I’m a very good person—”
It was strange to hear Mrs. Rao so meek. I imagined her in bed upstairs, cowering.
“You can’t even do a simple job.” Franky wasn’t done shouting yet. “I sent you the girl as a favor, and you let that footloose tramp run around like a gora. How many times did I tell you to be careful? You couldn’t even do this one simple job.”
“But someone told Social Serv—”
“Stop making excuses, Mrs. Rao!”
I listened in shock, my heart pounding.
“How hard is it to keep a schoolgirl locked up when we’re making deliveries? A few thrashes to the back of her head was all that was needed. Make them bleed a bit and they will listen. You’re a coward, like your husband. Even Ashok could have done a better job.”
“Franky,” Mrs. Rao said in her most endearing tone, which she reserved for outsiders, like my teachers and our neighbors, “you know the Arabs pay very good money for young girls. I have a friend who can help us make a deal. The girl is still very fresh, healthy, only sixteen.”
The hair on my neck stood straight. Is she bartering me off?
“Ha!” Franky said. “The Arabs don’t like them over twelve. Besides, have you seen that girl? The color of over-brewed tea. You could have at least used that skin-lightening lotion on her that I sent you. We could send her off for domestic work, but even then, we won’t get much for her.”
I looked down at my arms and turned them over. I hadn’t realized I was the color of over-brewed tea.
“I’ve tried my best, Franky. If you had sent a girl version of Ashok, we wouldn’t have these problems, you know. An illiterate, dumb girl from a village wouldn’t gossip with the neighbors, ask to go to school, or bring boys into the house. She is so much trouble. What can I do, Franky? At least that boy and her didn’t call the police.”
“Enough! I already found a businessman from Tamil Nadu who is ready to pay to solve both of our problems. He needs to leave the country for a while, and we have to get a marriage visa for him. I know he will pay, not like the rich Arabs maybe, but he will pay something. We can get rid of her and solve our immediate problem.”
“Does this mean,” Mrs. Rao said in her sweetest tone, “that I get to keep my house? This is all I have. My memories of my dear husband, our life together—”
“I don’t give out free money, you understand? You will be paying back with big interest for the rest of your life. You were too busy stuffing yourself and playing cards with your rich friends to do your job. It was my mistake to even start this business with you.”
Silence from Mrs. Rao.
“Any more boyfriends around?” Franky snapped. “I don’t want more trouble.”
I nearly choked. I clenched my fists. I should have trusted my gut when I first saw Franky’s yellowed hyena smile back in Goa.
“No. No boyfriends,” Mrs. Rao said quickly. “I keep her very busy here at home.”
“That, at least, is good news.”
“She cooks excellently. My friends think she cooks better than those fancy restaurants on Queen’s Quay. That’s why they always want to come to my house. I’ve taught her very well.”
Taught me? How dare she?
“Good, that was your job anyway,” Franky said, apparently satisfied. “Balasubramanium, this man I found, is fifty and already has a wife, so he will know how to give a good thrashing if she misbehaves. Maybe you need to learn something from him.”
With that, Franky hung up with a click. With a huge sigh, Mrs. Rao followed suit.
I stayed still for a minute holding on to the phone, listening to the dead monotone. My shoulders felt tighter than a bow drawn taut.
When I finally put the phone back on its cradle, there were red marks on my palm from clutching the handset too tightly.