5

In Kamathipura, a parcel died twice.

The first death was the breaking in. The second, more painful, death happened when the parcel realized that she had been discarded by her own family. That was when survival lost all meaning, and compliance became a sensible option. Anything that happened to the parcel from that point on was perfunctory, as boring as the words in an instruction manual. Of course, when physical death finally came, in the form of disease, old age, or suicide, it wasn’t death anymore. It was what the parcel had secretly been working toward.

But no matter how hard the truth hit the parcel, hope had a strange way of creeping back in, and there was a fine line between hope and denial, a line that Madhu herself had walked skilfully. In a parcel’s mind, there was always the pathetic notion that her parents would come looking for her. Madhu too still believed that if she stood on that bridge and spoke to her brother, told him her story, he would remember her. She was disgusted that some part of her still longed for her family.

“Do you want me to open the bag again?” she asked the parcel.

She turned the flashlight off. The conversation she was about to have worked better in the dark. The blackness put all the weight on the words, made them land in the correct places—bombs inflicting maximum damage. Bombs worked because no one could see them coming, and the resulting explosion of light was a celebration, the fireworks of success.

“How did you get here?” asked Madhu. She knew the parcel would not answer; the girl was breathing too heavily. The air must feel as if it was closing in on her. The tight space was unfit for anything that breathed, let alone a human being. The smell of piss, acidic and thorny, reached Madhu’s nostrils. The cage was an oven, and so far it had baked the parcel to perfection. It was time to call the parcel by her name.

“Kinjal,” said Madhu, “answer me.”

The mention of her name made the parcel flinch. “You know me?” she asked, with utter, stupid innocence.

“Do you want to get out…for some air? If you answer my questions, I will take you out,” said Madhu. “Now tell me: How did you come here? Who brought you here?”

“I’m here by mistake. Please, my aunty, she was—”

Madhu cut her short. The sequence of events had to be played out perfectly, even if they came out of the parcel’s own mouth. Right now, the parcel was processing events by memory, but her memory was influenced by her belief in the basic decency of human beings. That belief needed to be stripped away.

“Did your aunty bring you here?”

“A man brought me…he…”

“Think about your village. Think about Panauti bazaar.”

How well the system worked, this one that Madhu herself had devised. It was up to the procuring agent to drill the parcel’s family member for information, for details that could make the parcel understand that she had not been kidnapped. In this parcel’s case, her aunt, her father’s sister, was the one who had cracked the deal. When Madhu had first come into contact with these minors, long before she started working with them, it surprised her how often it was the women in the family who sold the parcels, and not just the fathers, brothers, and uncles. Women were equally responsible for the whimpering and rotting of their own fledglings.

“My aunty took me to Panauti,” said the parcel. “She made me meet a man. He was a nice man…He told me I would get a job in Bombay.”

This nice man had been chosen because he looked like a trustworthy soul. He was small and non-threatening, spoke politely, and was instructed to never touch the parcel. He told her to stay close and get ready for the journey. Was there anything she needed? At Panauti bazaar, the parcel was bought something, a small gift to lift her up and calm her nerves. For a girl from a tiny village outside Kathmandu, the thought of working as domestic help in a city like Bombay was daunting.

“What did your aunty say when she handed you over to the nice man?”

“She was crying…She hugged me…She told me to be strong.”

Had she looked into her niece’s eyes, Madhu wondered. Perhaps she had stared straight into those light brown eyes and asked for forgiveness there and then. It was probably the last time they would face each other. Sure, they might meet again in each other’s dreams, but, Madhu thought wryly, those meetings could always be washed away. Perhaps the aunty had wished her niece luck. Then the nice man took the parcel to the border by bus. It was his job to know each and every crevasse on the road that lay ahead, which official to bribe, and which border crossing to take and at what time. All along the journey, the nice man had not touched the parcel. His instructions were clear: even if she fell asleep on his shoulder on the bus, he was to look ahead into the cool distance.

Then, with sleep in the parcel’s eyes, they crossed over into another country. How useless borders were, Madhu thought. Wars had been fought over them and yet the parcel’s entry into her new country was as easy as a game of langdi. For a change, India did not resist; it offered no red tape. As a hijra, it was more difficult for Madhu to get an ID card than for most, but when it came to the parcel, things were as smooth as lubricant. She slid in and was made to wait in a small room in the state of Uttar Pradesh.

“Tell me about the room,” said Madhu. “Where the nice man left you.”

This, Madhu knew well, was the stockroom where parcels from Nepal—and from the neighbouring regions of India herself—were collected. They were given a decent meal and allowed a good wash. They could mingle with each other freely, because all the parcels had been fed the same story: they were en route to Mumbai to work in factories or as domestic help. Some of them even had sisters or cousins waiting for them in the city, so they would have no problem adjusting to a new place. After they had rested, they were made to stand in a line according to their age. All virgin maal, from nine to twelve years old, they were now examined by new men, given a health check of sorts. During this time, a parcel’s instinct might kick in, but ever so gently. She might feel uneasy with the manner in which these new men look at her, the way their eyes scan her body. These were the dalals, the agents whose job it was to choose a particular piece and decide where it would go and for how much. An auction took place in an adjoining room. Whoever paid the best price got the fattest chicken.

“Did you feel…the man who took you by train was a nice man?” asked Madhu.

“No…”

“Did he touch you?”

“No,” said the parcel. “But I was scared of him.”

“Why were you scared? Did he hit you?”

“He told me that if I asked for my aunty once more, he would throw me off the train.”

“Did you ask for her after that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He would push me…”

“No,” said Madhu. “That’s not why.”

“He put my head out of the door.”

“But why would he do that? Why didn’t your aunty make sure he was nice to you?”

“I don’t know…”

The parcel let out a heaving sob that was less sound, more chest.

“Where did you sit on the train? Was it with other people?” asked Madhu.

She gave the parcel time to settle down, for the spasms to calm. After a minute or so, she asked the question again.

“I was sleeping on a bag…behind wooden crates…”

“Could anyone else see you?”

“No.”

“Were you hiding from other people?”

“Yes…”

“Why were you hiding? Had you done something wrong?”

“No, no…”

“Who was this man?”

“I don’t know…He sang a song to me…but I did not like it.”

“But songs are good,” said Madhu. “Everyone likes songs.”

“He played with my hair…”

After two days, the train came to its final stop at Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus in Mumbai. Madhu scoffed when the parcel told her about the “big station.” It reminded her of the same stupid awe with which Madhu’s father called it a “World Heritage Site.” Her father had been so impressed with the British that he was still buckling under the weight of the architecture they had left behind. Built in the late 1800s to celebrate the Golden Jubilee of Queen Victoria, it had carried her name for over a century and contained a number of gargoyles frozen in cement, perched ominously high near the clock tower, ready to pounce upon the unsuspecting public at night. A few years ago, the gargoyles had watched as Pakistani terrorists created mayhem, wielding AK-47s like children playing with water guns at a school picnic. Madhu was sure that her father, the sad purist that he was, would have rued the desecration of a World Heritage Site more than the loss of lives. What would he say to the fact that his beloved train station was now the final point of disembarkation for thousands of trafficked girls? How would he respond to that?

At the terminus the agent would have kept an eye out for four women who scanned the platform, looking for men like him. These women worked in conjunction with the railway police to intercept the agents and the maal they were transporting. This recent development was a minor hindrance, but the agents had figured out a way to use the hordes of people who alighted from the train as camouflage. Considering that the station was the final stop for local trains as well as the ones that machined in from the farthest corners of the country, it wasn’t hard for the agents to become part of someone else’s dream, to attach themselves to a family for a few precious minutes. Once they were out of the station, Kamathipura was just twenty minutes away by taxi.

“Who is Sharu?” asked Madhu.

“My aunty,” said the parcel. “You know her?”

“The nice man knew her name, and he gave her name to the man who brought you here by train…Do you see what I’m saying?”

It was hard to see in the dark. The dark was for realizations that occurred involuntarily, the way heart valves opened and closed.

“You were told you would work in someone’s house as a servant,” said Madhu. “Who told you that?”

“My aunty.”

“Does this look like someone’s house?”

“No…”

“Do you think you have come here by mistake?”

It was the final question Madhu asked each and every parcel. There were no mistakes in Kamathipura. Things were topsy-turvy, yes. NGOs did the work of the police, the police did the work of the underworld, the underworld governed the place, children looked after their drugged mothers, and trap doors slid open in roofs. But nothing was a mistake.

The cage itself was a carefully constructed thing. It was a perfect piece of architecture, for it did not cater only to the body. The body was confined within it, but its purpose was to allow the parcel to encounter her own mind, up close. The more the parcel’s mind tried to fathom the body’s current predicament, the less successful it was, and eventually the brain, tired of holding on, would let go of its own past, like a hand letting go of another from the edge of a cliff, no longer having the strength to retain anything, letting the other body dive into the abyss and disappear.

An hour later, Madhu opened the trap door and helped the parcel down the ladder. So far, the parcel had been co-operative, which meant she had to be aptly rewarded. The reward was a tour of the brothel and a trip to the toilet. Being cooped up in a hot box had made the parcel lose all equilibrium. Coming down a ladder was too much for her, especially when it was the very first movement she was permitted outside of the cage. Madhu had to hold her, steady her walk. The parcel had not been fed since she had arrived, and she was dizzy. But it was still too early for food. Things had to be given to her step by step.

The third floor did not have a toilet. For that, they would have to go down to the second floor. It was about 10:00 p.m., and business was at its happiest. The guard was attaching a fresh garland to the iron grille. He was the pundit of the floor, trying to keep things festive. Two prostitutes walked toward Madhu and the parcel without giving them a second glance. They seemed to be chagrined about something. The parcel could not get out of the way in time—the corridor was too narrow—and one of the women bumped into her and muttered something. Madhu figured their mood had to do with none of the rooms being free. The women must have had clients, but if all the rooms were occupied, they would have to wait.

The door to one of the rooms was slightly ajar. Madhu stopped outside it on purpose. She did not ask the parcel to look; she knew that the parcel’s own fear and curiosity would make her take a peek. Inside the tiny room was a tinier bed where two bodies could barely fit. The deed done, the man was buckling his belt while the prostitute adjusted her blouse. She shouted out for the attendant, a teenaged boy, and asked for a box of tissues. The prostitute had done her best to make the place feel homey. Above the bed, in a small alcove, stood a single rose in a plastic vase as narrow as the stem of the rose itself. The rose bent over the mouth of the vase like an old man, so tired it wanted to fall onto the bed.

Most of the other doors they passed were closed. All that could be heard was the occasional thud of bodies hurriedly navigating cramped spaces, and spasmodic male voices. At least those were the sounds Madhu caught. The parcel was probably tuning into sounds from the outside, trying to make sense of a grinding mix of car horns, drunken laughs, women’s shouts, and shrill bicycle rings. These sounds lulled most of the residents here to sleep. It was when things were too silent that one had to worry. It might mean that a client was covering a prostitute’s mouth with one hand, muffling her agony, while holding a burning cigarette to her inner thigh with the other, slowly moving upward and inward. Noise was good.

The parcel tried to close the door to the toilet but Madhu stopped her. When she squatted to urinate, her thighs were trembling out of sheer weakness. Madhu had to support her once again. She was allowed to wash her hands and face. She drank some of the water in quick gulps, then washed her feet. She was taking her time. Madhu let her. The parcel was doing anything to delay going back to the cage. That was good. It had all been done swiftly and with minimum physical damage.

There was no doubt that what each parcel went through was as traumatic as experiencing war or famine. But Madhu knew she made their suffering less. She gave them a discount. She believed that what she was doing was humane. Half of the money she made from parcel work went to gurumai, and Madhu’s share went directly to the parcels for food, medicine, clothes, and sometimes toys. She did not keep a single rupee. For the sake of this new parcel, she was glad she had not lost her touch.

Now that the parcel had drunk water, she needed air. She needed to experience the open world again so that the cage would seem deadlier upon entry. Up one floor Madhu went, until they were on the roof of the building. Padma’s watchers were in place, surveying the streets below, keeping an eye on their workers. The women below were not minors and they might have been cage-free, but they were not permitted to move beyond a certain point. They were allowed to stand outside the brothel entrance only so as to draw men in. If they walked even a few yards away from their designated spots, the watchers considered it a sign of escape and swooped down on them, licking their lips in anticipation of the beating that would ensue.

On the roof, the parcel was high enough to get a bird’s eye view of Kamathipura but low enough to smell the gutters. It was the ideal place for her to get an understanding of the topography of her future life. Madhu made her stand near the parapet: first, she would see the back lanes, the spaces between the brothels. Here were garbage heaps that rose three to four feet high. A rat was chewing on a used condom. A crow pecked at something and then let it go. Plastic bags, stale food, sewage, black mulch—it all collided here, much like the sounds did on the street. This filthy bed was deceptive in its softness.

“A girl once jumped from here,” Madhu told the parcel. “She thought she could land on the garbage and run away. But she broke her leg instead. They let her remain there for two days.”

The parcel turned away. Madhu next led her to the front, where the fourteen lanes were lit up like necklaces. As a young and beautiful hijra, Madhu had foolishly thought that she could use her body to conquer these lanes. But now she had come to loathe the very body she had once thought had saved her. The way it changed shape, without warning, sickened her. It did as it pleased without her permission. Recently, as she had distanced herself from it, denied it the care it so desperately needed, it had revealed further cunningness. The guile that had lain coiled inside it like an intestine was slowly manifesting itself in defeated lumps on the face, on the belly, in discolourations on the arm. But Madhu refused to buckle, to pay attention, for this was just a boring new form of treachery.

It might be too late for Madhu, but she would teach this parcel how to separate herself from her body. She would teach the parcel how to forget that she was human. The body was the enemy. The more you loved it, the more you thought of it as a part of you, the more it blackmailed you.

She looked into the distance at the rest of the city, which kept on functioning as though the red-light area did not exist. It made Madhu wonder about Bombay: Was it more hijra than city? Confused, lost, used by all, looked after by none, she could wear a flower in her hair, but the stench would never leave. Every evening when Madhu watched the red lights snap on and the women and hijras trawl the streets for their livelihood, she knew that Kamathipura was more real than anything else, and that none of its citizens, madams and brothel owners included, were doing sinful work. Not at all.

“We are doing your work,” she whispered to the people who lived in the buildings that so proudly defined the city’s skyline. She could say this with conviction even when there was a ten-year-old girl beside her—especially when there was a parcel beside her—because the parcel was proof that prostitution was essential. Without it, the streets would be unsafe. That was the common belief. Wasn’t it? That without the flesh trade, people would take flesh without asking? But, scoffed Madhu, contradicting herself, has anyone asked whose streets would be safer? As long as the people outside of Kamathipura were not harmed, what happened inside the cages was justified. It prevented rapes. But in order to prevent rapes, parcels were being torn from their homes and raped every minute. One child needed to be kept in a cage so that another could go to school. It was the way the city worked, the survival of the privileged and selfish. Madhu felt anger surge through her. If only she could emblazon the skyline with it; then everyone would see how warped the human mind is. How blind, how bent, how convenient.

Madhu looked through the trees and caught the outline of a statue of Jesus. Freshly whitened and lit, he stood with his arms outstretched high above the convent school walls and looked away from the brothels, just like everyone else. He too had turned his back on Kamathipura; he was facing the future, looking to the high-rises that were sprouting directly opposite him. The only comfort his arms could provide was as a resting place for crows, and even they knew not to stay too long. Even they could smell his disappointment with the people of this city. He looked bewildered by his own ineffectiveness. On the cross no longer, he was free now, but his arms could heal no one. That must be why he was hiding behind the trees. Madhu smiled.

Just when she’d figured that the parcel had had enough air and was about to take her back to the cage, the roof had unexpected visitors. One of the watchers brought a line of girls up for some recreation. These were the older parcels, about twelve to thirteen years of age, who were still held in captivity but were veterans of the sex trade. In three years’ time, the new parcel would be a veteran too. After being broken in, she would, on average, service ten clients a night. Even if she were sick for sixty-five days of the year, or if there were floods, or riots, or not enough clients, she would still work for three hundred days each year. She would still service three thousand men in one year, including repeat customers. After three years and nine thousand customers, she would be considered rehabilitated—totally seasoned. She would understand that there was no use in escaping and would be willing to work hard to make money for the pimps and owners. There would be no need for unnecessary burnings and beatings. She would be cage-free. Madhu understood the inevitability of it all. All she wanted to do was train the parcels not to fight back. Fighting back was like trying to punch the dark. Eventually, one had to stop punching and learn how to see.

“Come here a minute,” Madhu said to one of the girls who had joined them on the roof. Madhu had picked the most rotten of them all, the most eaten up. She came to Madhu, but not before she glanced at her watcher for permission. Madhu offered the girl a Shivaji. She lit it hurriedly and inhaled deeply, as though she were inhaling love. Her hand was shaking—she could not steady it—and the shivering lit end of the beedi gave the impression that a firefly was hovering.

“Timro naam ke ho?” Madhu asked the girl in Nepali.

“Aapti,” said the girl. “My name is Aapti.”

Madhu knew the parcel was watching the girl’s shaking hand, the nervous dangling of the arm that was not holding the beedi. It was horizontal, parallel to the ground, suspended as though it was broken. Madhu did not care if the two of them spoke. She simply wanted the parcel to know that this girl was from Nepal too. She wanted the parcel to observe the state the girl was in. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her face was so tired it reminded Madhu of the way the rain lashed the side of buildings and made them lose all colour.

Aapti’s hand might be shaky, but her look was not. She stared directly at the parcel.

“You’re new here?” she asked.

The parcel slowly nodded. She clearly could not understand how this girl was speaking the same language as her. Aapti looked so different. Madhu could tell that Aapti was twelve, just two years older than the parcel, but they seemed ages apart, separated by a time difference that only Kamathipura could create.

“Come,” said Aapti. “Come with us.”

She straightened her hand out for the parcel, offered it with a tenderness that took Madhu aback. When the parcel refused, Aapti let the beedi drop to the ground. She took the parcel’s hand in hers and led her to the other girls, who were now seated in a row against the terrace parapet. The watcher was administering drugs to them. When the girls got too catatonic, when the cage fever was so high that even the beatings were of no use, the girls had to be given opium. It was mother to them. They suckled to it, were grateful for the care it provided, and continued a lifelong relationship with it. Over time, they would change mothers and move on to heroin for further love and guidance.

The parcel stared at the line of dolls, all in the same position, knees to their chests, waiting for their turn.

“You will be okay,” said Aapti. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

Madhu stepped in. She had not expected Aapti to try and calm the parcel or welcome her into the fold. That was Madhu’s job. The parcel needed to believe that everyone else in the brothel was her enemy. If she did what she was told, Madhu was the only one who could provide her with relief. Aapti’s show of kindness, no matter how irrelevant, was a hindrance. Madhu steered the parcel away from Aapti, but then she spoke again.

“It’s best not to fight,” said Aapti. “Look what they did when I fought.”

She lifted her dress, without any self-consciousness at all, and revealed her stomach: a round red mark the size of a cricket ball, the skin rumpled like milk when boiled.

“You’re so pretty,” Aapti said. “Don’t fight.”

Then she let her dress fall and in a flash forgot about the parcel. She took her place in the line. The fear of not getting her dose was far greater than anything else. Madhu watched as the parcel followed the movements of Aapti’s jangling arm. The sudden jerks, like those of a person trying to swat a fly, seemed to shake the parcel up more than anything else she had seen so far. Perhaps, Madhu thought, this was because Aapti was close to the parcel’s age. She could smell the damage.

“Why does she have black lips?” the parcel asked Madhu.

Madhu was surprised; she was so used to seeing the girls with it on that she never gave it a second thought. The black lipstick wasn’t really lipstick—it was a thin paste, a creation of Kamathipura itself. No one outside the fourteen lanes ever wore it.

“She has made them black,” said Madhu. “On purpose.”

“Why?”

“Does it look nice?”

“No,” said the parcel.

“So think. Why would you want your lips to look bad? Why would you do that to yourself?”

The parcel was processing Madhu’s question. She looked at the girls again. In the dark, their faces were shadows. This gave their lips an even grimmer gloom.

“They make it taste bad. They make sure their lips taste bad,” said Madhu. “What do we do with our lips?”

“We eat…”

“We eat…We chew with our teeth, but what are the lips for?” She blew a kiss toward the parcel, a soft air kiss, rare in these parts. “You see? They don’t want to be kissed on the lips. So they make their lips smell. They make their lips ugly.”

The parcels never washed their mouths. They cleaned their bodies from time to time whenever they got the chance, but the mouths were theirs, theirs alone to keep dirty. It was the only way they could preserve some part of themselves. It did not prevent men from mounting them, or from tasting them no matter how sour, but it was a deterrent. On any given night, even if it worked once, it worked.

The appearance of these girls was a sign, thought Madhu. She had not meant to do it quite yet, but she would explain to the parcel what her future prospects were. The nature of the place itself, that it was a brothel, was something the parcel would learn naturally, through simple osmosis: the rooms, the men, the smells, the closed doors, the guards, and above all the flesh and skin that was packed within the building permeated through anyone, even the most innocent of minds, and educated them within hours.

Yes, Madhu decided, having these girls on the roof, with neither star in the sky nor cloud, nor the slightest breeze or drop of rain—just hot stagnant air—meant it was time for the cold facts. She would tell the parcel that she had been bought—for fifty thousand rupees.

A thought came unbidden: goats cost more.

During Bakri Eid, goats were sold at a premium, after taking into account their health, weight, and beauty. Sometimes the shape of their horns gave them extra oomph, sending their price to almost two lakhs—four times that of the parcel. But the goats were eventually sacrificed. The parcel would live. Madhu wanted the girl to know this. And for one so young, she needed to start to be acquainted with old age, which crept up so silently, with the grace of a dancer, even though its onset took away all grace, all romance, all movement. Fifteen years from now, at the age of twenty-five, the parcel would feel old. She might not need dentures, or see her hair falling in clumps on the floor, but her bones would ache. After twisting and turning in a cramped space night after night, she would turn arthritic. But she would live. Just like Madhu did.