While I knew the day would come, I was still nervous about visiting the school to register. I was turning eighteen soon, which was old to be finishing secondary school, but I had lost time, and the university Vishnu spoke of in New York required a diploma. As we drove through the city, I thought about Asya and how she always got lost in the scenes of cities, probably thinking up poems. I thought about Madame and what she must be doing to her. I wondered if anyone would wish Asya a happy birthday when she turned eighteen—if anyone even knew. If we would find her by then.
When we had first arrived at the brothel, it was Janaki’s birthday, and I drew her a cake. They had marveled at the way I shaded the picture; even Asya was impressed. After a time, we started to hold tight to those moments as girls and keep them to ourselves. It seemed like it made them more special, our secret birthday milestones.
Vishnu and the driver were chatting about the roads opening up, with winter rainfall clearing out as the season ended. When the flood was at its peak, there was no way to get around. I noticed the decal of the trio of goddesses fading on the plastic door of the driver’s glove compartment and thought of Mausi. She would hum sometimes, the aarti for Saraswati, the goddess she prayed to. Her humming in the kitchen reminded me of Mummy.
I spent car rides like this dreaming about Asya. In my moments with Mausi at home, she sensed it, I knew. When I wiped the tears before anyone could see, I would hear her call me to help her. Silently, we would cut the unripe mango to be dried and prepare the spices for the achar she made.
Would I be like her one day? Would I ever be someone’s mausi or even mummy? Have a family on my own, hum my children songs in a kitchen? Probably not. Having a family usually meant having a man, and the idea of being with a man forever made my stomach turn. Although Vishnu seemed okay . . .
I felt my face turn red from thinking about him again.
We parked in front of a small brick building with a long, open path. A woman with a sari emerged. For a moment I thought she was the aunt who brought us here on the train, disguised. Reflexively, I closed my eyes and screamed. Vishnu led me back to the car and said, “Breathe, breathe,” until my head stopped spinning.
My ears were ringing. When I could finally speak, I told him about the morning after our sixteenth birthday. I told him about the rain on the car window and the way the air smelled. I told him when we pulled up to the school, it felt the same, and suddenly I didn’t know who and what to trust anymore. I told him I just wanted to be with my sister, my safe place, curled up side by side and holding each other. I told him I didn’t know what I would do without her.
When the words stopped, he watched me for a long moment. Then he opened the door, calling for the driver.
“Amla, what if we took a trip to your village today? For something familiar? We have to schedule your home visit anyway. We can call the office to book a flight.”
Priya had said this might help, but only when I was ready. I still wasn’t sure if I could face my grandparents and admit what had happened. Then I thought of Nani stroking my forehead and kissing my nose to heal anything with love. About our home and memories of a life that felt so far away but was all I knew as love. Ladki Rights assessed homes for all the girls they helped, to see if they were safe to return to. I nodded, and Vishnu briefed the driver on our new plan. He sat beside me, balanced and calm, like his name.