After Madame’s big announcement, Bhima was the first to feel the wrath of Madame’s new whip. She had been caught hoarding money. Janaki revealed the empty ghee container that she had stolen from Jayna to keep the extra rupees in. Apparently, Bhima had been giving men extra services for half price, then asking the men for the money behind closed curtains to keep for herself.
We heard the lashings and screams through the thin walls when we were supposed to be doing chores. Sajana and I were folding laundry.
I kept my eyes focused on my hands, noticing how they had aged and felt rougher than when Amla and I had left the village. At each cry and slap of flesh I heard, I kept my focus on the clothes and imagined Shiv running in that evening, holding his special ointments and herbs, instructing me how to apply them on Bhima to help her.
I pictured his voice, his smile, and the tears fell one by one as I kept my eyes on my hands.
“At least it is not you, Asya, for the baby’s sake.” Sajana spoke low, and while I sensed her compassion, I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. I was afraid to meet eyes with anyone ever again. Trusting his eyes was what got me to fall for Shiv, who I now knew was never coming back.
That night, Bhima still had to see customers. We heard her scream when men touched her back, which was still raw with lash marks.
Janaki gave her ghee to spread on each injury in between.
That morning, we fell asleep to Bhima’s muffled cries of pain.
When we awoke, Janaki found her in the bathroom. Bhima had taken her own life with a cracked mirror she used to slit her wrists.
Bhima’s Hindi had never improved much, and since she didn’t know Bengali either, she struggled to communicate with anyone. We had learned little about Bhima, except how much she loved pomegranate, that her favorite color was orange, and how much she liked to dance. We only found out she was Nepalese from the TV. Sometimes we watched the news prior to India’s Top Star. There was a segment on the border dispute between Nepal and India. When they zoomed in on an area and we saw Nepalese soldiers, she ran to the TV, saying, “Makan!”—the word she had learned in Hindi as “home.” Janaki had said she came from the mountains, and I realized how little Janaki knew of the world, having never gone to proper school.
I had always wondered how she withstood the isolation and the horror of this place. Now I realized: she didn’t. She was so far from anything she knew, more than any of us; she had nothing to remind her of a happier time. She had none of the things that kept us going.
Madame had Bhima’s body removed silently by the gundas. We never knew where they took her. I thought of the evil stories Madame had told us of the customers who said they would save you but instead sold your organs. The only person I could picture doing anything that horrendous was Madame.
I mourned Bhima by myself that day, chanting the prayers of Rama that my mother had etched in my mind as our lineage. I wanted to give Bhima’s soul a chance to live again, somewhere far from here and closer to her people. The life growing in me kicked as I chanted, and I held my belly with a promise to protect it with all of my heart. How? I didn’t know yet, but knew I had to do everything and anything to try.