For the event, Neela lent me her most beautiful salwar kameez. It was white with green stripes—and a green dupatta. “I love it,” I told her.
“I read the one about the green scarf,” she said.
There were so many students there for the reading that people were even waiting outside for my book and to see me.
After the reading, I walked over to my book-signing table and scanned the crowd. I saw a pale-faced man, and my heart skipped a beat. Was it the man who had come for Amla? It felt so long ago that I couldn’t remember his face.
I nudged Neela; we had to talk to him. Neela said every white man might not know Amla, but she agreed, and I watched her hand him a copy to bring to my table.
When he walked over, Neela joined and he said, “Namaste, pyar keso ho?”
We started laughing at his word confusion, and he smiled and admitted that his Hindi was “just so-so.”
He told us that his name was David, to which I said, “More like Devi,” and he smiled and said, “Yes, like the goddess, except for me and my people it means a musician shepherd turned king.”
Neela translated the book cover and the poem I had read, and he looked at the book, carefully running his fingers over it. He wore a ring with a gold star.
He told Neela he was from France, just visiting, but had heard about the university’s architecture. He happened to walk by and wanted to see what the commotion was about. “A book like this would change the hearts of so many people,” he said. “I’ve worked on international women’s rights research for over a decade.” He waved the book in the air. “This is what matters; this is what we should read.” As Neela translated to me, I looked over at the professor, who was counting sales with the bookstore owner. I had learned that the professor was taking a cut, because he had “discovered” my talent.
I told Neela, “Let’s keep this Devi man to ourselves.”
Neela nodded and gave David her apartment’s phone number. She said we could talk again later. He nodded as the next student approached my table, and Neela motioned for him to call as she picked up my baby, who was getting fussy, from Rajiv’s wife.
After the store emptied out, the professor told me how many sales we had made and what my cut was after we paid Rajiv. In a county of hustlers, I realized I was not as free as I had thought. I too had to hustle on my own.
•••
That evening, David called. Neela answered the phone and translated between us. Before he could ask me about my book, I asked him about his ring. I had seen him fidget with it. I noticed that about men who came to the brothel: they sometimes held on to important necklaces or rings when they were unsure of something. He said it was a family heirloom. He asked me if I was interested in having the book published outside of India. Of course, yes, that would be a dream.
“I can help you,” he said as Neela waited with the receiver. I paused, trying to find trust in another stranger, a man, again. I told Neela I wanted collateral, something that could assure me he wouldn’t scam me, betray me, or use me as I had been.
She told him I would agree to work with him if he lent me the ring until we finished working together. He refused. We hung up.
The next morning, as Neela prepared tea and I changed the baby, he called again.
Neela answered and translated for me. “Why did you ask about the ring?” I told her to tell him this book was my only possession. My only freedom. It was my daughter’s heirloom now. The ring was a symbol that meant we could trust each other. If he followed my terms, I would return it.
I wasn’t sure if he would agree, and I knew I was playing with fire. I thought of the true goddess Devi and her Agni, the fire that blazed her power. What if he refused and I lost my chance? I thought about it, but I kept coming back to the same conclusion: this was the only way I knew and could be sure that he wouldn’t betray me.
He had a friend in the publishing industry. A woman he said he had dated. Dated. I didn’t know this word. As he spoke, I put my hand over the phone and mouthed to Neela, “What is dated?” She smiled, telling me I had so much to learn, to just listen.
When he finally agreed, my stomach fluttered.
The next afternoon, we met at the university courtyard, and I had Neela write me a contract with the French man. David mentioned he would speak with his contact and work on a real contract. But I still needed assurance. Our arrangement was simple. It just said all the earnings would be in my name; he would not receive a cut like the professor had. The book was mine and no one else’s.
A week later, we heard from David. He said his friend would have my book translated to French and English. Was I okay with this? I was okay with as many people knowing my story as possible, yes. To stop it from happening to others—and so that my daughter would know I used my voice to speak up for girls like her. So that perhaps if Amla was somewhere out there, she could find it.
I would have Neela read the translation to assure my poems were still my poems.
The day he sent an advance copy of my new book, it was a hardcover, unlike the soft one the professor had arranged. It had my name in gold letters. The cover was plain green.
Inscribed on the first page when opening it were the words For Amla.