Ms. Sue was a regular at Mr. Roth’s store, a short, stocky woman with radiant, deep-brown skin. I envied her confidence and mimicked her expressions in the mirror when I went home.
She had come to see me at Artist Hour every week that month since that first Tuesday. Most of Mr. Roth’s devoted customers were his age, and they all seemed to know one another.
As I wrapped up my last photo, I thought about the baby. Being apart from her felt nice, but the guilt always stayed with me, and I missed her smell and soft skin.
Ms. Sue came and sat beside me. “What was this one inspired by?” She pointed to the photo of a small girl looking up at a subway platform. The girl was holding a smaller girl’s hand, her sister, who wore a green scarf. They both looked scared but excited all at once.
I smiled sadly. “This girl’s expression reminded me of my own story. I was just a girl when my sister and I were taken. The last time we still had our innocence was at a train station. I had a green scarf just like it that my mother owned.”
Ms. Sue’s eyes widened. She stood to the side, silent, as I answered another guest’s question. I could almost feel her mind working, her emotions soaring. It was strange; I wondered what I had said. I knew my story was alarming to many. Maybe she lingered out of sympathy. Women often did that, telling me how brave I was. I didn’t mind it, but it also didn’t make me feel any better about the past.
“Amla, have you read the book Poems by an Indian Girl in a Brothel?”
When I shook my head, she jumped to her feet, pulling me by the arm. “I can’t believe Seth didn’t make the connection,” she said, talking fast. “He just got this in, and I’ve been reading it. The story is so close to yours, but I imagine many girls have terrible stories from the brothels. But then you talked about your mother’s green scarf. That green scarf—that’s such a specific detail. I wonder . . .” She handed me the book and watched me open it.
The cover was a shiny green color, just like Mummy’s scarf. And there beneath the title was Asya’s name, written in bright-gold letters. My hands trembled as I opened the book to the first page and read the inscription: For Amla.
I didn’t wait for Sue to speak. I hugged her, crying, and Mr. Roth came out, asking what the ruckus was about. As they phoned Vishnu, I was so joyous I could hardly speak through the tears. It was like everything that was stuck inside of me was breaking free. Even Mr. Roth took off his glasses and cried with me. He mentioned there were only a few bookstores he knew that carried European publications like he did. “This is divinity,” he said.
That evening, Vishnu came home early. We phoned Ladki Rights. They phoned the bookstore and the university and found out that for a long time, the book had only been available in a select college bookstore in India. Now, though, it had become popular all over Europe.
Adam said, “I have her address. I am on my way there now. I will tell your sister. You found her, Amla.”
It was like a dream.
Vishnu was ecstatic. He swirled our baby girl around and frantically searched for airline flights. When he started booking, I saw that he had planned it roundtrip. “Vishnu, we have to book it as one way.”
He looked up at me. “Okay, we can change it later. It’s better to have something reserved, and then she can book a flight home with us.”
“My home is with her,” I said.
He pressed his lips together as he often did when something worried him and changed my flight to one way, his eyes turning soft with tears.