The Parcel (13 page)

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.

I
t had been a good night. Madhu had put the parcel back in the cage. She had fed her too, but instead of eating, the parcel had started screaming and could not understand why her screams had no effect. Madhu could tell that her screams were coming from a place she had never known before. She kept looking behind her, something Madhu had not witnessed with other parcels. Did she think there was someone in the box besides her? Another girl, ten years old, also screaming?

When the parcel was tired of screaming, she ate.

Now Madhu was home. Tarana and Anjali were curled up against each other. It was about 2:00 a.m., an unusually early night for the two top earners. In her sleep, Tarana leeched on to Anjali, trying to suck some of her natural beauty. Gurumai was tossing and turning in bed, searching for a position that would give her minimum discomfort. Madhu would have no problem sleeping tonight. She could feel herself falling, the body melting into the floor. But Padma's private mobile phone buzzed its
way into her dreams. Not used to having two phones, Madhu at first thought it was someone else's.

“You need to speed things up,” said Padma. “My client wants to move things faster.”

Padma's words made Madhu feel cold, as if a chill had suddenly crept inside her body and refused to leave. Perhaps it was because she had been taken unawares, in her half-sleep. She got up and went outside as Padma continued talking.

“My man at the station tells me that they're planning on doing a raid. This time it's not just to complete a quota. This new ACP is hell bent on cleaning the area up…Suddenly they are waking up…”

Naturally, thought Madhu. Before, property prices in Kamathipura were lower than a pimp's IQ. Now, in the name of real estate, the police would make a few arrests and save a couple of underage girls. They'd work with the government for the betterment of the citizenry.

“The new ACP does not tell his men any details about a raid. It could be tonight for all I know. You need to get her ready.”

“But I need time. I need more days. There is a method.”

“If I get caught, I may not be able to bribe my way out. Do you have a method for that?”

Madhu put the phone down, grabbed a biscuit packet that had been left on the windowsill, and walked to Padma's. Biscuits were the worst things to eat at night, the most unforgiving. They showed up around the waist first thing in the morning. Good thing she no longer cared.

The parcel had curled into a ball and fallen asleep. Madhu woke her up, gently, and gave her a biscuit. “Eat,” she said. “Slowly.”

Then she led her down the ladder again, to a floor below. She looked for an empty room. Business was winding up. The room closest to Padma's office did not have a bed. Part of the ceiling had almost caved in, so it could not be rented out. It would work.

“Don't move,” she told the parcel.

She went into Padma's office without knocking. She had a job to do. Knocks were for bureaucrats. She would make herself all about action, getting the job done.

“I need one of your men,” Madhu told Padma. “There's one in the corridor. I'll use him.”

“He's an errand boy, not a pimp.”

“He'll do.”

The man, in his fifties, was wearing a torn shirt and had stubble so bristly one could clean a toilet bowl with it. Padma called out to the man. She did not use his name, just shouted, “Oi!”

“Is there any alcohol around?” Madhu asked.

Padma handed over some of her own stock. She probably kept it for meetings.

“This is good stuff,” said Madhu. “Do you have anything else?”

“Use it.”

Only a quarter of the bottle was left anyway. Madhu gave it to the man. He looked over at Padma for permission.

“Drink up,” said Padma. “And after you are done with her work, change that damn tube light.”

The man stared at the flickering tube light, but it might as well have been his own brain flickering as he tried to fathom why he was being asked to drink. Still, he did as he was told. He drank straight from the bottle but did not put his mouth to the rim. He took large gulps and the liquid didn't appear to burn him. His throat was probably used to it.

“That's enough,” said Madhu. She took the bottle from the man and poured some liquor into her cupped palm. Then she sprinkled a few drops on his shirt. He was not comfortable with her touch, but Madhu ignored this and ran her liquor-soaked fingers through his hair.

“Good for the hair?” asked Padma. Even when she joked, Padma did not smile. It was the same dry face with cement cracks.

The man was disoriented. He asked Padma if he should change the tube light now.

“You need to break a parcel,” said Madhu.

He looked at Padma quizzically.

“She's ten years old,” said Padma.

The man shook his head, shuffled his feet, and shook his head again.

“Morals,” said Padma. “Interesting.”

“It will take you just five minutes,” said Madhu. “It has to be done. Madam will give you five hundred rupees.”

The money did not change his attitude. Madhu was impressed. He certainly could use the money, she was sure of that.

“I won't be able to do this…” he said.

“You'll have to,” said Padma. “Or you'll have to find another place to work.”

Madhu could see that Padma was irritated at the man's refusal. It must have made her feel lower than him. A conscience was a dangerous thing to have in Kamathipura. It was looked down upon and had to be trampled, snuffed out as swiftly as possible, the way an honest cop had to be.

“And if you choose to leave, first thing tomorrow morning you will repay the loan I gave you,” Padma said.

The appropriate string had been pulled. The man turned to Madhu, waiting to be led to his task.

“Make sure you don't waste time talking,” said Madhu as she led him to the room. She herself did not enter. It was imperative that the parcel not see her. The man had to spring upon the parcel out of nowhere. Madhu snuck a quick look: the parcel was standing exactly where Madhu had left her, good girl. The man entered awkwardly. He slid into the room, not knowing where to look. Madhu closed the door on the two of them. These things could not be supervised anyway. But she had to stand outside. It was her job.

She could hear the parcel's cry for help. Then it was muffled. This meant he had put his hand on her. Madhu checked her mobile phone for any text messages from Bulbul. Bulbul loved sending her smiling faces and roses. But there was nothing. The battery was low anyway, so she switched the phone off. Even the phone that Padma had given her needed to be recharged. Both the phones were so small they could fit inside her sari. She wondered what it would be like to have an honest job, a regular one. What if she were a baker or a butcher? What if she were to use her hands to create something that would nourish another human being?

Madhu used her hands in another fashion: to open the door. She entered the room and lifted the man off the parcel. He had an erection and seemed to be enjoying himself. So the bastard had been lying, only pretending not to enjoy young ones. First, Madhu kicked him where he was most vulnerable. The parcel wriggled off into a corner. The man was curled into a ball, just like she had been moments ago. Madhu looked at the parcel. Directly. It was the first time she had made genuine eye contact.
She could see that the parcel did not understand what was going on. But she would.

Madhu slapped the man a couple of times. “Bastard!”

He was in pain and disoriented. Madhu bent down to help him up, and that's when she smelled his breath. It took her by surprise, threw her into a tizzy, and all of a sudden the miserable room turned into the tiny living room where her father sat in front of the TV and watched Doordarshan. Madhu did not want to go there, but the liquor on the man's breath mixed with his own dripping saliva sent her there. She took a step back. The pause meant that the man recovered enough to strike her hard across the face.

“Bhenchoth hijda!” he said.

Madhu staggered, but she coiled back faster than a spring and lashed out at him with her long nails, flailing her arms. Her fingers became needles and one of them got him right in the eye. He moaned, held his eye, and Madhu should have run for cover because the set-piece had gone awry—things had become real. But she didn't run; she stood stock still because the words the man uttered were exactly the same as the ones her father had once used.

“Hijda hai tu,” he had said to Madhu. “My son is a hijda.”

Her father had said this under his breath while eating his peanuts and drinking his local booze. He had looked at his wife for support, and she had shaken her head at him—at least there had been some form of resistance from her that night—but that was all. Madhu had longed to take the bottle and smash it in the centre of the room, just to not hear him utter those words. But what could he do? He had been called a hijra, a coward, the worst kind of weakling.

But now that Madhu
was
a real hijra, now that she had accepted her true self, she could fight back. She pounced on the man who was not her father, and also on the man who was. She started pounding him. She sat on his chest, raised both her hands high into the clouds to form a clasped fist, and thundered down on him.

“You're right,” she said. “I am a hijra.”

It was because she was a hijra that she had more strength than him. She had lost her cock years ago, and with it the ability to ejaculate. When semen is lost, so is strength, or so it is said. But the hijras had pent-up power in cold storage because they had preserved all their semen, kept it all on hold. This moment of fury had thawed Madhu's, and she was grateful that her father was alive, and right in front of her.

“Call me a hijra once more,” she said to him now.

Her father mumbled through a mouthful of blood, and even though he didn't say
hijra
again, she punished him, for he was the one who had driven her into the arms of the hijras to begin with. His were the lips through which she had first heard that word, and her breast heaved with such madness that she didn't notice Padma enter the room. Nor did she realize that she had been screaming. A howling spirit trapped in a body she hated sat on top of a body she hated, and Padma was pulling her off the man, who was reduced to a whimper, a wet, scared dog. Madhu gave a blazing smile. Her hair was down, long and frizzy and black, swaying before her eyes, and her bangles were broken, but her spirit was high.

Padma lifted the man and made him leave. If Madhu had been in the Alexandra Cinema right then, people would have thrown coins at her, such was her performance. She composed
herself, adjusted her sari blouse. She had temporarily lost sight of her objective, been sidetracked, carried it too far. But perhaps this could turn out even better than expected.

“He'll never touch you again,” Madhu told the parcel.

The parcel was still in her corner. She was a stupid moth banging against the wall. Now that the man was gone, her body could not hold on any longer. She released a thin stream of urine onto the floor.

“Are you mad?” Padma asked Madhu. “What is wrong with you?”

Madhu did not answer. Instead she picked up the two balls of paper tissue that had rolled out of her bra and onto the floor during the scuffle. She stuffed them back where they belonged.

“I asked you a question,” said Padma.

“You wanted the parcel to be ready,” replied Madhu.

Madhu's lips were swollen and they throbbed. She watched the parcel rubbing her own arms and legs. The parcel was trying to scrub herself clean with her hands, lingering over certain body parts longer than others to wash away traces of saliva. Every single parcel did that, but no amount of rubbing could take away the memory of what they had experienced.

In any case, this had been a mere rehearsal. The point was for Madhu to endear herself to the parcel. Now that she had seen Madhu thrash the man who had tried to force himself on her, she would assume that Madhu would help her every single time. But what Madhu could do now was teach the parcel how to
not
resist, to become cold dead weight, lifeless and disinterested,
when the man was on top. If the girl was numb, there would be little reason for violence. Resistance brought out the cruelty in men, made them artists who found new ways to inflict themselves on the female form.

The parcel kept moving and every minute or so tilted her head, staring at the floor and then the wall. Madhu knew what she was looking for: a window. Something that opened out into life. From time to time she glanced at Madhu. She did not thank Madhu for saving her from the man, but her manner had changed.

Then she blurted out, “Who are you?”

What she was really asking was:
What
are you?

Who am I? What am I?
Those were questions Madhu had asked herself ever since she could form a proper thought, and after all these years, she still became squidgy when she was confronted with them. What should she tell a child? It was simple. You told a child a story.

“Do you know who Lord Rama is?” asked Madhu.

Every hijra knew this story, or had narrated it, and even though it had its link to the great epic
The Ramayana
, the hijras added their own colour of nail polish to it—or remover, depending.

Madhu plunged into the story. It had taken place centuries ago, when the great king Rama was sent into exile. Banished from his kingdom, the much-loved monarch was followed by his people to the banks of a river. This was as far as he would allow his followers to go. The punishment was his, not theirs, and beyond the river, the dark woods beckoned. It would be his home for the next fourteen years. “Men and women,” he said, turning to his people, “I want you to go back. Return to your
homes.” He had to make the journey alone, and no one had any choice but to obey his word.