The Stolen Girl (8 page)

She doesn’t think she can sleep. Yet she must do. For every morning she wakes as usual when Charu’s cock crows and Dodo butts his head against the kitchen door. For a blessed minute, she is stuck in that dreamy state between sleep and waking and all is well in her world. She fancies that she can hear Da’s snores, his mouth wide open, a welcome receptor, she’s always joked, for lizards which lose their balance on the woodlice ridden beams above. She imagines she can hear her ma’s soft breaths escape from between pursed lips, phut phut phut. Eyes still closed, she feels beside her for her ma’s comforting arm and is nudged instead by the twig-like shoulders of Aunt Shimy. And memory nudges in as dreams are chased away by her conscious self; wakefulness arrives and with it, sorrow. The heavy weight of it sitting tight on her chest, robbing her of breath. And even before she opens her eyes, shut tight to block out the honeyed light which inveigles under closed lids, a mellow turmeric glow warming her eyelids, she knows. Her ma and da are not here. She is alone, bereft.

A month after their death, the village elders come visiting. They look grave and they arrive en masse, and she figures something has been decided. In a way, she is relieved. She knows that she cannot live like this. She does not want to live here, constantly bombarded by what was, haunted by the very last image of her parents floating in front of her eyes. She wants to go away. Far away from this place of her birth contaminated now by grief, steeped in loss.

And so, when they tell her that they are sending her to Bangalore, that her distant relatives there have agreed to take her on as a servant, she is relieved.

‘You will be staying in a mansion,’ Nagappa, the chief village elder says, trying to sell her their plans for her future, not knowing that she has already made up her mind.

The elders desperately want to feel that they are doing the right thing by Vani, she knows, but she understands also that they are relieved to be rid of the terrible burden and responsibility of looking after her. By listing all the points in favour of this opportunity, they are convincing themselves as much as they are Vani.

‘These people are millionaires, the elite of Bangalore. You are very distantly related to them.’ Nagappa clears his throat; he is obviously saving the best for last. ‘And you know the Fair and Lovely model?’

She doesn’t know and doesn’t much care but she nods by rote and her head feels heavy as it moves up and down, up and down.

‘She is their child! Your second cousin twice removed.’ Enthusiasm colours his voice. He pauses, looking askance at her and Vani realises he is waiting for her to say something.

‘Great,’ she says and her voice is as dry as the river during the drought. At the thought of the river, a wall of pain assaults her. She shuts her eyes, rocks on her feet, a desolate involuntary keen escaping her mouth as she waits for the wave of hurt to pass. Waves, rivers, she is battered on all sides. Not for the first time, she wishes she had drowned with them. She has wished for this ever since she heard. As it is, she is drowning, drowning in the hurt that wells up within her, that cannot be assuaged except by the tangible feeling of being enveloped in her parents’ arms.

Nagappa is looking desperately to his band of followers for help. One of the women comes forward, puts her arms around Vani. Padded shoulders, the smell of fried onions, and, she is sinking, like her parents did that fateful morning. Unlike her parents, however, for her there is no oblivion as she suffocates in the press of unfamiliar arms.

Nagappa clears his throat again as his cue to continue. ‘You are to leave the day after tomorrow. I will take you there. They will look after you well. There are a lot of servants, so what is required of you will be minimal. In return, they will feed you, clothe you, give you a place to stay. They are very kind; the lodging servants stay
inside
the house, with them and not in a separate outhouse. And, I am told, their house is so huge that each of the servants gets a room to themselves – talk about generosity! But you will never want for company – as I said, there are plenty of servants. And when you come of age, they have promised me that they will find you someone suitable to marry. Don’t you worry about that.’ He says all of this in a rush as if to forestall another keening, rocking session from Vani.

She listens through the whooshing in her ears. She is conscious of a feeling of relief when she hears that she will have a job to do where she is going. This way, she can keep busy as a means of keeping the sorrow at bay, and at the same time she will not feel too beholden to her benefactors – the only ones amongst her hordes of relatives who have agreed to take her on, albeit as a servant.

‘Their daughter, the model, is not much older than you in fact.’ Vani watches Nagappa’s mouth form the words, the little drops of spittle that collect at the edge of his lips, tinged red with the remnants of paan he must have chewed before coming here. He stops, gathers his breath, lowers his voice an octave. ‘Her name is Aarti Kumar.’ His voice full of awe. His eyes gleaming as if he expects the entire world to have heard of her.

The name means nothing to Vani except, now, an escape route.

Aarti Kumar,
Vani thinks,
here I come.

A
arti has just completed
her first ever photo shoot and it has been a huge success. She has been pampered and praised, her every whim indulged. Her bone structure has been declared exquisite, her eyes divine. She has drunk fizzy Coca-Cola until she cannot take a breath without a bubble escaping her mouth, and she has been very good and not eaten even a bite of the feast of sweetmeats and chocolates brought in just for her. She is so animated she cannot sit still, bouncing on the polished leather seat of the car that is conveying her home, bouncing free of the restraining hand of the servant who has accompanied her to the shoot. The car smells new, of wrapping paper and the promise of presents, she muses as she tries desperately to keep a lid on the excitement that threatens to fizz up out of her along with the treasure trove of bubbles from all that Coca-Cola.

Once home, Aarti stands in front of the closed door to her mother’s room, polished walnut with figures of deities carved onto it, breathing in the tangy smell of varnish. Her father is not home, as per usual. He is always out working. She experiences a moment’s brief hesitation as she remembers her myriad previous attempts to get her mother to come out of the room, to notice her. They always, inevitably, end in disaster.
Not this time,
she convinces herself, as she has done all those other times, hope triumphing over futile reality as ever. This time she has done something that will surely please her parents. After all, isn’t this what her parents have always wanted for her? And the photographer at the shoot said she was a natural, one of the best child models they had ever had.

When her mother hears about the shoot, she will flash one of her rare smiles, Aarti decides. She might even say, ‘Well done!’ The thought gives her courage.

She tries the doorknob, as she has done hundreds of times before, unsuccessfully every time. This time, by some miracle, she finds it unlocked. Taking it as a sign that her mother wants to see her, has been waiting to hear her news, she rushes inside and flings herself at her mother where she is lying on the bed, curtains drawn. ‘Amma, I was a great success! They loved me, said I was the…’

The icy look on her mother’s face makes her words dry up, causes her lower lip to wobble.

‘How dare you enter without knocking first and asking permission?’ her mother snaps, each word a grenade. ‘Go back, close the door and try again.’

She does as she’s told, walking on jelly legs, closing the door quietly behind her. She knocks timidly at first and then louder.

Her mother denies her entry. ‘I am busy now – try again later,’ her mother calls in that tone of voice she uses for servants.

And Aarti’s perfect day is spoiled, irrevocably and completely. She is sick over the toilet bowl – the bilious taste of bubbles and deflated excitement and unappeased hurt, the acrid stink of rejection – trying and failing to purge the feeling of being unwanted, unloved, a nuisance.

A
year later
. Her mother is in the garden, taking tea with a friend, hibiscus flowers nodding in the perfumed air, fragrant jasmine bushes dispensing secrets along with nectar to the gossiping bees. The servants have carried a table and some chairs down from the house and have set up an awning in the shady west lawn in the shadow of the jackfruit and mango trees. They have brought a pot of tea, a jug of milk, ladoos and Mysore Paks, soan papdi and doodh peda, onion bhajis and kachoris – freshly prepared, oozing steam and invitingly spicy scents – from the kitchen, and arranged them on the table along with a vase of flowers; a profusion of red, yellow and pink roses, the heady aroma wafting up to Aarti’s hiding place.

Aarti has given the servant looking after her the slip and crept downstairs. She is crouching amongst the aboli bushes, breathing in the zesty scent of fruit ripening in the sun, flies noisily flitting around her, turquoise butterflies with red spots alighting on the orange flowers, dragonflies with translucent wings humming. Tucked cosily inside her hiding place, eavesdropping on the murmur of leaves nodding in the soft yellow breeze, the conversation of insects, following the weighty procession of ants to their anthill under the banyan tree a world away, basking in the drowsy afternoon as it tilts towards evening, the reddish brown haze of dust in her eyes, her head propped on the tray of her drawn, bony knees, spying on her mother and her friend, she is happy.

Somewhere in the bowels of the house, the servant in charge of Aarti is searching for her. Aarti can just hear her cries, faint as water gurgling at the bottom of the well, ‘Madam, Aarti madam, where are you?’

Aarti swallows down a giggle. Her stomach rumbles and the bushes whisper reprimands as she crawls closer to where her mother and her friend are sitting, shrubs closing ranks around her, the green smell of burgeoning life and the brown earthy odour of mud assailing her nose. Aarti stays very still and she listens.

‘She is the top model in Karnataka now. Next, she’ll conquer India.’ The hint of pride in her mother’s voice makes Aarti’s chest swell with joy. Her mother’s voice drops to a whisper and Aarti leans closer. ‘You know, I didn’t really want kids.’

Aarti sits still as the Buddha statue on the mantelpiece in the drawing room, the stones in the mud digging into her feet, the thorns from the bushes biting into her. She thinks that is the reason why she feels the prickle of tears stinging her eyes.

‘Dev was okay with that?’ her mother’s friend asks.

The hiss of tea being poured, the clink of tea pot, the chatter of china. ‘Shall I send for more tea?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

From the house drift faint cries like the jangling of temple bells floating on the wind, ‘Aarti ma’am,’ a singsong voice. ‘Time for your tea.’

But Aarti’s hunger is gone, replaced by a different hunger, a hunger that quivers with fear, afraid to hear more and yet wanting to.

Her mother’s voice lowers to a growl, ‘I told him I couldn’t have kids.’

‘No!’ The friend’s voice shocked.

‘No need to sound so upset. He loved me, wanted to marry me anyway. And I relented didn’t I?’

‘Why didn’t you want kids?’

‘Oh.’ Aarti watches her mother pat her flat stomach, the stomach that housed her not so very long ago. ‘The havoc they cause to a woman’s body. As it is, I have never gone back to the way I was before,’ her mother’s voice, martyred.

‘You look all right to me.’

Her mother laughs, pleased. Silvery tinkle of wind chimes. ‘It’s been a lot of work. I must admit, I was so disappointed when the only child I conceded to having turned out to be a girl.’ A pause and then, ‘Want a peda? This new cook makes the best pedas in Bangalore.’

‘No thanks. Any more and I’ll explode.’

A bee buzzes close to Aarti’s face. She bats at it and it swoops. A prick, sharp as a nail gouging into a wall in an explosion of plaster. The pain is excruciating and it takes every ounce of strength Aarti possesses not to cry out. Tears fall silently down her face, insinuating themselves into the gap between her closed lips, tasting of salt and mud.

‘I almost died after she was born, you know. Lost so much blood. I was right: kids didn’t agree with me. After that, Dev didn’t pester me again. He – we – had to be happy with what we got. At least she’s pretty; we could have done a lot worse. But she does like her food. We are constantly curbing that. She cannot be doing any modelling if she’s overweight. Takes after my mother. Fat as the Mysore dam, my mother.’

Somewhere a dog howls, a mournful whine of complaint. Aarti’s hand is fat and getting fatter by the minute, swollen with the poison of the bee sting. She sniffs as quietly as possible, the taste of snot and salt. She spits on her palm, trying to ease the pain, bubbly saliva sluggishly spreading, frothy cream on exacerbated red skin. The tears, hot and enflamed as a gaping wound keep on coming.

‘Aarti’s thin as a runner bean – what are you saying?’ her mother’s friend exclaims.

‘Yes, well. She has to maintain it. The servants spoil her; I am constantly having to yell at them to not give her fried food and all those snacks they keep shoving down her throat.’

Aarti’s legs are cramped. She moves them surreptitiously and the leaves swish. She freezes in place, worried her mother might catch her out. If the women hear a rustling in the bushes behind them, they ignore it, sipping their tea and not eating the snacks.

Aarti’s face is wet. Her hand throbs. She sits there while her mother and her friend move on to other topics. She sits there until the cries from the house die down. She sits there until her mother and her friend move away and servants come running behind them to clear away the tea things and transport the chairs and table back to the house. She sits there until the sun’s buttery rays, which filter through the canopy of trees, morph from scorching gold to mellow orange, until the fragments of blue visible above the green leafy awning darken to an uncompromising navy spattered with grey, like smudges in a child’s painting. She sits there, cradling her sore hand until blue shadows dance upon her brown body and stain the red dust the dark black of dried blood.

She does not eavesdrop on her mother again. And she does not enter her mother’s room with or without permission, or rush to greet her when she gets home again either. Except the once…

She is a teenager – just. Thirteen and a bit, long and gangly, her arms and legs out of proportion with her growing body. She has long since accepted that her mother is not one for hugs. And as for her father…tall, moustachioed, a big man with a personality to match. Always working, never there. He rarely smiles, the upward lift of his lips barely displacing the displeased frown that has taken up permanent residence on his face.

‘The papers declare Anjali the new up-and-coming model, dubbed to be the Face of India. Why not you?’ Looking at Aarti over the top of his glasses, his gaze disappointed as it so often is where she is concerned.

Aarti is a sum total of her achievements for her parents. A plus for every good thing she does, a minus for everything she doesn’t do or has yet to do. The minus side always, without question, trumping the plus, so she is permanently striving to redress the balance.

She has long since learned to wrap her arms around herself when she feels the urge for human contact. And yet, today that doesn’t suffice. She has been feeling ill and out of sorts all day and when she visits the loo, she discovers that she has started her period. And even though she knows to expect it, has been waiting for it in fact, the sight of all that blood gushing out of her freaks her out. Her back aches, her head hurts. She needs reassurance, a kind word from someone close to her, not an impersonal massage from a servant paid to heed Aarti’s every request, doing what is needed by rote while escaping in her head, a faraway look in her eyes.

All of the servants are the same. They do not like Aarti because she bosses them around, is strident with them and sacks them without fail after six months. After the debacle with Tara when she was seven, Aarti will not make herself vulnerable, open to a servant’s pity. She cannot fathom anything worse. And so she cultivates her reputation and sticks to it. It hasn’t done her any favours, especially now when tears threaten and she aches for someone to talk to, someone to listen, someone to care.

She waits, endures her loneliness until she hears her mother’s car. Then she runs downstairs, uncharacteristically, and when the door is flung open and her mother enters smelling of her expensive perfume and the outdoors, two servants following hefting her many shopping bags, Aarti flings herself at her.

A look of intense distaste crosses her mother’s face. ‘What are you doing, Aarti?’ she screeches, pushing Aarti away.

But Aarti resists, holding on to her mother, crying her heart out. ‘I am aching, Amma, I hurt. I started my period today.’

If anything, the distaste on her mother’s face is even more pronounced. She shoves Aarti away roughly. ‘There is no need to make such a scene,’ she spits out, her mouth set in a line, ‘especially not in front of the servants. And you are creasing my clothes.’

And with that, Aarti’s mother storms upstairs, her entourage of servants following, and locks herself in her room without another word to Aarti, never once looking back at her.

Aarti vows then, standing shattered at the bottom of the stairs as servants scuttle around her, carefully avoiding her gaze, that if she ever has children, she will strive to have a loving relationship with them, even though she has not had much experience with either giving or receiving love. She will show her children that she cares for them. She will let them know that they are
wanted
, that they are the
most
important thing in her life, not the
least
important. She will.