I lay motionless on the bed for another hour or two. Eventually the door lock clicked, the door opened, and in walked Master Gahil. The master wore a white topcoat with gold trim and he was beaming. "Batuk, you were simply wonderful last night; congratulations, my little princess." I stared blankly ahead of me and he continued, "You know how much you like old k.u.mud's sweet-cake? That is how much your Uncle Nir loved you." I thought of Uncle's ever-smiling face, and his shiny shoes. "When a man becomes an uncle," Gahil continued in his bellowing nothingness, "he starts to like a new type of sweet-cake, and you, princess, are the most delicious of them all." He grinned as if expecting me to laugh at his little joke. Instead I continued to stare at nothing. He inhaled deeply and continued, "Batuk, my darling, you are special because you can help uncles feel so lovely. That makes you very very precious, just like a princess in a palace." He walked toward me and sat next to me on the bed. I did not look up or flinch as he carried on. "In fact, little darling, I have made a special arrangement for you-just for you-so that you can make much, much more sweet-cake with different uncles. They will all love you so much. They will give you presents and clothes and toys and lovely, lovely food. You will see how much fun it will be; you make sweet-cakes for them and they will give you lots and lots of presents. Isn't that heaven?" I turned over and lay facedown on the bed.

He spoke to the back of my head, "Now what do you say to your uncle Gahil?" I said nothing. The master repeated his question, "I said, what do you say to me?" This time he did not wait for a reply. With his left hand he grasped my hair and pulled my head off the bed. With his right hand he slapped my face so hard, I thought I would black out. He slapped me again with the back of his hand (he knew not to hit me with his ringed hand). With my hair still gripped in his hand, he brought my face so close to his that I could smell his skin and feel the spit from his words land on my face. He repeated with a sneer, "Now what do you say?" I was so shocked that I failed to even contemplate resistance. I meekly whispered, "Thank you. Thank you, master." He dropped my head and concluded our conversation, "Now that's the spirit. You will have a lovely time, you lucky girl." Then he left the room. My scalp ached and my face stung. I lay facedown on the bed once again, my cheeks sore on the soft white sheets. I remembered the old fairy tale I had read as a child and imagined that I was the princess trapped on the tiny island in the middle of a storm. The waters were rising around me and I cried out for my beloved, but even with the waters about to submerge me, he did not come.

As I lay on the bed caught in memories and dreams, I sensed I was not alone. From the back of the room, a person moved toward me. I felt rope being used to tie my wrists behind my back, and, once secured, my arms were yanked from behind me so that I rose from the bed onto my legs. I had been rewired from the girl who had entered this house just two days before into a new Batuk. Sometimes your life can change in a second and sometimes it takes a lifetime. In my case it took two days.

A hand pushed the middle of my back and propelled me through the unlocked door and out of the bedroom. I was pushed along the curtained hallway, past the dining room I had been in the previous night, along the corridor Father had delivered me to, and out through the large dark oak door. Another push half plunged me down the brick stairs onto the hot streets of Mumbai. Less than a week ago I had left my village and now I was a different vessel. I had walked up the stairs governed by my father and generations of family. Now I walked down the stairs physically restrained but aware that my existence was in my hands alone.

I was half pushed and half led to the Orphanage by a man I never fully saw. I looked around several times and the only glimpse I got was of a broad unshaven man who looked a bit like a bulldog. I was pushed through the streets for at least an hour, and no one seemed to notice or care that a girl was being led through the streets secured with rope. Eventually, after walking through a maze of tiny streets and paths, we came to a huge clearing of bamboo ropes supporting a chessboard roof of rags: the Orphanage. I was pushed through the hordes of little children to a brick house at the far end of the expanse. As I entered the main room, the bulldog announced, "One of Gahil's here." His voice was deep and loud. "Gahil says she is an easy one. He said to work her a couple of weeks, then Mamaki Briila will come and fetch her. No damage, he says."

He left me standing at the entrance to a dark room dense with the smoke of cigarettes and hashish and lit by the glare of a television. The room was furnished with wooden couches, an a.s.sortment of scarred and repaired chairs and scattered tables, and was carpeted by a hodgepodge of worn carpets that resembled the patchwork of wafer-thin cloths that formed the roof of the Orphanage. Patches of yellow paint barely adhered to the walls. The architecture of the house was old and suggested an eternity, whereas the frenetic movements of the Yazaks reminded me of their temporary placement on earth.

"You!" a sharp, clipped voice called from the left side of the room. "I am your husband." Although Shahalad was physically wiry and small, his diminutive size was in contrast to his large persona. He stood with a half-stooped stance so that his head was c.o.c.ked back at all times, which not only shortened him but gave him the appearance of always sniffing at the air. His bent-back head coupled with his quick and shifting gaze made him look like a rat. Shahalad was not the highest-ranking Yazak but was not the lowest-ranking either. He had a status among his peers that gave me a status among mine. When he announced me as his bride, there were roars of mockery, to which he responded with a large, even white grin.

If I had hoped that my nuptials would be protracted, I was to be disappointed. As soon as the roars of mockery died down, Shahalad said in a strong voice that had a slow, even rhythm and sounded completely alien to his small physique that it was time to take his new wife to her wedding feast. He grasped my wrist and led me toward the back of the room amid calls of "Does she know what gifts you have for her?" "Don't honeymoon too long," and, in a mocking high-pitched tone, "Darling, darling, I love you."

In the Orphanage everything was done in haste. Shahalad led me to a back room in the building that was lit only from the main room. He pushed me up against a wall and lifted my white smock, and I felt him try to push his bhunnas into me from behind, with one hand on the back of my neck. He was fumbling and panting. He cursed. He soon realized that he could not maneuver me to couple with him in the way he envisioned. He threw me down onto a mattress on the floor covered with a threadbare blanket. He split my legs apart, lay on top of me, and pushed himself into me. He had far more strength than I had imagined, although I did not fight hard against him-perhaps this was a result of my rewiring. He had not said a word since we entered the room. He completed a handful of thrusts before I felt his terminal pulsations. As he finished, he rolled off me onto his back. I could sense that words were percolating inside him but he did not speak. We both lay on our backs, silently looking at the dark featureless ceiling of this cell.

At that moment, the darkness was punctuated by the shouts of the Yazaks and the television noise from the main room. I could feel my ident.i.ty separating from my body. When you create a painting, you apply paint to canvas; it is a mechanical process whereby a brush is dipped in paint and smeared over the canvas. As a masterpiece is painted, however, there comes a moment when the picture is no longer only a mere representation but possesses the essence of the artist. At this moment an unquantifiable element has been added to the canvas; you cannot weigh it and you cannot see it, but there it is! It is soul.

In that dark little cell, I willed my soul free of my body. My soul jumped onto the spinning upper air that covers the top of the earth and there she was unconfined. I roared across the upper air and kissed Navaj goodnight, moved Mother's favorite necklace so that she could not find it in the morning, and watched Father because he needs me to. I swirled at the feet of the great poets and rode in the manes of the swiftest horses. I filled the silent caves of the mountains and I confused the eagle as he was about to snap his talons over a field mouse (and so contravened "will"). I ignored the dying, for they will soon join me here, but helped the sick taste their pain. I laughed at the same blindness that the poor and rich share. All this, as I lay next to my silent husband.

The stillness that hung in our s.p.a.ce was splintered by Shahalad suddenly jumping to his feet; I had thought he was asleep. As he shot from the cell, he stopped short, spun round, and came back to where I lay. He stood over me and looked down. There was a jingle in his eyes and a smile on his face that were not altogether unattractive. He then turned away and left me.

As Shahalad entered the main room, I could hear cheers from the Yazaks. "What a man" was one. After a short while my husband returned to the cell. I half expected another round of sweet-cake but no, he bade me enter the main room with him. I did as I was asked. Once I had gotten onto my feet, my body was not in pain, but I felt his juice sliding down my thigh. As I entered the main room behind Shahalad, I was barraged with the verbiage of the mindless: "You lucky b.i.t.c.h, to get a man with such a small p.e.n.i.s," and "Are you ready girl for the main course?" I stared intently at the floor and noticed the smoothness of the bricks worn down by centuries of feet.

It was clear that my beauty served Shahalad well, as he frequently glanced at me from different points of the room as he mingled there. I saw children come and go from the main room; on each occasion they sought out their respective Yazak to presumably gain orders and collect rewards. I soon learned that everyone was taken at their word at the Orphanage. The Yazaks never verified that a task was complete and issued rewards as verbal requisitions: "Tell cook So-and-so to give you rice and meat" (a rare treat). Since disobedience was so brutally enforced, contravening a Yazak's order carried enormous risk and necessitated stupidity. Some of the brutality was not judicial but unchecked sadism. For example, I saw a child (maybe eight) executed for threatening another child with a knife. The Yazak made the guilty child kneel and then he knelt behind him, holding the boy tightly in his arms. The Yazak made the other child slit the restrained boy's throat while the now-silent crowd watched. Rape was common too; an older prost.i.tute or even a girl would be brought into the main room, tied to a table facedown, and left there stripped to pleasure any man who wanted her. I knew not to interfere and learned that obedience was unquestioned and that the value of life is a moment; that was the unspoken creed of the Yazak.

On my second day, Wolf, who was the head of the Yazaks, called across the room, "Shah, I am going to take your wife for a cup of tea to make sure she is settling in well and you are treating her right." Wolf was not like the other Yazaks. The others, Shahalad included, were dirty and wore rags, whereas Wolf dressed tidily. Today, for example, he wore a spotless white shirt, pressed denim jeans, and brown leather shoes. Similarly, he was well groomed. He was clean shaven, wore his hair neatly combed, and had well-defined facial features. He was neither ugly nor handsome. His most remarkable physical feature was that he looked like a fourteen-year-old child when in fact he was far older. He gave an impression of innocence.

The Yazaks feared Wolf. They never spoke of him when he was not there for fear of another Yazak ratting on them. When he came into the main room, there was an utter hush, and when Wolf issued an order there was absolute obedience. I never once saw his authority questioned. Another interesting thing about Wolf was that he did not live in the Orphanage, like the Yazaks, but somewhere in the city. He would show up in the main room at odd times to speak with the most senior Yazaks or sometimes just to watch television, but then he would leave. At least once a week, he would bring his light tan briefcase, which contained neatly apportioned sachets of white and brown powders, multicolored tablets, and brown-looking pieces of wood. Orphans, who had been organized by the Yazaks, were used to deliver the sachets throughout the city. On all the occasions I saw Wolf, he never raised his voice and always smiled. The orphans loved to see him as he always had sweets, a coin, or a kind word for them. His outward appearance of kind innocence was effective and remarkably deceptive.

Wolf beckoned me to him and I obeyed; there was a tangible power to him. "What is your name, little one?" he asked. "Batuk," I answered, eyes downcast. "Batuk. That's a nice name. I just want to have a cup of tea with you and make sure that scallywag Shahalad is being good to you. Master Gahil specifically asked that you have a nice time here as he has good plans for you. Let's go somewhere a bit more private." As Wolf led me toward the back rooms, the sea of Yazaks, orphans, and wh.o.r.es split apart before us. When we got to one of the larger rooms, one of the Yazaks, who had followed us, laid out a clean-looking blanket over the mattress and then left us. Wolf spoke so softly that I could just hear him over the noise from the main room: "Batuk, kneel down." I knelt before him and he continued to speak softly to me. "I am called Wolf, and my job is to take care of everyone ..." With that he removed his bhunnas from his trousers and pushed my face onto it. It was soft and doughy. I knew what I was supposed to do. He continued as I moistened and licked him, "I have to make sure, you see, that everyone ... you, Shahalad, Gahil ... is organized and happy. Master Gahil, for example, needs to make sure that you will work well for him so that he can take care of you." He was responding to the warmth and wetness of my mouth. He carried on, "You will need to work hard for Gahil if you want nice clothes and toys ..." He pulled my face off him. His bhunnas was sticking straight out from his body. I watched from my knees as he took a little sachet from his pocket and sprinkled white powder along its length. "Batuk," he continued, "here is a little treat for you. Lick the sugar off ... be a good girl." The sugar did not taste sweet at all but had a bitter taste. As he guided my head over the stretched, bitter skin, a glaring, screaming bright light came on in my head ... I was going to explode but I gave myself to Wolf.

I woke up at night on the mattress. The blanket had been removed. I was in pain and completely naked. Most of all my neck hurt. My hair was wet and cold and the room smelled bad. I looked around. Shahalad was sitting at the far end of the cell watching me. When he saw me wake up, he folded his lips into his mouth like he was sucking on a lollipop. As much pain as I felt, I could see that he too grieved-maybe for me or maybe for him.

Shahalad got up, walked over to me, and stood over me. I could not read his eyes, as it was dark. He slipped off his trousers (he did not wear shoes) and climbed onto me. He jammed into me with so much anger that I thought he would crush my body, but he did not. As he was releasing himself, I recognized the smell on my hair as urine.

Shahalad was not a demanding husband, as I was predominantly a showpiece for him. This was a role I was happy to play. The more I attested to his potency, the less potent he seemed to need to be. In fact, within a week, he would drag me into the back room (I had learned to scream in mock fear) and there we would sit, sometimes for hours. While we sat together on the mattress, I would scream out in feigned agony from time to time or beg for "more." This was entirely my idea and it pleased him.

Our times together in the cell varied. Sometimes Shahalad would fall on me and make sweet-cake but this was always short-lived and became less painful as I became habituated. Also with habituation I gained greater skill at releasing myself to the upper air. There were other times when he would speak to me. He would most often speak of events at the Orphanage. He told me of the beatings and the cruelties, I think to dissipate his own pain. He would tell me about Wolf's exploits in part out of admiration and in part out of hatred. Once he mentioned a dead brother, but he never said anything else about himself or his family. Once he told me that he liked me. He did not seem to expect me to say anything, which was just as well, as I had nothing to say. There were other occasions when we would sit together in perfect silence. He would smoke and we shared serenity together. There were occasions when I wished that those times would never end and I think he wished this too.

Between sessions with Shahalad in the back room, there was little else for me to do, and so most of the time I would sit doing nothing in the main room. I favored a wooden bench at the back of the room where I could sit or lie down and just watch the goings-on. I was happy to be alone most of the time. The other girls, by contrast, would parade themselves around the main room. Just as there was a hierarchy among the Yazaks, there was a similar pecking order among the wives. They would expose their thighs or uncovered b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They would flirt with Yazaks who were not their husbands, which often resulted in terrific fights among jealous wives. Sometimes wives would contribute to the punishment of a street prost.i.tute who was brought to the main room for "correctional teaching" for becoming lazy or unproductive; here a wife might help tie down a woman or even goad a Yazak to "split her." I once saw a wife push a beer bottle into one particularly ugly street girl, saying, "That should get her going." I observed a savagery among the wives, some barely older than me, the motivation for which I suspect was simply survival. I happily melted into my chair at the back of the room and sought invisibility.

For most of the time the Yazaks, other than Shahalad, left me alone. There was a strict code that one Yazak did not take another's wife to the cells and I never saw this rule violated. Wolf of course was the exception. I was not Wolf's favorite and he never took me to the cells again, although every time I caught a glimpse of him or felt his eyes glancing on me, I smarted and felt the hairs on my body stiffen. My bruises from him soon healed. Another Yazak's wife was Wolf's chosen one, a very tall, stunningly beautiful older woman who reveled in Wolf's attention and oftentimes mocked her husband publicly, knowing that she was untouchable; that was until one day she just disappeared. I soon realized that Wolf welcomed all the new wives personally and loved to evoke fear and hatred in each. His dominance over the wives implied the same over the husbands. A couple of years later, when I was on the Common Street, I heard that the Yazaks eventually turned on Wolf and hacked him to pieces with knives and broken bottles. His evisceration was so complete that he was taken to the dump in two dozen brown paper bags. It is the nature of great leaders to rise and fall.

It was during my second week at the Orphanage that I first met Puneet. In the midday heat, I had been taken to the back room by Shahalad where he briefly made sweet-cake with me before we both fell asleep. We were awakened by a commotion in the main room and Shahalad jumped up and ran out. A few minutes later, I lolled into the main room and headed for my seat at the back of the room. There, in my chair, sat Puneet; he was eight at the time, a beautiful-looking boy. He sat with his knees drawn to his chin, dried tears on his face. His black hair was dusty and he was thin. He had been sucked off the street.

Like many hungry street boys, Puneet had been caught pilfering food from the market and had been sent to the Orphanage. This is the way many children arrive there; they are caught committing small crimes, say by a vendor, by another member of the Orphanage, or even by the police. A Yazak is then called to cart them away and bring them to the Orphanage. When the Yazak came to collect Puneet from the fruit seller who had caught him, he was tied to a lamppost by his neck and hands. The Yazak immediately saw Puneet's potential as a love-boy These boys either become prized as being male or become girl-boys-boys who get dressed as girls. Puneet inevitably became a girl-boy because of his femininity. He had been deposited by the Yazak at the brick hut while Shahalad and I had been sleeping. Wolf had immediately taken him, before a.s.signing him to a Yazak, and broken him; new girl-boys were Wolf's greatest pleasure. I had actually heard Puneet's shrieks a few hours before but I had thought nothing of them, as these sorts of noises formed part of the air in the Orphanage. Wolf had been at him for hours before an emergency at the Orphanage had occurred, which had necessitated his cutting the boy free.

As Wolf became immersed in the mounting crisis, I sat next to Puneet and we watched in silence as the Yazaks congregated in the middle of the room with Wolf at their center. The issue of concern was that another Orphanage had started to traffic stolen goods through our territory. The demarcation between the three major Orphanages was well defined and rarely infringed upon. Clearly today was the exception. Wolf, who always spoke softly, urged caution. For the only time I ever observed it, one of the senior Yazaks disagreed with him, a.s.serting that they needed to defend their territory aggressively. I could not see exactly what happened because of the crowd, but this Yazak ran from the middle of the huddle screaming, with blood pouring from his cheek. Everyone else seemed to agree with Wolf's approach.

The crisis of the trafficking violations absorbed the Yazaks' attention for the entire night. This resulted in my sharing several uninterrupted hours alone with Puneet. I remained sitting next to him for the whole time, watching the goings-on, but he did not apparently notice or care. Since I was accustomed to sitting alone in silence for hours, Puneet's silence was no inconvenience to me at all. We sat together, alone, in silence.

Generally, when night came, the Yazaks took their wives to the back rooms. Many couples shared rooms as there were more Yazaks than there were rooms. (Some couples also slept in the main room.) Tonight was different, as the Yazaks who had not left with Wolf to investigate what had happened stayed behind but were hushed and tense. A cricket game was on the television but the room was otherwise silent. Eventually I saw Puneet's eyelids start to droop and soon his head flopped to the side and he fell asleep. I slid off the bench to let him lie down. As he fell sideways, I saw a puddle of blood on the seat where his bottom had been; the blood was already dry and darkening. I slept on the floor at his feet.

Wolf proved to be correct. What had occurred, I learned later, was that a single rogue gang of house thieves had strayed into our territory. The matter was quickly resolved that night when Wolf and several of our Yazaks met with the equivalent leadership from the other Orphanage. Apparently reparations were made; Shahalad did not know exactly what they were but we both guessed that the rogue gang had become part of the great garbage mound of Mumbai.

The following night I dreamed for the first time of the hat vendor at the market. Though I did not yet know I would see this dream several times in the future, even then it puzzled me. It was such a realistic experience that I awoke with a start in the middle of the night, trying to grab the falling hats. I felt that my descent through the marketplace was a premonition. Truth proved me to be right because three days later I was collected by Mamaki Briila.

When Mamaki Briila entered the main room, the Yazaks called her "Hippopotamus" to her face. She did not seem to take offense but rather laughed at the endearment. Hippopotamus and I left for the Common Street on foot-I was unbound. I had no idea that Puneet's destiny was married to mine but a few weeks later he showed up to occupy the nest two doors down from mine. I never got to say goodbye to Shahalad.

He may have laughed yesterday at the joke about the disappearance of Hippopotamus's husband, but Puneet is a sullen pile of horses.h.i.t. He is no use to me as he sits downcast all the time. Pah!

Looking down the street, I can see an old man. He is gray and stooped and he is walking up the Common Street toward me. He is wearing an oversized brown suit and in his right hand he is holding a shiny steel walking stick. The base of the stick has three p.r.o.ngs, each with its own black rubber cap. The stick seems to be indestructible but everything else about him is brittle. It seems that his grasp on life is as tenuous as a word caught beneath an eraser.

Each time he advances his walking stick, he resembles a watchmaker meticulously placing a cog in a watch mechanism. Once the stick has been placed about a handbreadth in front of the old man, the left leg advances six inches: sh, sh, sh. sh, sh, sh. Once the left leg has reached its target, a pause occurs. Then the right leg follows: Once the left leg has reached its target, a pause occurs. Then the right leg follows: sh, sh, sh. sh, sh, sh. He could be excused this slowness were he to possess everlasting life, in which case time would be inconsequential. However, it is obvious that he is shuffling along the edge of the well of death. Perhaps he is afraid that if he slips, he will fall into the well. He could be excused this slowness were he to possess everlasting life, in which case time would be inconsequential. However, it is obvious that he is shuffling along the edge of the well of death. Perhaps he is afraid that if he slips, he will fall into the well.

What is funniest of all, however, is that as he walks in this excruciating unhurried manner, he is grasping his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es in his left hand, as if they are about to fall off. His grasp on them is so tight that I can see the whites of his knuckles. I peer at him, but he looks ahead, completely expressionless. I swear I have watched him for an hour and he has walked fifty paces. I guarantee he will not bake sweet-cake with me. Mind you, if he did, I would need to set the day aside. I was going to point him out to Puneet, but why bother?

Oh calamity! Coming from the other end of the Common Street, down the hill, is Mr. Bent-Nose for his weekly cooking session. You should have seen him the first time he baked with me. Sweat formed a river down his back and his "thank you" resembled the stutter of the old man's gait. But here Bent-Nose comes, gaily bouncing down the street as if on his way to a birthday party.

As Mr. Bent-Nose rea.s.sembled himself and prepared to depart from my nest, he pecked me on the cheek as if bidding a favored niece farewell. He said, "I have done you a favor, my sweetest." To be honest, he had already done me a favor by finishing his sweet-cake in five minutes yet staying with me for an hour. He continued, "A senior manager from my company" (I had no idea what he did, except that I was sure he did it badly) "was asking around the office if anyone knew a pretty girl for a party. I told him to come down here and get the girl with the green curtain over her ... room." "Oooh," I said (I had no idea of his name and I certainly could not call him Mr. Bent-Nose), "you are so kind to me. I will have something extra special for you next time." I drew him to me and embraced him. After I had expressed my extreme grat.i.tude, which I knew would delight him, I forgot him.

Late that night, after the night rush, a taxi drove down the Common Street and stopped close to our nests. A man got out of the white car. In silhouette he appeared to be quite handsome. He was large and full figured and effused power like fresh tea. From the taxi headlamps I saw that he wore a light blue suit. It is astonishing how quickly Mamaki can move when the nectar of money is puffed in her nostrils; she sprung on the man with the agility of a mountain goat. The man stared in the direction of my nest. My green curtain was partly drawn and the small electric light lit me from the back. I am not sure if he saw my face, but he stared at me for longer than a glance. I then remembered the earlier comment of Mr. Bent-Nose. The man spoke with Mamaki for several minutes and looked over at me again. He climbed back into the taxi, which sped off, just missing an elderly woman carrying heavy sacks to the Street of Thieves before the protection of darkness lifted. Even after the taxi had disappeared, Hippopotamus was still waving goodbye, a huge smile on her face.

The next day, something out of the ordinary was in the air; I could taste it. My supper tray contained rice, meat, fruit, and la.s.si, and as I started to eat, Mamaki waddled into my nest and sat beside me on my throne. She was flushed with excitement and overexertion, desperate to talk. She spoke like the mad people who have more words to get out than their lips can speak: "Batuk, darling, the man who came last night ..." (puff, puff) "the one in the taxi ..." (puff, puff) "... he is going to send a car for you later and take you to a hotel ... for a treat. A hotel!" She repeated "hotel" as if it were heaven. "Now, darling," she said, as an insincere smile slid onto her face, "you spend as long as you like there and you do a good job for me ... I promise you, Batuk, you will be eating like this for weeks." She was spitting all over me as she spoke; it was disgusting. However, I could see that this was something to celebrate and so I smiled.

Now I am alone again. I have not felt fear since the night I met my new uncles but now that feeling has returned.

This ends the blue notebook.

The word used in the original notebook is the Hindi The word used in the original notebook is the Hindi bandhura bandhura, . It has a double meaning: both "crane" and "prost.i.tute." . It has a double meaning: both "crane" and "prost.i.tute." The word used in the original notebook is the Hindi The word used in the original notebook is the Hindi aak aak, . .

Numbered sheets of paper from the Royal Imperial Hotel, Mumbai

About an hour after nightfall, a white taxi drew up outside my nest. Mamaki was obviously waiting in the shadows as she sprang out like a disturbed bullfrog. She was smiling and bowing; it was quite comical. At one point, I thought her breast might fall out of her dress but thankfully the steel struts of her bra.s.siere held fast. After she had bowed at least a dozen times, the same man as earlier, still wearing the light blue suit, got out of the taxi. He handed Mamaki an envelope, which she took and opened. She turned her back to him, pulled out the deepest pile of money I had ever seen, and counted it while mumbling to herself. Halfway through the pile, she looked over to me. "Batuk, Batuk, go on, get in the car. Off you go." The taxi driver, a tall, fat man who wore a sand-colored army uniform, got out of the car. The uniform was dirty and he smelled as unclean as any of my cooks. He said to me in a tone of disdain dressed in false politeness, "Get in the car ... next to me." The politeness, I figured, was for the sake of the man in the light blue suit.

"Batuk, is it?" said the man in the light blue suit from the rear of the car. The car had pulled off. I had made sweet-cake in the front seat and backseat of cars and so I was familiar with driving through the streets like this. I love the music that comes from the radio. I am not fussy about what sort of music I listen to, but I find it irresistible how sound moves through itself and how it rises and falls. I have no idea how music can evoke feelings, but I can dissolve my own rhythm inside its beat.

I was itching to ask for music in the car but did not dare to. The driver turned his head to me as we turned off the Common Street and spoke to me with unfettered loathing. "The gentleman spoke to you ... did you not hear?" I realized I was developing a severe headache, the feeling of a wet strip of material tightening around my forehead. I felt a wave of despair and I wanted to vomit. "Batuk," I replied to my knees. "Speak up," the driver ordered. "I heard just fine" came the voice from behind my right shoulder. The man in the light blue suit talked like silk. "So it's Batuk. That's an unusual name," he said. "Look, Batuk, there is no need to be afraid; I just want you to meet a friend of mine. If it does not work out, no harm done. Is that all right?" With each word, the band around my head tightened just a little. I turned my head toward the man in the backseat. The blue of his suit hurt my eyes. I drove a smile through my head and onto my face with the force of an ax that breaks stone. I said, "Thank you, sir, that is fine." He responded in kind. "Batuk, you are so pretty, I am sure my friend will love you."

I faced forward and watched the Mumbai night stream by. As we stopped at a traffic light, three beggar boys accosted the car; one had a ma.s.sive lump projecting from his neck, the other a glazed left eye, and the third a severed arm. It is well known that deformed boys are the most valuable as beggars and it was quite possible that a Yazak from one of the Orphanages had chopped off the third boy's arm to increase his value. Regardless of the boys' appeal, our windows remained closed and we continued on. As we drove alongside the promenade, I saw the ocean for the first time. Palm trees dotted the boardwalk, lit up by strings of electric lights. Food vendors sold hot food from rusted grills and fruit from makeshift stands. Well-dressed foreigners and Indians ambled along, some with children. These people appeared different from the people I saw parading along the Common Street every day. They were clean and orderly and did not leer; they often smiled and laughed. On the other hand, these well-dressed rich were also merely a stream of human life that flowed this way and that. Watching them going places I could not see, I felt that I presided over this river of humanity. Perhaps the tree had spoken the truth, that it was all created for me.

Every now and again, groups of beggars emerged from the shadows to accost the wealthy walkers but retreated in response to a dismissive sweep of the hand. I saw one Indian spit at one of the beggars. We drove too fast for me to see the beggar's response.

The hotel was a huge sand-colored stone building with ma.s.sive windows. Through the windows, I could see enormous chandeliers hanging from an invisible ceiling. There was a lit veranda immediately over the entranceway where hotel guests could look out over the waterfront while drinking c.o.c.ktails, safe from the advances of beggars. Mamaki had been right; this was magnificent. I was not in rags but wore the glaring bright red chiffon of my trade. I caught my reflection in the window as I entered the hotel behind the gentleman in the light blue suit. I was not clean but my physical beauty burst through the dirt of the streets as fire through rice paper.

I stepped into a ma.s.sive, spinning gla.s.s door. A fifteen-year-old girl, with the evolving body of womanhood, stepped out of the magical gla.s.s entry into her palace. I had tight hips, fist-sized b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and the poise of royalty. Hidden in my vest, my nipples had grown and were deepening in color. My armpits and my v.a.g.i.n.a had grown the early hair that retains the scent that draws men astray and causes them to behave outside themselves. I halted my step as we walked across the entranceway and looked momentarily at my reflection in the windows. People peered up from their papers and men looked away from their wives. It may have been because I wore no shoes and they did.

I followed the blue-suited man through the palace entrance hall. The unknowing eyes watching us wondered, a father and daughter? An uncle and niece? The reality was an emissary and prost.i.tute. We entered a box that contained a man dressed to serve, who was ordered to the seventeenth floor by the emissary. The doors of the box closed. I would have felt afraid were it not for the man in the light blue suit standing next to me. I looked around for a hole in the floor as I thought it might be a toilet. It was too small for a throne room. Then the box jolted. Heat rushed to my neck. Then it moved and I held my breath. But the box then sang to me, a strange soft growling sound. "Batuk," it said, "welcome to my temple." As the doors to the box slid open, I let out my breath. We were in a new place, the gates to a temple; and before me sat the gatekeeper.

An old man in a white cotton shirt and pants sat on a simple wooden chair outside a pair of giant open doors. He wore a straw hat and no shoes and stared downward at the floor. We walked past the man as if we were invisible into a room the proportions of which I had never imagined. My headache had completely disappeared. I was overwhelmed by s.p.a.ce.

I realized that the size of the room appeared even greater than it was because the ceiling was so high. Everything shone. To my left, through an entryway was another room, in which I could see a huge bed covered in lime green. Along the right side of the room was a polished wooden table with six chairs around it. In front of me was an arrangement of two large sofas and two single armchairs. A television as tall as myself was housed in its own wooden cabinet facing the sofas. The seating encircled a gla.s.s table, on which lay a fan of books. Even the books were big, their covers shiny, reflecting the light of a chandelier overhead.

For all its grandeur, the room was dominated by the wall decoration directly facing me. Splayed across the wall were the skin and head of a tiger. The head faced downward, as if the tiger were trying to crawl off the wall. He and I locked eyes; he seemed to be smiling, perhaps because he was happy to have been killed and hung up for his eternal rest in a palace as lavish as this. Below the tiger's head, two crossed silver swords hung on the wall, to suggest that the tiger had been killed with these weapons. I doubted the tiger was slain in a just sword-fight; man rarely relinquishes power for the sake of fairness.

Impulsively, I started to walk around the room. The softness of the carpet made me feel as if I walked on clouds. The man in the light blue suit was looking in his wallet for something and did not seem to be in a hurry. I went from chair to chair touching their soft backs, over to the dining table and then to the entrance of the bedroom. Although I was flooded with things to see and smell (the s.p.a.ce smelled so clean), I did not lose sight of why I had been brought here. I turned to face the man in the light blue suit, who had remained standing by the door and who was now looking at me while turning a small white card in his hand.

As I looked over to him, he called out "Hita" in the direction of the bedroom. I half expected to see the nurse from the hospital appear with her huge, lovely chubby smile. An amazing thought flitted through my mind that Hita had married well (obviously not the teacher) and had come to rescue me and have me as her daughter (this would have been fine with me). Such fantasies have the lifespan of a raindrop; by the time you see it, it has landed, exploded, and disappeared. The Hita that emerged from the bedroom was trim and had none of the transparent happiness of her namesake. She marched through the bedroom door as if she had been called for an important business meeting. She looked straight ahead of her, her face like her body, lean and purposeful. "Yes, Mr. Vas?" she asked in a clipped but polite tone. She wore a plain white cotton suit with red-and-white lining. Everything about her outward appearance was plain and functional, but I could sense other depths to her that she hid. The man in the light blue suit said, "Here is Batuk." He turned to me and said, "Hita will clean you up and look after you; anything you need, just ask her. I will see you tomorrow." He smiled without warmth and left.

The door closed behind the disappearing suit of blue; it appeared that the elderly doorman had fallen asleep, for he jumped as the emissary left. Hita turned toward me and looked me up and down like a dress. She folded her arms and said to me, "Little wh.o.r.e, don't you ever forget that I know exactly what you are. Don't you dare play princess with me or you will see my hand." I did not say a word but I knew that she would never lay a hand on me, as I was obviously here to please a master of hers, perhaps the man in blue or perhaps someone else. Even if she did strike me, her threat was toothless since, from the looks of her, she could not possibly inflict sufficient pain on me that I would care; you see, I am quite inoculated to pain. However, I recognized that buying favor from Hita might be convenient and so I feigned subservience.

Puneet would have loved to have seen my performance. Actress Batuk fell to the floor in front of Hita, knelt, and placed my forehead on the carpet's softness. I implored her, "Oh mistress, I beg of you. Please, please do not strike me. I have been hit so often, mistress. Whatever you order me to do, I will. I promise." Yes! I even managed to command tears to my face so that when I looked up at her from my prostrate position at her feet, my eyes were swollen. She was obviously moved by my performance; she actually leaned down to me and offered me her hand. "Batuk, come, stand up; there's no need to cry. I really won't hurt you; you have my word. Come on, sweetheart, get up." I took her hand, pulled myself up, and felt guilty for my well-acted deceit.

I then started to cry. The first tear rolled down my left cheek. The second tear followed the first. Then I felt a tear from my right eye, this one not born of duplicity but of pure, torrid, and unfettered despair. The first tear had slid down my cheek, hung upon my chin, and fell to the carpet; the other two tears followed the first. And then I was sobbing. I had not cried since the day I had been left with Master Gahil many years before. All my feelings of being alone in a world awhirl with evil erupted and all the feelings of being cut off from the strands of my true life compounded. Suddenly, the lakes of love that had become buried deep within me started to pour out of me. Hita held me to her thin chest and I closed my eyes to enter the darkness.

She lowered her chin to my head, stroked my hair slowly, and said nothing. And then I knew that it was not Hita's touch and it was not her person and it was not the beautiful room and it was not the hundreds of men and it was not the black ink; it was the smell of the river on Hita's clothes that had released the flood of tears. As I inhaled her I smelled the river, the same river that as a child I had bathed in, washed clothes in, swum in, and drunk from. On her, I smelled the same source as my own. But then, as my spirit opened into this woman, I understood that it was she who smelled of the river and not her clothes, it was she who was the river. As I cried, rivulets of tears dripped into the channel that formed naturally between her meager b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I melted into that river and she with me. We were neither as two lovers nor as a child suckling, but we were as one because we were one water together. If you mix water from one cup with water from another, can you distinguish them? No! They are the same water; there is no separation. The bodies of women, so gently carved, are the skins that carry water over the earth. Like one gla.s.s of water poured into another, I poured into Hita and she mixed into me so that we became a single drop.

Men are seekers. Men seek to stream into us from their wet mouths, their sweat, and their s.e.x. All that they seek, however, is to return into the river that is woman. Why is that? Man emanates from the water of woman; he is carried there, until at birth he swims from it. Then, what is the first thing man does when he leaves us? He seeks to suck and draw the river into him, for without woman, he is empty. For the rest of his life man deposits his sins and waste back into the river. In the end, his dead body burns before returning to the river that is woman.

What is hardship-that I am the vehicle of his want? His s.e.x emptying into me or dribbling down the edges of my mouth-is that truly hardship or is that my role as his vessel? If a seeker is all that man is, then I am a bowl. It is nature for him to seek his source. Here I stand, thrown from earth's clay, pigmented for his delight, and then hardened through extreme heat. Here I am, his bowl. He may smash me but it is folly to do so, for it is I whom he seeks. It is his nature to want to empty into me and mine to receive him. The hardship of woman knows this. But be cautious. Some of us have holes, others are cracked, and still others are so delicate that one knock can destroy us. Some of us are not glazed and, to be frank, some of us appear ugly but have a remarkable capacity. It does not matter, for as bowls, we receive them and in us they reside. Swishing around, we carefully approach the river and pour them back from where they came.

I am a lake of unimaginable depth and inestimable volume that is a confluence of all men.

As. .h.i.ta and I separated she said, "Batuk, let me run you a bath."

The bathroom was as magnificent as the other rooms in the Tiger Suite. It was walled with light brown polished stone. There were two polished sinks with silver taps, white towels, a toilet, and a bathtub. The toilet was made from white stone and shone like the sink. It had its own cover that lifted upward. To the left of the toilet, built into the wall, was a paper roll with a tongue of paper hanging down ready to lick your bottom. The bath was big enough to fit an ox. Three stone steps led up to the bath, the same stone used for the walls. The water in the tub was steaming and the layer of soap bubbles that floated on its surface was so thick that it looked as though you needed a knife to cut it. I walked up the steps as if I were ascending the Queen's throne and stepped into the bath like a drunkard cutting his top lip into a gla.s.s of beer. As I sunk into the heat, I remembered the last time I had been immersed in a bath full of hot water; on the last occasion it was the old woman who had scrubbed me and on this occasion it was to be Hita.

First, Hita cleaned my hair. Her fingers ma.s.saged the shampoo into my scalp and she rubbed my long, thick hair between her palms to clean it. She applied the shampoo three times, each time showering off the soap with warm water. Soap streamed down my neck into the bubbles; water returning to water. She wrapped my hair in a towel and I lay back in the bath and she washed my body. The pressure of her fingertips was intense and almost painful as she moved her hands back and forth over my back, shoulders, and neck. My body arched in response. But when she cleaned my arms and my b.r.e.a.s.t.s she raised her fingertips off my skin and sunk the palms of her hands downward, giving an altogether different sensation. When she washed my b.r.e.a.s.t.s my nipples became firm. Although my b.r.e.a.s.t.s were only the size of oranges, there was fullness to them. Her hands lingered there and her back-and-forth hand motion slowed. With each hand action she accentuated the friction of her palms on my now-erect dark nipples, and without prompting, my legs flexed imperceptibly under the hot water.

She next started to clean my legs. Both of her hands encircled my left ankle and moved along my calf in long, firm strokes. She pressed hard into the muscles and I felt tension that I did not know existed release. Her sunken hazel eyes followed her hands as she repeated these movements on my right calf, but from there she started to strongly ma.s.sage my thigh. As her hands cleaned my inner thigh, a belt tightened around my belly and a soft sound slipped from my lips. Her hands moved across to my left thigh. My eyes shut and her hands rhythmically washed up and down the whole leg but this time with each long caress, the edge of her hand nudged against my bunny rabbit's ears. Reflexively, I let my legs part a little. Feelings from my belly showered downward. She pulled her hands from the water and lathered soap onto her right hand, which she then placed flat against my swollen ears and rubbed firmly back and forth to clean it. I opened my eyes for an instant and I saw that she was now staring at me. "Batuk," she whispered, "let's get you out."

I stepped from the bath into a large white towel that Hita held for me, being careful not to let the towel on my head fall off. "Darling, go and lie on the bed," she said, "and I will be there in a second." I went and lay facedown on top of the pale green bedspread, my head turned to the bathroom entrance, watching Hita. She came from the bathroom carrying a tray, with her sleeves rolled up and a soft, self-a.s.sured smile on her face. She placed the tray next to me on the bed and said sweetly, "Batuk, I want you to relax ... would you like me to put on some music?" I nodded. She knelt down and switched on the radio built into the bed's headboard, tuning it to a station playing sitar music. "Lie on your back," she instructed. As I rolled onto my back Hita undid the towel with a gentle confidence and it fell open. I lay naked except for my hair. She said, "Just relax and put your arms over your head." With a big brown brush she wiped cream under my armpit nearest her and using a razor shaved off the early gra.s.ses of womanhood. She repeated this on the other arm and then wiped my shaved armpits with a towel that had been moistened with warm water. She told me to relax my arms and I let them fall by my sides. She took the brush from the tray, dipped it in cream, and wiped it over my entire rabbit face. The ears were quite swollen from the rubbing and the heat of the bath and the cream felt tingly "Just relax," Hita said as she shaved, down to up. She started at my inner thigh and swept upward with short strokes. I squiggled a bit with the feeling. Once she was finished, she used another warm, moist towel to clean me. My dew was leaking from me and I could smell myself.

"There, finished," Hita said. "Come slip under the covers." I obligingly did so and she smiled at me. "You have a long day tomorrow and you need your rest. Sleep well." I looked up at her to return her smile but then had to look again, for all I saw was emptiness. That night, I had no dreams.

I was awakened by shafts of light sliding through the cracks between the curtains and shining into my eyes. I was alone in the room. I climbed out of bed and started to explore.

The Tiger Suite comprised the three rooms I already knew: the bedroom, the bathroom, and the living area. I went into the living room, where Tiger smiled at me and bade me good morning. "Yes, I did sleep well. Did you?" I answered his inquiry. I dragged the window curtain and found that it glided open weightlessly I saw the turquoise of the ocean illuminated by blazing sunshine. The water extended to eternity. The sunshine was early in its day's travel and shone straight at me. Far, far below was the wide promenade on which only a few people walked. I saw a couple of people in brightly colored outfits running from an invisible demon. Between the promenade and the hotel was the street; cars and buses drove unimpeded. I opened all the curtains one by one, first in the living room and then in the bedroom. Three of the tall windows (two in the living room and one in the bedroom) faced the water and I felt that if I stepped from the window, I would walk straight into the ocean. The bedroom had a second window that was set at right angles to the ocean front. This one looked down onto a side street where I saw five tiny men repairing a dirty dark green car. Then it struck me that I was naked.

It was not that I felt ashamed about being unclothed, but I had not been naked in private for as long as I could remember. Of course, I was naked for the weekly shower with the other girls and Puneet, which we had in the wet room behind Hippo's lair, but apart from that I was always clothed. In my nest, which seemed a lifetime away, I could have slept naked with my curtain drawn if I had wanted to but it never crossed my mind to do so. Although the tiger and I were both naked and we loved the feeling of the sun's glare on our bodies, I felt it immodest to be undressed.

In the bathroom I found a heavy white robe made from thick toweling. It was obviously sized for a man, but once the sleeves were rolled up, it served me perfectly. I tied the sash round my waist and headed to the entrance of the Tiger Suite. I said to the tiger, "Don't worry I am not leaving. I am just going to pop out for a bit to explore." He growled his approval and I smiled. The door was locked from the outside, however. I put my ear to it and could swear that I heard the old doorman breathing. Popping out was obviously not an option.

I noticed a bowl of fruit on the dining table. I was tremendously hungry and a.s.sumed that it was for me. I took a large, soft mango from the bowl, peeled half of it with my teeth and fingers, and buried my face in the sweet pulp. My face was covered in mango juice when I heard a key jangling in the door. Hita strode in before I could wipe all the mango off. I looked guiltily across the room at her. She smiled in amus.e.m.e.nt. "I see you are hungry," she said. "Let's order breakfast for you. What do you like to eat?" I milled the question through my mind. I had no real idea what I liked. I eventually answered, "Anything is fine ... thank you, Miss. .h.i.ta."

Hita spoke on the phone for a short while. She switched on the television to a program where a woman was talking about an apartment building that had caught fire. They were showing pictures of charred bodies and it reminded me of the dump behind the Orphanage. I had preferred the silence and solitude that preceded Hita's arrival but such matters were not my choice. I thought fleetingly of my husband.

After a while, there was a knock at the door and a man in a white jacket and black trousers walked in pushing a cart full of food. Although this breakfast was the most sumptuous I had ever seen, I cared little for it despite my hunger. I would have been happier with sweet chai, the soy paste Mother makes, and hot nan with oil. Such reservations, though, are the luxury of the well fed. The man placed the food on the table and left. As the door slammed, I looked at Hita, who nodded a.s.sent, and I attacked the food with both hands. I was scooping yellow eggs onto the bread and pushing it into my mouth. My robe fell open as I did so and food sprinkled and splattered onto my body. I stopped eating with most of the food untouched. Hita watched this uncouth spectacle with a professional detachment that reminded me that the food was only a prelude to the remainder of the day.

A moment later, while sipping tea, Hita informed me that the doctor would be coming to see me later and she asked if there was anything I needed.

"Miss. .h.i.ta, can you tell me why I am here? When will I be going back to Mamaki Briila?" Hita looked at me, smiled, and answered, "Don't worry yourself about that for now. It is better that you just think of today. As I said, the doctor is coming soon. Now is there anything you want?" I did not think of asking for clothes but said, "Miss. .h.i.ta, could I please have some paper and a pen?" "You want colors to draw with?" Hita asked. "No, Miss. .h.i.ta. I want paper and a pen to write a story with, please," I said. Hita raised her eyebrows in surprise and replied, "I will have to keep my eye on you. I didn't realize that you're a smart one. You are the first girl to ever ask for paper and a pen. They usually ask for makeup or a hairbrush or a toy or something like that but never paper and a pen." Hita looked at me. It was not a pleasant look but not a mean one either. "I am curious," she said. "Are you from an educated family?" I replied, "No, I learned to read ..." I was just about to say, "when I had TB," but realized that if I said this I might be sent back to the Common Street immediately. Perhaps she was right; I was cleverer than I thought. I said, "I learned to read, Miss. .h.i.ta, from the missionaries back at my home village." She asked, "You read English or dialect?" "Dialect," I answered. "Are you from a farming village?" she asked. "Yes, I am from Dreepah-Jil in Madhya Pradesh," I replied. The rat-a-tat-tat of questions continued. "And how long have you been in the city?" By this question she really meant, How long had I inhabited my nest? It is known that the nests are predominantly supplied with girls from the farming towns who are abandoned or sold. I had seen many summers in Mumbai, which are unforgettable because of their unbearable wet heat. "Six." "One more question," she said. "So have you written stories for the last six years?" This caught me off guard because I did not understand why she cared. When in doubt, lie. "No," I answered. What I failed to appreciate was that one of Hita's responsibilities was to ensure that girls like me disappear off the face of the earth without a trace.

Before I left the Common Street I had tied my blue notebook to my back using a piece of string. I did not want to be without my book. Also, I was unsure if I would ever be returning to my nest. The book dug into my back in the taxi but that was a small price to pay. In the hotel room, when I first walked around the Tiger Suite as the blue suit was rifling through his wallet, I had yanked the book out from my back and slid it behind a cushion of one of the armchairs. After this conversation with Hita, I remembered my book's ill-planned hiding place and knew that I needed to move it to a more secure one. The opportunity came almost immediately, when Hita went to the bedroom to call the doctor. "She's ready now," I heard Hita say. In a second, I had grabbed the book from behind the chair cushion and slid it under the sofa, where I suspected it would be safe for a while. Hita returned to the main room and told me that Dr. Prathi would be coming to see me soon. She also told me, much to my delight, that there was already paper and a pen in the small desk in the bedroom and that the hotel boy would bring more paper later. Hita said, half chuckling, that she expected to see my story when it was done. I would plan for that.

There is a knock at the door. Hita unlocks it with a key she is carrying in the pocket of her white trousers. A hotel man brings in a pile of paper topped with the hotel's insignia: the Royal Imperial Hotel, Mumbai, written in gold. He puts the pile on the table, fishes around in his pocket, and places two pens next to it. Hita gives the boy a coin, which he slips into his jacket pocket before flashing me a flirtatious grin.

Almost immediately after the hotel man leaves, Dr. Prathi arrives. His tummy rolls over his tight belt; I can see that it has stretched the last belt hole almost to obliteration. He has rushed here and he is panting. He dabs his shiny brow with a filthy hanky held in his plump hand. In his other hand he carries a worn black doctor's bag. I can see puddles of sweat spreading under his armpits even through his drab gray jacket. He puffs, "Sorry I am late; I got here as fast as I could." Hita steps forward. "Dr. Prathi, nice to see you. This is not a problem at all-we have all day. Here, this is for you." She hands him a tan envelope. She continues, "Please conduct your examination. I have to collect some clothing for her and will be back in an hour or so." She fishes in her pocket and pulls out the room key, which dangles on the key ring. "Here is the key. If you finish and cannot wait, lock the door and give the doorman the key. Leave your report over there on the table ... any concerns at all, please give me a call here this afternoon. If there is anything you need, call on the hotel phone and they can get it for you." She shakes the hand of the doctor and places the "thank you" bank note she receives from him in her pocket as she closes the door behind her. I hope she washes her hands.

Dr. Prathi beckons me over to the dining table, where he sits on the chair at the head of the table. He is flowing over it. I sit two chairs away from him but I can still smell him. He turns to me, beaming, and says, "I think we are going to have a nice time. Well, little girl, what is your name?" "Batuk," I say. He pulls a pad of paper and his listening tubes out of his bag. He is also pulling out a shiny metal object I have not seen before, and it clunks as he puts it on the table. He takes a black pen out of his jacket pocket. "Batuk, what is your family name?" he asks. "Ramasdeen," I say. He repeats, "Batuk Ramasdeen," as he writes on his pad of paper. He writes in a scrawl. I have not been asked my family name in many years. It has a foreign feel, as if it were someone new I am meeting. "How old are you, Batuk?" he asks. "Fifteen," I say. "Well, pretty Batuk," he continues, "my name is Dr. Prathi and I am here to check that you are healthy so that you can enjoy your stay here, you blessed child." He waves his arm in the air to indicate something magnanimous. The sweat puddle under his armpit is rapidly becoming a lake.

"First of all," he says, "have you had any babies?" "No." "Do you have monthly lady periods?" Amusingly, he points to his groin. "Yes." "How long have you had them for?" "I don't know ... a few years." (You lose a sense of time in the Common Street.) He continues, "Have you ever had TB or been bright yellow?" "No," I lie. "Do you use these?" Out of his pocket he pulls a rubber-johnny in a red wrapper. Mamaki often told us that if we are ever asked about rubber-johnnies we should say that we always use them. When a cook wants me to use one, Mamaki, I know, takes an extra ten rupees; even then they are not new but washed from a previous use. The answer to Dr. Prathi is "Yes, Doctor, always." "Good," he answers, and slips the red wrapper back in his pocket. "Bituk." "Batuk," I correct him. "Batuk, I must listen to your heart and lungs now." He dangles his listening tubes between his fingers. "Go to the bedroom and jump up on the bed for me and I will be right in." He continues to write notes and I go to the bedroom to wait for him.

Dr. Prathi walks straight through the bedroom into the bathroom and runs water into the sink. He has taken off his jacket and I can see his back from the bed; his white shirt is drenched in sweat. He hums to himself. He now turns and waddles toward me with his listening tubes hanging from his neck and with the shiny metal object in his hand. He sits next to me on the bed and rolls up his sleeves. He smiles at me and as he does so, he bobs his head up and down like squash plants bobbing in water. As his head bobs, his chin wobbles, his chest shakes, and his tummy quivers. He is like an orchestra of resonating body fat. He asks me to sit up and take deep breaths. He sits behind me and places his hands on my back. "Deep breaths ... in ... and ... out ... good girl." Then he taps my back and listens through the hearing tubes. He gets up and says, "Lie down." I do. He feels my ribs on both sides and then my b.r.e.a.s.t.s-one by one. He presses and moves his hand in circular motions as he feels each. I swear I can see his eyes widening. He then listens to my chest with his tubes. He straightens his back; "Good," he says. He then starts to feel my tummy all over, at first pushing softly but then pushing his fingers deep into me. "Good," he says again. "All right, Batuk, open your legs, darling, I need to see down below ... there's a good girl."

As he nudges my thighs apart I see the metal object he just cleaned in the bathroom reflect the sunlight. He is advancing it toward me and now pushing it between my legs into Bunny Rabbit's mouth. It is cold and my legs shudder but his arm's weight is behind it and it is pushed inside me. He is muttering, "Good girl, good girl." I stare down at his hand and my natural reaction is to tighten my legs on him, but this hurts. He changes his mantra to "Relax, darling, relax, darling." As I start to let my legs open and as they stop fighting against him,