twines her arms around the men like a thirsty vine.
One night, I am alone with Monica. She is studying one of her beloved movie magazines, posing and puckering her lips like the woman on the page in front of her.
“I can teach you some tricks,” she says to me. Tricks to make the customers pay more.”
I am afraid of this thirsty-vine woman. I look at my hands folded in my lap, and say nothing.
“You think you are better than me?” she says. “Too good to learn my tricks?”
I am too afraid to even shake my head no.
“Hah!” She laughs mirthlessly, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a shake of her head. “I’ve earned nearly enough to pay down my debt,” she says. “In another month, I’ll be on my way home.”
I try to take in this idea—that Monica will soon be free—
when a man comes into the room. He has city shoes on his feet and a gold chain around his neck. In an instant, Monica is at his side, winding her arms around him, like a snake.
And then they are gone, and I am alone to consider an odd and somewhat sour feeling: disappointment that the man did not choose me.
AN ORDINARY BOY
I have been watching the David Beckham boy, although I do not let on.
I know that the first thing he does when he comes home from school is to kiss Pushpa and tickle his baby sister.
I know that he sticks his tongue out when he is concentrating on his homework.
I know that Anita saves her bread for him since she cannot chew on her bad side.
I know that he has two favorite television shows: one where men kick a black-and-white ball around a giant green paddy field, and another where people try to guess the right answers to difficult questions so they can win a million rupees. And I know that he plays along with the millionaire show, because I saw him whispering the answers under his breath.
I know that he keeps his belongings in a tin trunk under his bed. And I know what’s in there—a rusty key, an empty bottle of hair oil, a plastic flower, and three gold buttons—because I peeked inside when he was at school one day.
I know, from all this watching, that he is just an ordinary boy.
But sometimes I find myself hating him.
I hate him for having schoolbooks and playmates.
For having a mother who combs his hair on the mornings she’s feeling well enough.
And for having the freedom to come and go as he pleases.
But sometimes, I hate myself for hating him. Simply because he is an ordinary boy.
WHAT IS MISSING NOW
I no longer notice the smell of the indoor privy.
And I long ago stopped feeling the blows of Mumtaz’s strap.
But today when I buried my face in my bundle of clothes from home, there was no hearth smoke in the folds of my skirt, no crisp Himalayan night air in my shawl.
I have been frugal with myself, not daring to unwrap the bundle more than once a day, for fear that it would lose its magic.
But today, it became just a rag skirt and a tattered shawl.
STEALING FROM THE DAVID BECKHAM BOY
It seems that the David Beckham boy runs a business here.
In the afternoons, he runs errands. The good-earning girls, the ones who are allowed to keep their tips, give him a list of what they want and send him out to the stores. I have seen him come back with movie magazines for Monica and Coca-Cola for Shilpa. Sometimes he just gets a smeary lipstick kiss on the cheek. But sometimes he gets a few coins for his troubles.
At night, he works for their customers. They yell for him, and he runs to the corner to get them liquor or cigarettes. Sometimes he gets nothing more than a pat on the head. And sometimes, if he takes too long, a slap across the face. But sometimes he gets a rupee or two.
When he thinks no one is looking, he hides his earnings in his little tin trunk.
In the afternoons, when he is out playing tag with his school chums or running his errand business, I steal from the David Beckham boy.
I do not take his money, though. I steal something better.
While the other girls are downstairs
One night, I am alone with Monica. She is studying one of her beloved movie magazines, posing and puckering her lips like the woman on the page in front of her.
“I can teach you some tricks,” she says to me. Tricks to make the customers pay more.”
I am afraid of this thirsty-vine woman. I look at my hands folded in my lap, and say nothing.
“You think you are better than me?” she says. “Too good to learn my tricks?”
I am too afraid to even shake my head no.
“Hah!” She laughs mirthlessly, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a shake of her head. “I’ve earned nearly enough to pay down my debt,” she says. “In another month, I’ll be on my way home.”
I try to take in this idea—that Monica will soon be free—
when a man comes into the room. He has city shoes on his feet and a gold chain around his neck. In an instant, Monica is at his side, winding her arms around him, like a snake.
And then they are gone, and I am alone to consider an odd and somewhat sour feeling: disappointment that the man did not choose me.
AN ORDINARY BOY
I have been watching the David Beckham boy, although I do not let on.
I know that the first thing he does when he comes home from school is to kiss Pushpa and tickle his baby sister.
I know that he sticks his tongue out when he is concentrating on his homework.
I know that Anita saves her bread for him since she cannot chew on her bad side.
I know that he has two favorite television shows: one where men kick a black-and-white ball around a giant green paddy field, and another where people try to guess the right answers to difficult questions so they can win a million rupees. And I know that he plays along with the millionaire show, because I saw him whispering the answers under his breath.
I know that he keeps his belongings in a tin trunk under his bed. And I know what’s in there—a rusty key, an empty bottle of hair oil, a plastic flower, and three gold buttons—because I peeked inside when he was at school one day.
I know, from all this watching, that he is just an ordinary boy.
But sometimes I find myself hating him.
I hate him for having schoolbooks and playmates.
For having a mother who combs his hair on the mornings she’s feeling well enough.
And for having the freedom to come and go as he pleases.
But sometimes, I hate myself for hating him. Simply because he is an ordinary boy.
WHAT IS MISSING NOW
I no longer notice the smell of the indoor privy.
And I long ago stopped feeling the blows of Mumtaz’s strap.
But today when I buried my face in my bundle of clothes from home, there was no hearth smoke in the folds of my skirt, no crisp Himalayan night air in my shawl.
I have been frugal with myself, not daring to unwrap the bundle more than once a day, for fear that it would lose its magic.
But today, it became just a rag skirt and a tattered shawl.
STEALING FROM THE DAVID BECKHAM BOY
It seems that the David Beckham boy runs a business here.
In the afternoons, he runs errands. The good-earning girls, the ones who are allowed to keep their tips, give him a list of what they want and send him out to the stores. I have seen him come back with movie magazines for Monica and Coca-Cola for Shilpa. Sometimes he just gets a smeary lipstick kiss on the cheek. But sometimes he gets a few coins for his troubles.
At night, he works for their customers. They yell for him, and he runs to the corner to get them liquor or cigarettes. Sometimes he gets nothing more than a pat on the head. And sometimes, if he takes too long, a slap across the face. But sometimes he gets a rupee or two.
When he thinks no one is looking, he hides his earnings in his little tin trunk.
In the afternoons, when he is out playing tag with his school chums or running his errand business, I steal from the David Beckham boy.
I do not take his money, though. I steal something better.
While the other girls are downstairs
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