ready, a parcel’s ripeness depended not on the state of the parcel, but on the one who tasted her.
Madhu knew that Padma already had a buyer for this parcel, someone who was eager to pay a bomb for a virgin child—which made this parcel different from the others who arrived inKamathipura. This parcel had been commissioned. Padma had been very clear that this one was true maal, a real virgin. Normally, when clients were told that a girl was seal-pack, it wasn’t the case. The girl had already been broken, but because she had not yet been sold on the market, she was still considered virginal and was presented as such to clients. In reality, she had been raped repeatedly by the agent during transport, on the train itself. How fitting, thought Madhu, that this was done in the cargo compartment, because the word
maal
literally meant “cargo” or “commodity.” The girl had been bought for a price and was no longer human. She was being converted into cheez—a thing to be consumed.
A parcel that had been opened on the way was sold at a higher price because it had already been tamed. The brothel madam would not have to go through the trouble of disciplining it, of having it opened. That was a headache.
This parcel’s case was different. She would not be taken in the brothel itself; something more rare would occur. She would be transported to someone’s home or to a hotel room nearby. That was why Madhu was being employed. She would act as the carrier. The parcel needed to be packaged in such a way that it looked like it belonged in Kamathipura. And who better than a hijra to undertake the task of transformation?
The parcel raised her head toward Madhu and then looked down again. Madhu turned the flashlight off, but she was not ready to make herself visible. Not yet. The parcel was murmuring something, mumbling away, her jaws hardly able to open. Words had no weight; they were as weightless as the motes of dust that stood in silvery columns under dangling light bulbs. Madhu’s aim in this first meeting between herself and the parcelwas simple: to share the same physical space. There was no need for talk. When two bodies met, raw truth was exchanged.
And the truth was that a ten-year-old girl had been sold into slavery.
Madhu took one last look at the parcel and went down the trap door. That was enough for now. As she placed the ladder back next to the bicycle, she pondered the meaning of magic. Magic wasn’t about making things appear out of nowhere. Any amateur could do that. Magic was to make what was real disappear. To wipe out from existence. To turn against God.
He creates, thought Madhu. I erase.
—
Madhu walked through the lanes of Kamathipura: Lane Fourteen, Lane Thirteen, Lane Twelve…She descended deeper and deeper into the core of her settlement. The streets were rough cement, eaten and dug out, but the foundation of their hardness had been laid years ago, in the 1800s, when the first prostitutes wafted through them, danced and spun around, and eventually collapsed, only to be replaced by other bodies. Next, the criminals came. Once the working girls had made the place unacceptable to society, it became the perfect hideout for thieves, goons, small-time smugglers, and young men with moons in their eyes looking to make their mark in the criminal underworld. While they hid in the shadows, there was always the fold of a woman’s underwear to play with. If a thief’s hand got too restless, itched for a lock to break, he could slide it up a thigh or two during his hiatus. Slowly, the respectable families started moving out of the area and only the prostitutes and “kamathis” remained, the artisans and labourers fromwhom the place got its name. The families that had respect but no means to move out had to stuff handkerchiefs in their mouths whenever someone asked where they lived, because the assumption was that if you lived in Kamathipura, you were cheap, you were easy, you had flies coming out of
Madhu knew that Padma already had a buyer for this parcel, someone who was eager to pay a bomb for a virgin child—which made this parcel different from the others who arrived inKamathipura. This parcel had been commissioned. Padma had been very clear that this one was true maal, a real virgin. Normally, when clients were told that a girl was seal-pack, it wasn’t the case. The girl had already been broken, but because she had not yet been sold on the market, she was still considered virginal and was presented as such to clients. In reality, she had been raped repeatedly by the agent during transport, on the train itself. How fitting, thought Madhu, that this was done in the cargo compartment, because the word
maal
literally meant “cargo” or “commodity.” The girl had been bought for a price and was no longer human. She was being converted into cheez—a thing to be consumed.
A parcel that had been opened on the way was sold at a higher price because it had already been tamed. The brothel madam would not have to go through the trouble of disciplining it, of having it opened. That was a headache.
This parcel’s case was different. She would not be taken in the brothel itself; something more rare would occur. She would be transported to someone’s home or to a hotel room nearby. That was why Madhu was being employed. She would act as the carrier. The parcel needed to be packaged in such a way that it looked like it belonged in Kamathipura. And who better than a hijra to undertake the task of transformation?
The parcel raised her head toward Madhu and then looked down again. Madhu turned the flashlight off, but she was not ready to make herself visible. Not yet. The parcel was murmuring something, mumbling away, her jaws hardly able to open. Words had no weight; they were as weightless as the motes of dust that stood in silvery columns under dangling light bulbs. Madhu’s aim in this first meeting between herself and the parcelwas simple: to share the same physical space. There was no need for talk. When two bodies met, raw truth was exchanged.
And the truth was that a ten-year-old girl had been sold into slavery.
Madhu took one last look at the parcel and went down the trap door. That was enough for now. As she placed the ladder back next to the bicycle, she pondered the meaning of magic. Magic wasn’t about making things appear out of nowhere. Any amateur could do that. Magic was to make what was real disappear. To wipe out from existence. To turn against God.
He creates, thought Madhu. I erase.
—
Madhu walked through the lanes of Kamathipura: Lane Fourteen, Lane Thirteen, Lane Twelve…She descended deeper and deeper into the core of her settlement. The streets were rough cement, eaten and dug out, but the foundation of their hardness had been laid years ago, in the 1800s, when the first prostitutes wafted through them, danced and spun around, and eventually collapsed, only to be replaced by other bodies. Next, the criminals came. Once the working girls had made the place unacceptable to society, it became the perfect hideout for thieves, goons, small-time smugglers, and young men with moons in their eyes looking to make their mark in the criminal underworld. While they hid in the shadows, there was always the fold of a woman’s underwear to play with. If a thief’s hand got too restless, itched for a lock to break, he could slide it up a thigh or two during his hiatus. Slowly, the respectable families started moving out of the area and only the prostitutes and “kamathis” remained, the artisans and labourers fromwhom the place got its name. The families that had respect but no means to move out had to stuff handkerchiefs in their mouths whenever someone asked where they lived, because the assumption was that if you lived in Kamathipura, you were cheap, you were easy, you had flies coming out of
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