A Walk Across the Sun (8 page)

Prakash told the girls to stand with Vetri in an alcove at the base of the stairs and left them briefly. When he returned, he was trailing another man. Short, with black hair and a large chin, the stranger had the pale complexion of a North Indian. He looked the girls up and down and turned to Prakash with a smile.

“Well done, my friend,” he said in highly accented Tamil. His speech confirmed that he was not from Chennai.

“I thought you would like them.”

The man handed Prakash a black bag. “Twelve thousand rupees, six thousand each. That's two thousand more than normal.”

Prakash pursed his lips. “I asked for fifteen.”

“Thirteen thousand, no more,” the man countered, reaching into his pants and removing two five-hundred-rupee notes.

Prakash nodded and took the money. He left without another word.

The man introduced himself to the sisters. “My name is Amar. Vetri is my assistant. He will be traveling with you. The ride is long and the train will be crowded. Behave normally, but do not encourage conversation. If one of you disobeys, the other will be punished.”

“Where are you taking us?” Ahalya asked again, squeezing Sita's hand to reassure her. She thought of stories she had heard of men from the cities luring women away from their families to perform menial labor for little or no pay. The idea of slaving away night and day for a stranger in a distant city made her shudder.

Amar narrowed his eyes. “You will find out soon enough.” He traded glances with Vetri and pointed down the platform. “Take them to their seats.”

Vetri nodded and led the sisters to a sleeper carriage near the rear of the train. They climbed aboard and found most of the seats occupied. Vetri took them to a compartment near the center of the car. An old woman sat on the bench across from them. She delivered Ahalya a wrinkled smile but didn't speak. Next to her sat a large man of middle age, dozing. The bench was sagging beneath his weight, and a suitcase was wedged between his legs.

Though the morning was cool, the sleeper car was already warming with the heat of bodies, and the air was pungent with the smell of sweat. At the front of the car a baby was crying, and in the compartment behind theirs, two men were engaged in a loud dialogue about Tamil politics. Their conversation filled the cramped space. Ahalya could tell that this was going to be a very uncomfortable ride.

She gave Sita the window bench and sat down across from her. Sita looked back at her and whispered in English, “Where do you think we're going?”

Ahalya glanced at Vetri, but he was enraptured by a glossy film magazine and had no interest in their exchange.

She took a deep breath and replied, “I don't know. I've never heard of this train.”

“I'm scared.” Sita's words were barely discernible in the din.

“Be strong, Little Flower,” Ahalya replied, using Sita's favorite nickname. “If Mother were here, she would say the same.”

As the sun rose, the train left Chennai and plodded across the expanse of the countryside, passing villages and rice paddies and endless cultivated fields parched by the sun. To distract themselves and pass the time, Ahalya and Sita played language games, as they had done so often at St. Mary's.

“Name the poet,” Ahalya said: “‘The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion.'”

“Tagore,” Sita said, “that's easy.”

“What about this? ‘Love's way is life; without it humans are but bones skin-clad.'”

“Thiruvalluvar,” Sita replied, solving the riddle with ease.

Ahalya thought of a more obscure verse: “‘The wind of dawn that sets closed blossoms free brings its warm airs to thee.'”

Sita pondered this for a long moment. “I don't know.”

“Hafiz,” Ahalya said.

“But he was Muslim, not Hindu,” Sita objected.

“It doesn't matter to the poetry.”

As the hours passed, the carriage became more and more crowded. The temperature inside the sleeper carriage was close to suffocating. Ahalya saw beads of sweat on her sister's brow, and her own churidaar was moist and sticky. To make matters worse, they were hungry. At every country station, hawkers plied the train platforms, offering food and drink, yet when Vetri purchased lunch and dinner for himself, he gave the girls only bananas.

The sun set at seven o'clock, and the cooling air brought welcome relief. Sita yawned and looked at her sister. Ahalya saw the question in her eyes. Surveying the tightly packed bodies, some clumped on benches, some seated on the floor, some standing, swaying with the train, she wondered how anyone would sleep.

But they did. In time, children stretched out beneath the benches, fitting their bodies among the luggage. The women wedged themselves together until they were protected and unafraid to close their eyes. And the men crammed into any remaining space, forcing their limbs into impossibly tight confines.

Ahalya took Sita into her arms and whispered a prayer that Ambini had taught them. It was a prayer to Lakshmi for luck, for health, and for courage. She knew they would need each of the three boons wherever it was they were going.

As the night wore on, bodies shuffled, babies cried, and children whimpered, yet even Ahalya and Sita managed to sleep. Sometime in the black morning hours, exhaustion finally overcame them.

When Ahalya opened her eyes again, she noticed that the train had begun to slow. The carriage was less crowded now. Many of the people she remembered were gone. The lights outside the window were scarce at first, but soon buildings appeared. The dread she had succeeded in repressing during the journey returned. Most of the remaining passengers were still asleep, but a few were stretching their arms and moving about. All the signs suggested that the train was close to its destination.

Ahalya turned again to the window and found Sita awake, watching the approaching cityscape. “It's bigger than Chennai,” she said softly.

“Yes,” Ahalya agreed, squeezing her sister tight.

The train decelerated and a platform appeared. Painted signs posted above pedestrian benches read DADAR. Ahalya's breath caught in her throat. She had heard of Dadar Station.

It was in Bombay.

As the train drew to a halt, passengers shoved their way toward the rear door, lugging bags and children. Amar entered the car from the front and waded through the sea of bodies.

“Come with me,” he said, without explanation.

Dadar Station was a madhouse in the twilight before sunrise. Fluorescent bulbs overhead cast a pallor of bluish-gray light upon the platform. A steady stream of
taxi-wallas
propositioned Amar in a foreign language. Ahalya glanced around, looking for a police officer, but she didn't see one. If she ran, she might lose herself in the crowd. But she had no way to signal to Sita or ensure her safety.

Amar reached into the breast pocket of his kurta and took out what looked like tickets.

“We need to hurry,” he said, pointing to another platform. “The local train will arrive any minute.”

They scaled a footbridge over the tracks and descended to another platform. Seconds later, a commuter train pulled into the station from the north. The car was bulging with people. Men were standing in open doorways and hanging out of the train. There didn't seem to be enough room in the carriages for the crowd on the platform.

Amar spoke to them rapidly. “Stay with Vetri. You must push to get on the train.”

When the train stopped, the crowd surged toward the doors. Ahalya gripped Sita's hand and joined the rush. As the girls neared the entrance to a carriage, the pressure increased until they were nearly running. The prospect of climbing aboard seemed impossible, but a gap opened up and the sisters slipped through it. They followed Vetri to the center of the car and took hold of metal handles above their heads, as bodies sorted, sidestepped, and compressed around them.

The train traveled at a rapid pace, bypassing a number of stations. After ten minutes, Vetri shoved his way toward them and said they would be getting off at Mumbai Central.

The station arrived in a blaze of lights and motion. The girls followed Vetri onto the platform, and Amar met them there and led them out through double doors to a waiting taxi. He muttered a few unintelligible words to the taxi-walla and they were off.

The city was brightening beneath the rising sun. They were in a densely populated urban area. Black and yellow taxis swarmed the roads like bumblebees, and pedestrians darted across the traffic. The taxi followed the main road for a few blocks and then turned onto a dusty road intersected by smaller lanes. A few women were about, haggling with vendors, but the neighborhood was strangely quiet.

The taxi pulled up to the curb, and Ahalya saw a man wearing a gray shirt and black jeans move toward them. He was about her father's age, but his hair was almost completely white. Amar climbed out of the cab and shook the man's hand. Vetri told the girls to get out. They stood on the sidewalk before the man with the white hair.

“Sealed pack?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Amar replied.

“Forty thousand.” The man spoke with authority.

“Seventy-five,” Amar countered.

The man frowned. “Sixty thousand. No more.”

“Good,” agreed Amar. “You will recover it quickly.”

The man looked at the girls and said, “Come.”

Leaving Amar and Vetri on the street, they followed the man through a doorway and into a twisting stairwell. The steps were steep and the passageway narrow. A door was open at the top of the stairs. A young man in a dark shirt and jeans stood beside the door.

“Take them to the upper room,” the man said.

The young man nodded. “This way,” he said to the girls.

The space beyond the door was bare except for an L-shaped couch and a mirror along the opposite wall. The room was painted yellow and had a curtained window and a second door. The young man led the girls to the opposite door. They entered a hallway about twenty feet long and studded with doors, all of which were closed. Ahalya heard the sound of low voices and shuffling feet in the rooms beyond, but no one appeared to greet them.