A Walk Across the Sun
A Walk
Across
the Sun
A Novel
B
Y
C
ORBAN
A
DDISON
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ISBN 978-1-4027-9280-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4027-9281-6 (ebook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Addison, Corban, 1979-
 A walk across the sun : a novel / by Corban Addison.
      p. cm.
 ISBN 978-1-4027-9280-9 (alk. paper)
 1. SistersâIndiaâFiction. 2. Teenage girlsâIndiaâFiction. 3. TsunamisâCoromandel Coast (India)âFiction. 4. Disaster victimsâIndiaâFiction. 5. Human traffickingâIndiaâFiction. 6. Child trafficking victimsâFiction. 7. Tamil Nadu (India)âFiction. 8. Atlanta (Ga.)âFiction. I. Title.
 PS3601.D465W35 2012
 813'.6âdc22
2011022367
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2Â Â 4Â Â 6Â Â 8Â Â 10Â Â 9Â Â 7Â Â 5Â Â 3Â Â 1
For the uncountable number of souls
held captive in the sex trade.
And for the heroic men and women across the globe
working tirelessly to win their freedom.
The dark places of the land are full of the habitations of violence.
âA
SAPH THE PSALMIST
If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to one another.
âM
OTHER
T
ERESA OF
C
ALCUTTA
Table of Contents
Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
âR
ABINDRANATH
T
AGORE
Tamil Nadu, India
The sea was quiet at first light on the morning their world fell apart. They were sistersâAhalya the older at seventeen and Sita two years her junior. Like their mother before them, they were children of the sea. When their father, a software executive, moved the family from the plains of Delhi to Chennai on the Coromandel Coast, it felt to Ahalya and Sita like a homecoming. The sea was their friend, its pelicans and pomfrets and crested waves their companions. They never believed the sea could turn against them. But they were young and understood little of suffering.
Ahalya felt it when the earth shook in the dawn twilight. She looked at Sita sleeping in the bed beside her and wondered why she didn't awaken. The tremors were violent but ceased quickly, and afterward she wondered if they had come in a dream. No one stirred in the house below. It was the day after Christmas, a Sunday, and all India was asleep.
Ahalya snuggled into her blanket, inhaled the sweet, sandalwood scent of her sister's hair, and drifted off to visions of the peacock-blue
salwar kameez
her father had given her to wear to the conservatory in Mylapore that evening. It was December and the Madras Music Season was in full swing. Their father had bought them tickets to a violin concerto at eight o'clock. She and Sita were both students of the violin.
The household awoke in stages. At a quarter past seven, Jaya, the family's longtime housekeeper, swaddled herself in a sari, retrieved a small jar of limestone powder from the bureau at the foot of her bed, and went to the front porch. She swept the earth beyond the threshold with a stiff-bristled broom and placed dots of the white powder on the ground. She connected the dots with elegant lines and traced the star shape of a jasmine flower. Satisfying herself, she placed her hands together, palms flat, and whispered a prayer to Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of fortune, for an auspicious day. The
kolam
ritual complete, she went to the kitchen to prepare the morning meal.
Ahalya woke again when the sunlight streamed through the curtains. Sita, always an early riser, was nearly dressed, her sable hair shiny and damp from a shower. Ahalya watched her sister apply her makeup in front of a small mirror and smiled. Sita was a fine-boned girl blessed with the delicate features and wide, expressive eyes of their mother, Ambini. She was slight for her age, and the magic of puberty had yet to transform her body into the figure of a woman. As a result, she was self-conscious about her appearance, despite regular reassurances from Ahalya and Ambini that time would bring about the changes she so desired.
Partly to keep pace with Sita and partly to avoid being late for breakfast, Ahalya dressed hurriedly in a yellow pantsuit, or
churidaar
, and matching scarf. She slipped on bangles and anklets and completed the ensemble by fastening a necklace around her neck and placing a delicate jeweled
bindi
on her forehead.
“Ready, dear?” Ahalya asked Sita in English. It was a rule in the Ghai household that the girls could speak Hindi or Tamil only if spoken to by an adult in that language. Like all Indians privileged to rise into the ranks of the upper middle class, their parents dreamed of sending them to university in England and firmly believed that a mastery of English was the likeliest ticket to Cambridge or Oxford. The convent school where the girls boarded taught Hindiâthe national languageâand Tamilâthe indigenous tongue of Tamil Naduâalong with English, but the convent sisters preferred to speak English, and the girls never quibbled with the rule.
“Yes,” Sita said wistfully, casting a fading glance toward the mirror. “I suppose.”
“Oh, Sita,” Ahalya chided her, “a frown will not endear you to Vikram Pillai.”
The comment had the effect Ahalya intended. Sita's face brightened at the mention of the family's plans for the evening. Pillai was her favorite violinist.
“Do you think we'll get to meet him?” Sita asked. “The line after the show is always so long.”
“Ask Baba,” Ahalya said, thinking of the surprise she and her father had planned for Sitaâand had succeeded in keeping secret. “You never know with his connections.”
“I'll ask him at breakfast,” Sita said and disappeared through the door and down the stairs.
Chuckling to herself, Ahalya followed Sita to the living room. Together, the girls performed their
puja
, or morning worship, before the family idols of Ganesh, the elephant god of luck, and Rama, avatar of Vishnu, who stood on an altar in a corner of the room. Like most members of the merchant caste, the Ghais were predominantly secular and visited a temple or shrine only on rare occasions when seeking a boon from the gods. However, when the girls' grandmother came to visit, the incense sticks were lit and the puja prepared, and everyoneâsmall and greatâparticipated in the ritual.
Entering the dining room, the sisters found their father, Naresh, their mother, and their grandmother assembled for breakfast. Before seating themselves, Ahalya and Sita touched their father's feet in a traditional sign of respect. Naresh smiled and gave them both a peck on the cheek.
“Good morning, Baba,” they said.
“Good morning, my beauties.”
“Baba, do you know anyone who knows Vikram Pillai?” Sita asked.
Naresh glanced at Ahalya and winked at Sita. “I will after tonight.”
Sita raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
Naresh reached into his pocket. “I was going to wait until later, but since you asked ⦔ He pulled out a VIP pass and laid it on the table. “We'll meet him before the performance.”
Sita looked at the pass and a smile blossomed on her face. She knelt down slowly and touched her father's foot a second time.
“Thank you, Baba. Does Ahalya get to come?”
“Why, of course,” Naresh replied, placing three more VIP passes beside the first. “And your mother and grandmother as well.”
“We can ask him anything we like,” Ahalya chimed in.
Sita looked at her sister and her father, and her smile knew no bounds.