The Parcel (23 page)

“Deen, deen, deen,” said Bindu nayak.

Although these words were usually spoken only when a
person was being initiated into the hijra community for the very first time, Bindu nayak used them to signal a fresh start.

“Munni, you are my disciple now. Come, my child.”

Munni rushed to her new mother and melted in her arms. A hijra had been traded. The jamaat was off to a forgiving start.

Next, there was an argument about territories.

Kanta nayak accused Samira nayak's chelas of begging near Bandra station. Samira nayak said that she did not remember ever agreeing
not
to send her disciples there. After some bickering back and forth, Bindu nayak decreed that it was Kanta nayak's domain, thus helping her save some of the face she had lost. To appease Samira nayak, Bindu nayak told her that her disciples could work on the trains themselves, all the way up to Bombay Central. They were free to charm the passengers on the Central Line for the next fiscal year. After that, the contract would have to be renewed.

“Just one rule,” said Bindu nayak. “Don't flash any of the passengers. In Virar, one hijra lifted her sari when a woman refused to give anything. She turned out to be a cop's wife. The hijra got the beating of her life. Also, it's not good for our image. So no flashing.”

“Flash your tits instead,” said Kanta nayak.

“Much better,” said Bindu nayak.

“By the way, there's a new shop in Dongri that sells the cheapest padded bras. The quality is great. I've asked him to make neon ones.”

Before things got out of hand and raucousness set in, Bindu nayak motioned that she wanted to speak. The volume came down, and only the moths banging into each other around the sizzling tube lights could be heard.

“I'm disturbed,” said Bindu nayak. “Rumours are being spread about the hijra community.” Then she looked straight at gurumai. “Do you know anything about this?”

“No,” said gurumai. “Should I?”

“There is word that you have been using Hijra House as a shelter for pojeetives,” she said.

“So what if I am?” gurumai said defiantly. “If we don't look after our own, who will?”

“Your intention is good,” said Bindu nayak, surprisingly gentle in her tone. “But why invite an outsider to see what you are doing? Why invite a real estate agent to hold the hand of a dying pojeetive?”

Oh no, thought Madhu. Gurumai's plan had backfired. She had tried to shock Umesh into never coming back to Hijra House, but what had happened had reached the ears of the hijra elders. What game was Umesh playing?

“The person who gave us this building now thinks we are also hiding pojeetives in our rooms. Your antics with this agent, whoever he is, have caused us great discomfort.”

“His name is Umesh,” said gurumai. “And he is a troublemaker.”

“What does he want?”

“We are one of the few buildings preventing his builder from getting a seventy per cent majority of the property in Kamathipura.”

“Thanks to him,
we
have been asked to take a test by the owner of our building.”

“What test?”

“To see if we are pojeetive. It's just a pressure tactic…He thinks we will influence you to sell. All these builders are connected.”

“I'm sorry you have to go through this,” said gurumai. “But I'm not selling.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as a pojeetive is of dying.”

Somehow Bindu nayak did not mind the sharpness of gurumai's tone. If anything, she seemed to admire her resilience.

“Then we will support you,” said Bindu nayak. “And to show our support, we will continue the night's festivities at Hijra House.”

For the first time in history, the seven hijra nayaks entered Kamathipura. They graced Hijra Gulli like spiritual souls finally blessing the cursed and the wretched. It made Madhu want to throw up.

But there was no doubt that the presence of the nayaks was giving the hijras of Kamathipura some hope. Old enemies were making up, hugging each other outside on the street, sharing cigarettes and laughter, exclaiming that they really only had each other to count on. In Madhu's eyes, the lane that had once boasted more than five hundred hijra prostitutes suddenly regained its lost glory. It was experiencing a major boost of power, a heroin shot so beautiful that everyone felt it at once. The clattering of bangles, the flip-flop of chappals, and the exaggerated fluttering of eyelashes was all a unified effort to defy God. The caricature that was each hijra's face, the smudged red lips, the white powder, the pockmarks, were a challenge to Him. That which He had given, they had altered. In creating them unequal and tainted, God had left in them a hunger to look beautiful, a need so fierce, they were ready to skin doves and wear them on their faces.

Upstairs, gurumai finally had her wish: she was smoking a chillum with the seven nayaks, and even though this was not an
official gathering anymore, all the nayaks were seated in a circle, and gurumai was part of it. She was finally
inside
the circle. Madhu was happy for her. But she could tell from gurumai's watery eyes that she was taking too much opium. The other nayaks were sharing a chillum, but Bindu nayak had given a special chillum to gurumai, just for her use, and it was making her heady in more ways than one. Madhu was worried that gurumai would embarrass herself in front of the nayaks. The last time she had overdosed on opium, she had hallucinated and had been severely constipated for a week.

Gurumai saw Madhu hovering and motioned for her to come close.

“Padma just called me,” said gurumai. “Why aren't you answering your phone?”

“I want to be here,” said Madhu. “If you need anything.”

“Go to Padma. Something's come up.”

“But I want to stay…”

“Go,” said gurumai.

“Go easy on the opium,” whispered Madhu. “Please.”

“You are a good child,” said gurumai, patting Madhu's cheeks.

She said it with the generosity of someone who is high, but also with love, and that made Madhu want to stay even more. But she knew better than to argue with gurumai in front of the nayaks.

“I need some golis,” said Madhu. “For my work.”

Gurumai gestured for Madhu to take some from the small bowl by her side: tiny opium pills that went by the names of Chandu and God's Dream.

As Madhu walked down the stairs, the absence of men on the stairwell pleased her. The brothel felt like a home when hijra
arseholes were on strike. When hijra arseholes had a “No Entry” sign posted on them, the real arseholes had nowhere to go—the men simply skulked away, not used to being rejected. None of them would dare to abuse a single hijra today. There was an army of hijras in the street, their bodies sticking unusually close to each other. Glued together by the tasty desire for revenge, they were ready to inflict pain upon man, that terrible thing they were almost born as.

Bulbul was chewing on some kebabs outside Hijra Gulli, forsaking her diet for the night. Madhu took a couple of pieces from her, and a swig of alcohol from a hijra she had never seen before. As she chewed, some strands of mutton got stuck between her teeth. By the time she was done removing all but the last tiny one, she was standing face to face with Padma in her brothel. She let the mutton strand remain. She respected its spirit. The goat it once was must have been a fighter.

“The client has paid the advance on the parcel,” said Padma. “So get her ready.”

“Tonight?” asked Madhu.

“No, the day after tomorrow.”

“But…then what was so urgent?”

“The client wants a photo of the parcel.”

Padma took the phone she had given Madhu and punched in a mobile number. “Do you know how to send a photo from the mobile?”

“Yes,” said Madhu.

“Then get it done. And remove everything from the phone.”

In one swift stroke, Padma would recover every single rupee she had spent on the parcel. On the first night, the parcel would fetch Padma at least ten times her cost, and yet the parcel would remain a slave for years.

They were in Salma's room. Madhu had dressed the parcel up in clothes that Salma had bought for her at the midnight market. The lighting in the room was too dim, the surroundings too bleak, and Madhu was having a hard time trying to make the parcel look fresh. She looked young, but the skin underneath her eyes was sunken. This was the first time a client had asked for a photograph. Normally, flesh was flesh.

“Do you know why I'm taking your picture?” asked Madhu.

“Yes.”

The firmness of the parcel's reply surprised Madhu and made her snap the picture almost involuntarily. The result was a bit hazy.

“You want to show it to someone…,” said the parcel.

“Who?”

“A man.”

“That's right,” said Madhu. “Now sit still. You are moving.”

But the parcel was not. It was Madhu's hand that was moving, struggling to get the right composition for the photograph. She took two more shots and noticed how the parcel was staring straight into the camera, without any shyness or fear. She was trying to say something to Madhu, or to the man who would finally see the photograph. Tonight, the parcel had a different quality.

“Why are you doing this?” asked the parcel.

“Quiet,” said Madhu. “Sit still.”

The phone's battery was dying and Madhu was frustrated.

“Please,” said the parcel. “Tell me.”

It wasn't the first time a parcel had asked Madhu this question. But the coldness in her voice was new. She had stopped pleading. She just honestly wanted to know.

“I'm trying to take a picture,” said Madhu.

“You will not help me this time,” said the parcel.

“I will,” said Madhu.

A final click. She got the picture she needed. It was the size of a passport photograph, but it captured the parcel's entire body. There was no emotion on her face, just the facts: black hair, black eyes, and so on. The photo was ordinary and had a grainy look about it. It gave the impression that this girl was somewhere far away. It also suggested that there was an aura of simplicity about the girl—she did not know too much or think too much, and would perhaps not offer much resistance.

Satisfied, Madhu took out an opium pill from the pouch in her sari.

“I want you to take this,” she said. “I want to see the effect it has on you. I will give it to you again when you meet the man. It will help you stay calm.”

But the parcel wasn't listening. “In my village, there was a girl…three years older than me. She had to get married to an old man.”

“You're not getting married.”

“I will get married many times,” said the parcel.

“Yes,” said Madhu.

Then, not knowing what else to do, Madhu showed the parcel her photograph. “Here,” she said. “This is the one I will be sending.”

When the parcel saw it, she stared at it for a few seconds. Then she slowly reached out, took the phone in both hands,
and placed it in her lap. It was as though she was talking to herself in the picture, telling herself she would be fine. It was a moment of intense concentration between two girls. The girl in the photograph was the one who would be hurt, but the girl sitting on the bed was the one who would feel the pain.

The opium had the desired effect on the parcel. She was calm and relaxed. If Madhu timed things correctly, the parcel would be sufficiently numb on the night of her opening, still show some signs of life as per the client's needs, and not remember everything afterwards.

Madhu did not even bother putting her back in the cage. She left her at the foot of the ladder just below the loft. The girl's eyes were half closed and there was a slight smile on her face, as though she had just heard the chirp of her favourite bird, or her mother's voice calling out to her, telling her that lunch was ready. She had made no movement apart from a single tilt of the head in the past hour. There had been no hallucinations. She took well to the drug. She was drowsy, with the simple illusion that perhaps life was worth living.

It was the same illusion that the hijras of Kamathipura were perpetuating with their camaraderie that night. Lane Five was celebrating as well—perhaps there was a wedding. Four drummers and three keyboard players dressed in glittering gear were playing at a thunderous volume. Despite the heat, the drummers were wearing white gloves. Young men danced around the band, their faces stupid and full of glee, their shirts sticking to their backs with sweat in thick blotches. One of the men was dancing with money clenched between
his teeth. He held both his hands high, with forefingers pointing upward, while he swayed from side to side. He took the money out of his mouth and circled it over the head of another man, as women watched from behind window grilles only a floor above the street. Madhu could hear the drumming all the way back to Hijra Gulli.

Then there was another sound mixed with the distant drumming.

Someone was wailing. Madhu stopped walking. She stood still and tried to block out the band. There was no mistaking it; it was not one person, but a chorus of crying—hysterical shrieks of loss that only hijras were capable of.

She picked up her pace and rounded the corner. Men had left their carrom boards to crowd around the staircase to Hijra House. They were trying to peer in, but the dank darkness and a swarm of hijras blocked their view. Madhu pushed through them all and rushed up the stairs. She passed hijra after hijra, but not one familiar face. No one talked to her; no one told her a thing. Her mind, frantic, jumped straight to Bulbul.

But Bulbul was on the floor, wailing the loudest, along with Anjali, Tarana, Sona, and Roomali. Devyani was standing against the wall, stone-faced. Madhu asked Bulbul what was wrong, but Bulbul was too delirious to answer. Then Madhu saw the broken bangles on the floor: shattered fragments of blue and red and yellow.