back and I thought it might snap. Deepa-Auntie’s eyes rolled back in her head. She let out a sound like the whoosh of a sugarcane press. I wanted to shout at the man to let her go. Kissing wasn’t even allowed. Everyone knew that. But I kept silent. I would be in far bigger trouble than him if I was caught roaming at night.
I crawled toward Deepa-Auntie’s bed. To get past them and reach the door, I had to slip under the bed and out the other side. I pretended I was invisible, a cockroach, just part of the landscape. If the man raised his head he would see me. I worried he could hear my thudding heart.
As I got closer I saw Deepa-Auntie’s cheeks were wet. I wasn’t sure if it was sweat or tears. I couldn’t think of anything I could do to make her smile. I mouthed the word chootia—stupid—it was the worst word I knew. I added a few threats. If words could pierce flesh, that man would have run from the room screaming.
I reached her bed and dropped flat on my stomach. The cold cement chilled my body through the thin fabric of my dress but its worn smoothness made it easy to slide. I was almost completely under when the mattress juddered and there was a loud exclamation of surprise. A huge hand wrapped round my ankle. Without thinking, I shrieked.
I was jerked backwards and my head cracked on the metal bed frame. The man let go of my ankle only to grab my arm and swing me up to his eye level. I dangled helplessly in his clutch and whimpered in fear as much as in pain. (The next day, when Ma took me to the hospital, we were told that I should have had stitches right away for the gash on my head. By then it was too late. To this day I have a bald patch under my hair.)
Ma appeared on Deepa-Auntie’s side of the curtain and slapped me hard across the face. This shocked me into silence. I still wanted to cry so I bit down on my lip to hold it in. A man stepped out behind Ma and shouted at her. He towered over her with his fist raised. His arm was as sinewy as a buzzard’s neck. Ma would have got the better of him if he’d tried to hit her. He wanted her to give him his money back, which showed how little he knew. Only Binti-Ma’am had money. Ma couldn’t give him what she didn’t have. He shoved Ma back toward her bed. She got tangled in the curtain that was still half closed.
Ma looked angry rather than frightened as she scrabbled behind her to push the curtain aside. I didn’t want her to leave me but I knew enough not to call her back. Deepa-Auntie was sobbing now, much louder than I was before. I wanted her to stop because this would only make things worse.
Suddenly the lights came on. Seconds later, Binti-Ma’am and her son Pran pushed through the curtain nearest the door. The man holding me let go and I dropped to the floor. I tried to scoot back under the bed but I was grabbed again, this time by Pran. He smacked me, once on each cheek, even though I was no longer making noise and my head was already bleeding profusely. The last thing I saw, as he dragged me out the door, was Binti-Ma’am pummeling Deepa-Auntie with a mop handle. Ma was nowhere in sight.
Pran carried me down the hall. I realized immediately where he was taking me. I struggled and pleaded hysterically. As he threw open the door to the kitchen cupboard, I heard the rats scuttling behind the wall. They’d wait for him to lock me in before they crawled through the holes to attack me. I begged for mercy one last time. He laughed.
It was years of this before I finally understood it was what he wanted. He fed on fear like a mosquito feasts on blood. The more I fought, the more he enjoyed it. Eventually, I learned to submit quickly, but on that night, when I was five years old, I still had hope.
Grace
I feel I ought to give this day a dramatic name, like in a murder mystery. I could call it Before the Apocalypse or The Beginning. More than anything I’d like to give it a soundtrack. The shark’s music from Jaws