The Delhi Deception (11 page)

She awoke stiff and sore to the grating of the iron gate and was surprised to see sunlight filtering through the jali windows. Some of the girls in the room started moving limbs and heads, groaning. Two women dressed in filthy saris, carrying a metal pitcher and cups, spilled water as they impatiently offered it to their captives.

The water was tepid and smelled faintly of chlorine or bleach. Encouraged by this, Carla broke the golden rule of drinking the water in India. Too thirsty to care about dysentery, she drank deeply from the metal cup.

From a round plastic tray, the women produced chapattis and heaped a couple into the hands of those who had the strength to lift them. An ironic thought crossed Carla’s mind: the girls looked as if they were receiving Holy Communion. For the weaker or comatose girls, the women simply dumped the bread on the dirty floor next to them.

Carla bit cautiously into the bread but found the smoky, earthy-flavor palatable. Wolfing down the two chapattis, she looked up expectantly, hoping for another one. With a jeering “Bas” to Carla, the women continued tossing the chapattis at their lethargic recipients.

A sudden, shrill scream brought all activity to a sudden halt. A terror-stricken young girl was holding a limp, elfin-like waif in her arms. The young girl started sobbing, shaking and shouting to the girl in her lap. As her tiny head lolled to the side, Carla saw that her face was covered in vomit, dry in patches, the acidity staining sections of her sweet face purple. Carla registered with horror that the girl appeared dead. Was it a reaction to the heroin, or simply a mistaken overdose?

Some mild commotion broke out, but within minutes the tall eunuch from the previous night appeared in the doorway and walked to the sobbing girl. Speaking quietly to her, he released her grip on the dead girl. He picked her up with ease and carried her out through the doorway, like a young bride.

Carla stared at the inconceivable scene, dry-eyed and feeling strangely detached. She hoped, even while knowing that it was impossible, that this was a dream from which she would soon wake.

Satisfied that all had been fed, the two women left through the gate and were replaced by the two eunuchs. They stood in front of the gate, chatting loudly in their strange boy-man voices. Eyeing the captives with open curiosity, they walked closer to inspect certain features. They ran their hands through the incredibly long, silky-black hair of a girl in the traditional clothing of the Punjab and even forced open the mouth of a slightly older girl, counting and inspecting her teeth.

They became more and more animated and kept glancing over at Carla. At first they seemed slightly reserved, but gained confidence as Carla forced herself to appear listless and indifferent to her surroundings. Unable to contain their inquisitiveness a minute longer, they approached and barked out an order in Hindi. Carla looked up at them and ignored the order by looking the other way. Suddenly they bent down; one grabbed her legs, the other her arms. Without thinking, she tried to fight them off, but their grip was strong and she found herself powerless as they pulled down her khaki pants. The button popped off, and then they tugged at her white cotton briefs.

“Stop! Please. What are you doing? What do you want?” Carla sobbed as they managed to pull her briefs down to her knees. Kicking fiercely, she managed to wrestle one leg free, but for a split second only. Then she registered the look of absorption as the eunuchs stared at her pubic hair, inspecting it with open curiosity, making obvious comparisons with her hair, which was disheveled and dirty. Satisfied, they pulled up her pants and briefs, chatting and guffawing as they made lewd movements back to their guarding post at the door.

Humiliated, exhausted, and terrified, with sweat pouring down her face, Carla started crying for the first time since this nightmare had begun. She cried quietly and only stopped when her stress had dissipated in the raw energy of her emotions. Spent, she fell asleep in a fetal position, knees under her chin.

The cool water of the Mediterranean washed over her face as she lay in the soft golden sand. She smiled at Andrew in his ridiculous swimming trunks, sporting baby hippos in lime green. He leaned over her, and as he kissed her, she opened her eyes. She was looking into the dark, laughing eyes of George. Confused, she tried to sit up, but he held her down and the water covered her face. She fought for air as the water filled her mouth and nose. She screamed, but made no sound…

Carla felt something scratch her on the side of her neck and awoke suddenly from her dream. It was one of the eunuchs; he threw a bucketful of water in her face. As Carla began to focus, she realized that the rusty rim of the bucket had scratched her. Scanning the room, she was surprised to find herself alone.

“Get up. Jaldi, jaldi,” the eunuch said loudly as he tried to pull Carla by her arm. She got up as fast as her body would allow her to move, but she felt achy and heavy. The eunuch scowled at her white cotton shirt, transparent from the water. Throwing a dirty pink dupatta at her, he gestured that she should cover her torso and head.

Her legs were unsteady as she rose. The younger of the two eunuchs held her at the elbow, as though escorting her to a ball. He took her down the same dirty staircase she had ascended the day before.

They passed the large wooden door and down a passage until it made a sharp turn. She found herself in front of a small door with an iron grate. The eunuch knocked rhythmically. After a while, a woman wearing a pale green washed-out sari unlocked the door. She and the eunuch exchanged a few rapid words, and then Carla was handed over to the woman, who gave her a benign smile.

Taking her by the arm, the woman guided Carla through a very narrow passage resembling a tunnel. After several twists and turns they arrived at another door, beautifully carved with figures of bathing women, the heavy wooden frame set in stone pillars. The woman pushed open the door to a pervasive humidity and exotic fragrance. Carla stared in wonder. The high-domed roof was of a glasslike structure. Bright light created a soft rainbow effect through the steam. In the middle of the large room was a massive stone platform of white marble veined with green.

Three girls were being scrubbed and massaged on the stone platform by women dressed in saris, worn without blouses, and hitched to their knees. The girls were stark naked, their skin glowing like burnished copper. The sound of running water came from fountains against the walls, which were beautifully embellished with pietra dura in a typically floral Mughal-pattern. Some older girls were being rinsed in the steaming water.

A Mughal hammam
. Carla was amazed to see this ancient relic of the Mughal Empire still intact and in use. In a book on the Moghul Empire at Elouise’s house Carla had read that many wealthy Mughals and Nawabs had built them into their havelis, as they found the dust of India so unbearable. With the fall of the Mughal period, many of these hammams were destroyed, and now only fragments could be found in a few small shops selling spices or nylon rope. Despite her situation, Carla found herself in a fascinated recall of the intelligent engineering of the Mughal period: to create the steam or hot rooms, water was heated by wood fires, pumped through copper pipes, creating heat and steam, and then finally through the steaming, hot fountains. For a fleeting moment Carla found herself comforted by something familiar in a terrifyingly foreign atmosphere.

The attendant steered Carla to a corner of the room to a marble bench, where she started undressing her. Carla pushed her hands away and indicated that she would undress herself. Feeling strangely uninhibited, Carla stripped and was then lead to the large stone slab at the center of the room. She lay down on her back while a warm, wet muslin cloth was placed over the lower half of her torso. The attendant started scrubbing her down with coarse salt, smelling of sandalwood. Carla closed her eyes: a part of her enjoyed the rough scrubbing, as if the mental filth of the past day was being scoured away; another part of her, a part she didn’t want to listen to, was wondering what this cleaning ritual could be preparing her for.

Afterward, her skin was tingling and quite pink. She was led to one of the fountains, where she was rinsed off in the hot, steaming water. As they led her back to the stone slab she tried to peer through the steamy haze. She recognized many of the girls who had been held captive with her the day before. The attendant then indicated to Carla that she should lie facedown on the hard marble surface with her hands under her chin. Hot fragrant oil was massaged expertly into her skin, and although it was physically relaxing, the reality of the ritual began to dawn on Carla.

Carla was pummeled, pounded, and kneaded. With her eyes tightly shut, she drifted in and out of a trancelike slumber. When she opened her eyes, she found a pair of light brown eyes with specks of honey staring at her with open curiosity. Carla guessed the young girl to be in her late teens. Her breasts were small and firm, as was the rest of her golden, youthful body. Her sable hair was spread over her shoulders and onto the marble slab. She was lying on her back next to Carla while being massaged with perfumed oil. She smiled shyly and said, “Hello, my name is Nazeema.”

Surprised that they were allowed to talk to each other, and shocked to find someone speaking familiar words to her, Carla quietly replied, “Oh. Hi. My name is Carla. You speak English.”

“Yes, I studied in school, but…” As Nazeema’s voice broke, huge glistening tears rolled down her young face. Devastated by the reality of what was to become of the young girl, and herself, Carla tried desperately to think of a way out, but the entire experience had somehow dulled her senses.

Looking over at the young girl’s perfect youthful features, she asked, “Nazeema, how did you get here?”

With wide eyes Nazeema said, “Like everyone else. How did you get here?”

“I was kidnapped for my passport and identity, I think. They brought me here only because they don’t know what else to do with me.”

Nazeema studied her intently and then smiled shyly. “Yes, you are quite old, but you have beautiful skin, so golden. Good hips, not too late for children, I hope…”

The simple words, spoken so matter-of-factly, cut through Carla’s entire being. A blend of hot tears, scented oil, and steam stung her eyes.
Pull yourself together, Carla,
she admonished herself. If she had any hope of getting out of there, she had to keep her wits about her.

Nazeema had closed her eyes. She seemed to have drifted off to sleep. Carla whispered loudly, “Nazeema. What happened to you and the other girls?” Not sure that she had heard, Carla poked her gently on the arm. Nazeema opened her eyes lethargically.

“I was betrayed by my family, sold, used, and then I decided to run away instead of them throwing me out.” She sighed. Then, turning her head, she looked intently at Carla. “I have nothing left to live for, except for that wonderful gold liquid my body craves, the floating nothingness, and then the hope that one day too much will enter my bloodstream and I will remain in that lovely place forever…”

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CHAPTER 7

S
lapping Carla on the thigh, the attendant indicated the end of the massage. Nazeema sat up, smiled sadly at Carla, and walked with the attendant to another room. Carla watched as the hot steam swallowed her small frame, and then, getting up slowly, she followed.

She found herself in a room with similar marble floors, where about a dozen girls were being draped in saris without blouse or petticoat, their young bodies displayed seductively through the sheer fabric. Some of the girls giggled as they pointed to each other in mock horror, while others looked on with dull eyes. Carla was surprised to see a woman dressed in trendy jeans with a short kurti and silver sneakers sitting on a small stool applying makeup expertly, a toolbox next to her.

Carla couldn’t help smiling at the irony. It all seemed like a Bollywood movie set.
I suppose my experience at the Kapoors’ party should come in handy,
she thought sardonically. But all traces of humor left her instantly when she saw the tall eunuch, who had administered the heroin the previous night, enter through the solid wooden door, his expression solemn.