Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
'I . . . you . . . vare good . . . ah . . .' She groped for words, suddenly
saying, 'This ting?'
She pointed down, squatting slightly, then pulling her vagina open,
pointing inside. As she did, a slimy rope of jism wobbled out, some
sliding down her thigh, the rest dangling like some revolting pendant.
She quickly wiped herself clean with a rag that looked as stiff as
cardboard.
I thought of the two fat big shots, the clerkly man, old Uncle Tom
Cobbly and all. Jesus! What a life at fifteen! Or less . . .
Motioning for her to sit, I offered a cigarette. Shyly, she refused.
Only sophisticated urban Indian women smoke, of course, and I
don't know what made me offer.
Grunts and a little squeal of female pain issued from one of the
other rooms. The girl looked around edgily.
'Trivandrum?' I inquired, to see if she was from Kerala's capital
city. Shaking her head, she mentioned a place I'd never heard of.
'
Amma, appa ne?
'
She merely cast her head down. She either had no parents or had
lost them or, most likely, they'd sold her to whoever ran this sewer.
Even if we'd been able to communicate, I doubt that her story
would have been any different from all the others I'd read or heard.
I thought of buying her freedom, getting her a job with a family.
But I knew that wouldn't work out. She'd steal, lie, fuck up somehow,
and end up back here, or somewhere even worse. You can't play
God with people's lives.
I handed her a thousand rupees, standing. She took my hand to
haul me off to her windowless cell, and looked surprised when I
pulled away.
'
Jai Ram
,' I told her - 'Praise God,' basically.
Then I left, an ache in my heart.
I knew what I was putting off in the fleshpots of Bangalore, or in
the candlelit restaurants of the West End Hotel, or around its pool,
talking to strangers. I made arrangements to drive to Puttaparthi
before dawn the following morning.
There had been a commotion in the hotel lobby, a woman
screaming, staff attempting to calm her down. Only later did I learn
