Trafficking – A Short Story from Kolkata

As the taste of putrid food touched my tongue, I realized I was a subjugated citizen of a backward, independent country from the fourth world, whose tale of subjugation was written in her birth story.

Debasree Chakraborti | Kolkata

The day I first opened my eyes, I saw the play of water. Everywhere, just water and more water. In between, a few floating black mounds of mud, within them a growing population of parasitic creatures, and their foul-smelling existence teeming amidst heaps of rotten rice mixed with garbage from the dump. At first, I watched in wonder, then the day I weaned from my mother’s milk, I understood that I was one of them too. As the taste of putrid food touched my tongue, I realized I was a subjugated citizen of a backward, independent country from the fourth world, whose tale of subjugation was written in her birth story. As I was saying, there was just water all around, as far as the eye could see, the terrifying, fierce forms of the Meghna, Arial Khan, Kirtankhola, and Tetulia rivers, and amidst them, our small island, Jarul.

Jarul is the name of a flower whose dazzling purple color attracts insects. Canals and wetlands flowed through the heart of the Hijal trees like veins and arteries. My father would go to the canal to catch fish after evening prayers and return before dawn prayers. My mother’s red, sleepless eyes would stay awake in anticipation. We, eight sisters and four brothers, would lie like livestock in our six-by-eight-foot mud shack. When my four-month-old sister, Sabina, would suck with all her might on the dried plum pit of my mother’s parched breast, unable to satisfy even a drop of thirst, let alone fill her stomach, she would scream her last plea for life, a sound that wouldn’t reach anyone outside that animal farm. I was born by the river, and life went on, changing with the colors of nature and the ebb and flow of the river’s water with each sunrise and sunset. Amidst the smell of dung and urine from the animal farm’s herd, the sour smell of two-day-old stale rice, my father’s early morning advances on my mother, and my mother’s tears, I grew up.

One mid-Ashar day, dark, dense clouds gathered over the Hijal trees, and the Meghna’s chest swelled repeatedly with terrifying rage. The black clouds and the black Meghna merged into one that day. A glittering, sharp sword of lightning flashed within the clouds, striking the Meghna’s chest with a terrifying roar. Inside the animal farm, we, brothers and sisters, waited with gritted teeth for some unforeseen event. The rainwater in our yard was rising; that water could enter our house at any moment. If the river water continued to rise, it would cross our yard and enter our house within a few hours. Then, that water would weaken the foundation of our house, all four walls would collapse in the strong current, and we would all be swept away by that current. An acrid, fishy smell wafted into the dark room with closed doors and windows. I kept my eye on a crack in the window, because Father hadn’t returned home that morning. My father and two men entered the room. Father called me, “Amina, come here.” My heart pounded. I understood that a tender young one was needed; like my three elder sisters, Rokea, Firoza, and Abeda, it was my turn today. I trembled as I moved forward, like a young buffalo offered for sacrifice during Kali Puja. For the past three years, three young ones from this farm had gone for sacrifice during the monsoon; today, it would be me. Four balls of fire lit up in the dark room. Ugh, it was so dark! There wasn’t even a light. And light? No one had eaten or drunk in three days, and they expected light? I wanted to protest. “But there’s stale rice, isn’t there? Can’t you smell the sourness?” I was dumbfounded. A light ignited in the hand of one of the two men. When my siblings moved closer to see it, my father growled. They meticulously examined my hands, feet, and everything else before deciding to take me. The boat wouldn’t wait long; the hourly rent would increase, and besides, customers couldn’t stay inside the animal farm for too long. I was looking for my mother, but I couldn’t find her. I wished I could have smelled her scent one last time, with all my heart.

Now it seems like it was all a conspiracy; my mother knew everything, which is why she hid that day. My father sacrifices one of his daughters in this way each year to repair the house before the monsoon. This year, in Ashar, I was sacrificed, and 300 rupees, my value, went into my father’s pocket. My soul remained on Jarul Island, while my body rushed towards a childhood-less realm of sexual lust. In the middle of the river, I saw a huge ship anchored. The men took me onto that ship. Then, I was forcibly pushed into the dark belly of the ship. That was the beginning of my disappearance into darkness. I saw girls my age, nine or ten, and many older women, being loaded onto that ship. Amidst sorrow, suffering, lamentation, and uncertainty, floating on, there was no count of days or nights. Water, just water and more water. This was another form of the river, utterly unfamiliar to me. Far from being affectionate, it was overwhelmingly aggressive.

Where the lightning struck the river, my eyes first caught a tiny white speck. Then I saw that speck gradually growing larger. After a while, I saw a small toy boat, waving a white handkerchief, floating towards us. The boat slowly grew, taking on the shape of a giant, and began to approach. I noticed my father’s white beard, his blue checked lungi, and his skeletal body inside his torn vest. With my father, two men, thick and dark like buffaloes, descended from the boat. I couldn’t make out my mother in the darkness, so I guessed and said, “Mom, Father has arrived.” Two eyes glowed in the darkness.

As we floated on the water, each of us was sent to a different place. The darkness in the belly of this ship was far deeper than the darkness of our animal farm. I waited, wondering when it would be my turn to go outside. But my turn was not to come so easily. This darkness, like the darkness of a mother’s womb, was not safe; instead of my mother’s scent, there was the smell of reptiles. At night, the ship would rock violently, threatening to roll us from one spot to another. We would cling to anything we could find. Once a day, when the hatch of the hold was opened to take a few people out, several packets of bread were thrown into the dark belly. Like hungry dogs, we would fight each other to grab that bread. Only a handful of us did this; the rest lay with their eyes closed, looking as if they had left their sensory perceptions somewhere else. The ship continued to move forward, making a terrifying noise like a mechanical monster.

The intense mechanical roar had deafened us. Everything has an end, and one day this ship finally reached shore. As the hatch above opened, a foul, hot air escaped, quickly replaced by a cold, wild, fragrant breeze. This scent bore no resemblance to the familiar smells of Jarul Island. I knew we had reached another island. We were pushed out of the ship like cattle. Coming into contact with the outside world, we began to feel human emotions like shame and disgust anew, but our natural bodily functions during the three-day journey had left our clothes soiled. A strong stench emanated from our bodies. It was sunset on the unknown island, and the crimson sky seemed to bleed onto the river’s surface. There was no way to tell if it was a river or a sea; the river here was as vast as an ocean, with streams of blood flowing through its heart. This sight bore no resemblance to the enchanting Meghna I had known since birth. This place felt too wild, too reckless, much like a drunken person. Someone standing on the bank shouted, “The tide will come in at Matla today, hurry and get the girls ready!” As nature celebrated a bloody Holi, the giant ship’s black shadow fell upon the crimson heart of the Matla River. It reflected the unfortunate fate of the parasites clinging to that black beast, silently etching a tragic history onto the river’s surface. A truck stood by the riverbank, its rear door open, its top covered. None of the men who had brought me from Hijal were visible; instead, five new faces appeared. They were piling us into the truck. I felt two strong claws on my chest, firm as a plum pit, crushing the tender flower buds of my garden. Again, that darkness, again that foul-smelling environment. Six half-naked, distraught girls trapped inside. The vehicle moved on, and on, to where and how far, no one knew. This was a long wait; the rocking of the truck made it feel as if I were floating on the Matla’s waters. I could sense where this intoxicated river’s lustful surge would carry me. I couldn’t tell which hellish door awaited us tonight, like it had for Rokea, Firoza, and Abeda. This vehicle seemed unstoppable, just going and going. My tired eyes, as if blind, closed. I woke up to the sound of the truck door opening. It was quite late, yet this neighborhood was bustling, even at this hour.Girls of various ages, dressed in different clothes, stood in rows on both sides of the road. Their makeup was extremely garish. Among the six people who brought us, one was named Om Prakash. Om Prakash took me to a house. There, a middle-aged woman took me into a room. She gave me a new salwar kameez to wear after bathing. Then she said, “From today, you’ll stay here; this is your new home.” The people here spoke Bengali, but their Bengali was very different. A full stomach of rice had always been a sweet dream for me. Here, I got rice with goat meat curry and many other things. For the first time, I felt the comfort of a full stomach; ah, my body was soothed. The woman said, “From today, you will stay in this room.” I sat on the bed and saw how soft it was. The woman smiled strangely and said, “This bed is yours. You’ll sleep alone, understand?”

When the woman left, Om Prakash came to me. He said, “Mashi (aunt) is very good; listen to everything she says, understand?”

I nodded in agreement.

“Here you’ll get good food, good clothes, understand?”

It felt like Om Prakash could read my mind. Yes, indeed, I had dreamt of good food and good clothes my whole life, just as Rokea and Firoza had. Their dreams had come true; today, my dream was a reality.

I nodded again in agreement.

After Om Prakash left, I don’t remember when I stretched out on the soft bed. On that soft, plush bed, Amina’s age, country, religion, everything, sank away with her full stomach. Only ‘Tultuli’ remained, a body-centric being whose doll-like figure and innocent, large eyes were sold every night. I have no inclination to speak of my first night. When I heard the police had arrived, I was initially a bit scared. Mashi came and said, “People from the police station are here; just do quietly whatever they tell you.” Mashi dressed me in a ghagra and blouse like the North Indian girls. She filled my chest with two soft cups. I saw that my two big breasts had become like those of the old women. My mother’s face came to mind. In the darkness of the night, my younger sister would hang onto my mother’s breast for milk. Then, in the early morning, my father’s thrashing. I had seen my mother’s two breasts martyred. We sacrifice parts of ourselves for the good of society. Today, a shield was placed on my two freshly blossomed, flower-bud-like breasts, in the name of social reform. Today, I feel much older, all at once. Before going to war, it feels like the mind grows rapidly, detaching from the body in this way.

I walked into the room and saw a man the age of my grandfather sitting in a chair. He was wearing nothing, his legs spread apart. As soon as he saw me, his hand went between his legs. The man reminded me of a river crocodile. Just like a crocodile sits quietly in the water, searching for tender fish, so too did he. My entire body churned. Just as a crocodile’s sharp tail swishes between its legs, his tail began to move up and down as he looked at me. I missed my mother terribly; I longed to embrace the safe environment of her milky scent and the stifling smell of my siblings’ urine and feces in the animal farm. The crocodile put his sharp tail into my mouth. It reached all the way down my throat through my small mouth. Slowly, my mouth filled with foul-smelling water, which flowed down my cheeks. Then, the man lifted me onto the bed, spread my legs with his feet, and inserted his tail between them. His sharp tail cut into my body as it pushed inward, then hit my lower stomach.

“Mommy!” I screamed. My cry shook the room, but the sound faded outside the window, mingling with hundreds of other wails. It reached no one’s ears, or perhaps, it reached them but was ignored, like a common occurrence, as if everyone was accustomed to such events. The bed was drenched in red blood. I thrashed on the bed like a newly sacrificed goat. When the butcher left, I went to the bathroom. Blood gushed out from my urination area. It was very difficult to stand up; I felt excruciating pain in my lower abdomen, and my urination area was swollen like a potato. When I came out of the bathroom and into the room, I saw someone else sitting there. This cutting and tearing continued four to five times a day. The pain in my urination area was immense. One day, Mashi came and inserted a piece of solar material. Mala, who was almost my age, said, “You’re feeling unwell, right? That’s why. If this stays inside, you won’t get pregnant.” “I have one too, and they all have them.” “But I’m in so much pain; it will turn into a wound inside.” Mala said, “It will certainly become a wound. And it will gradually spread throughout your body, and the sooner it spreads, the better.” Mala spoke these words, tears streaming down her eyes. The words were very heavy, but they didn’t sink into my mind.

I gradually grew up. Amina disappeared from this neighborhood a year ago; today, she is Tultuli. The scent of Jarul on her body is gone, replaced by the perfume of artificial fragrances. The girls in this neighborhood are not people, but rather instruments equipped with vaginas. A mechanical, relation-less relationship, devoid of love, affection, warmth, relatives, friends, or taste. For money, we must tirelessly offer our vaginas to multiple men every night, a large portion of which is eaten by many cunning hands. Each customer every night is a terror, a panic, an oppressor, an abuser. Not a man, but a death sentence called a penis! What is sexual pleasure? I never understood what sexual pleasure was. What is love called? What is affection called? What is foreplay? There is no freedom to choose a sexual partner. No right to decide. How could I ever knowingly enjoy it! Let alone knowingly; when the first sexual experience with a customer happens, I am unconscious. When, at an age when one shouldn’t feel the need for sex, intercourse is forced upon one. Our sexual life begins with rape. Then, one day, satisfying the demands of time, these bodily wounds gradually heal. The likes and dislikes of body and mind have no value. Desires and unwillingness have no price. When ‘Babu’ arrives, one must ‘sit’. This is the custom. Sometimes, to enhance the appeal of our bodies to customers, we even have to get pregnant. When pregnant, the breasts become quite heavy, and the body becomes round and plump. A pregnant girl’s full breasts and body often excite many customers. But we carry the child as long as we can, and then, at some point, an abortion. A six or seven-month-old fetus inside the womb is quite large then. An abortion when the baby is that big means inviting death. Yet, it has to be done. A quack has to be called to remove the baby, out of compulsion. Some even die from septicemia. No one keeps track of that news. Day and night are spent in the constant fear of intensely painful sexual intercourse. Sex workers in red-light districts around the world are ready to kick their profession at any time, any moment. If given the chance, we could wipe out these red-light districts. But even if we want to, they will never be eradicated. Because no one but us wants to eradicate our profession. Rather, the opposite happens. All hypocrites. Be it society, state, or social workers, everyone, in the name of our welfare, is conspiring to consolidate their own gains and keep us alive. The hooliganism of thugs, the excesses of the police, the prosperity of pimps, the activity of procurers, cigarette burns on the vagina and other parts of the body, being bitten until bleeding, the terror of having liquor bottles forcibly kicked into the vagina, the fear of chili powder being put inside the vagina, the buying and selling of girls in the neighborhood, bringing new girls into this line, syphilis, gonorrhea, AIDS—everything remains as it was.

One evening, I was sitting like any other day, waiting for customers. I wasn’t feeling well; two weeks prior, the baby was removed from my womb into a basin at Nurul Doctor’s chamber. I wasn’t fully unconscious. I felt every sensation of killing the one I had carried for seven months, whose every heartbeat I had felt within my body, as they brought him out of my body. My mind wasn’t good; I hadn’t had proper rest for even a week in this weak body, but I had to sit for business. That evening, I heard a commotion in the neighborhood. But what was new about that? It was a daily occurrence. However, I saw quite a few boys and girls from the darbar had come with Bhabati Ray. Whenever they arrive, I sense a premonition of trouble. Malti came and said, “What times have come upon us!”

Mashi said, “Why, what happened again?”

“We’ve been forced into this business, and now I see even girls from respectable families are coming here to do business. Why, my dear, does the devil beat them when they’re happy or what!”Champa came and said, “I hear she’s an engineering student. Bhabati Ray has called her parents too. I also heard the police are coming.”

Mashi said, “Since Bhabati Ray is here, I’ll go take a look. Bhola, you handle things here.”

Bhola is very close to Mashi, but these days, his mood isn’t very good; he’s a bit annoyed with Mashi for various reasons. One of them is Kusum. Kusum’s uncle brought her from Hasnabad to Kolkata, supposedly to show her the city, but instead sold her to Mashi. From the very first day, Bhola had a different kind of attention for her. In this business, how many girls fall victim to wild animal-like cruelty every day, and no one even glances their way. But if Kusum gets hurt in any way, Bhola becomes frantic, unable to decide what to do. Kusum also relies heavily on Bhola. If they go somewhere together under the guise of seeing a doctor, they return late. Mashi has been furious with them lately because of all this. That day, for instance, she said, “Have you fallen into matters of the heart since you entered this business, Kusum? Bhola, even if you had a bomb dropped in your stomach, you wouldn’t make a sound. Where would you go if I kicked you out?”

They didn’t talk much in front of Mashi. Once Mashi left, Bhola and Kusum seemed to disappear somewhere, just like two cormorants diving underwater. Mala, Malti, Lata, they were handling the customers. I saw that the staircase area below the veranda was empty. I saw a police van pulling in. And upon seeing the police, some people started to flee. I seized that opportunity. Invoking the name of Allah and His Prophet, I ran, letting myself be swept away by the crowd. As I reached the main road, I saw a bus approaching with “Howrah” written on its front, and I boarded it. I had been in this city for the past three years, but it was unfamiliar to me. The people were strangers; their demeanor, conversations, and mannerisms all felt new. The bus was crossing a huge bridge over a river. Even the river here was beautiful, with so many houses and lights around it. The bus stopped in front of a large red palace and announced, “Howrah Station.” I saw many people getting off, so I also got off and ran towards the red building. I had never seen a station before; I had heard that trains came to stations, but I had never seen a train either. I had heard that one could travel far by train. As I entered the station, a man in a black coat and black hat grabbed me and asked, “Where’s your ticket?”

I said, “What’s the use of a ticket? I don’t have money to buy one.”

The man grabbed my hand firmly, but this touch was different, not as cruel as the everyday touches I knew. So I stood there quietly. I saw two female police officers rush over. The man put my hand in theirs. They took me to the police station. The day’s exhaustion, compounded by the strain of aborting a seven-month-old baby two weeks prior, was too much for my body. Everything went dark; I felt my body grow cold. After that, I remember nothing. Two days later, I regained consciousness and realized I was lying in a hospital bed. When I tried to get up, I felt pain in my urination area. An old woman told me, “Don’t get out of bed. I’ll give you a bedpan.”

I said, “No, I can go.”

The old woman snapped at me, “You’ve had an operation; if you move around too much, the stitches will tear.” A little later, when the doctor arrived, he said that my uterus had been surgically removed because it had become ulcerated from the prolonged presence of the thermocol inside. I thought to myself, so many abortions at this age, it was bound to happen. The doctor said that, like other girls, I would no longer be able to conceive. I thought, “Thank goodness.”

Two weeks after being discharged from the hospital, some kind people took me to Bangladesh. From Dhaka, we set off by ship towards Jarul, on the Meghna River in Barisal district.

On July 21, 2015, we arrived at Jarul Island. As we approached the island, I caught my old scent: the fishy smell of my mother, the suffocating smell of my siblings’ urine and feces. That night, the moon hung in the sky like a platter. They left me and the kind people’s boat floated away into the heart of the Meghna. Nature was celebrating today, but darkness veiled my mother’s face. The familiar people seemed so unfamiliar now. I understood that while the river was the same, a different current flowed through its heart today. If I got lost again, I would drown in the Meghna. In the dark animal farm, someone knocked on the door. “Open the door, Amina’s mother, I’ve brought two with me tonight.” The gongs chimed in my chest. My little sister cried out in her sleep.

Read: Kissa – A Short Horror Story

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Debasree Chakraborti is a renowned novel writer of Bengali language. Based in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, she has done Master’s in Modern History from the Kolkata University, and authored some thirty books, mostly the novels, with historical perspective and themes. Her novel is ‘Maharaja Dahir’ that covers the history of Sindh from 662, the year of first attack on Sindh by the Arab armies till date, was published last year and translated by Nasir Aijaz into Sindhi language.