Behind a makeshift curtain, Sarita was putting on her blue georgette sari. The cloth gave her goose bumps, and the thought of the upcoming car ride excited her. She didn’t stop to think about what the man would be like or where they would go, but as she quickly changed she hoped that the car ride wouldn’t be so short that before she knew it, she would be standing in front of the door to some hotel room where once inside, the john would start drinking and she would begin to feel claustrophobic. She hated those suffocating rooms with their two iron beds on which she could never get a good sleep.
Smoothing out her sari’s wrinkles, she let Kishori look at her for a second, then asked him, ‘Kishori, how do I look? Is the sari okay from behind?’ Without waiting for an answer, she went over to the broken wooden chest where she kept her Japanese powder and rouge. She set her rusted mirror up against the window’s iron bars, and bending over a little to look at her reflection there, she put powder and purple-tinged rouge on her dusky cheeks. When she was ready, she smiled and looked at Kishori for his approval. Then she haphazardly covered her lips in lipstick. The sum effect was that she looked like one of those clay dolls that appear in toy sellers’ stores over Diwali.
Sarita’s mother came in, quickly fixed Sarita’s hair, and said to her daughter, ‘Look, my little girl, remember to talk like a grown-up, and do whatever he says. This man is very rich, okay? He even has his own car.’ Then she turned to Kishori, ‘Now, quickly, take her out. The poor man! Just think how long he’s been waiting!’
Outside in the bazaar, there was a factory wall stretching into the distance on which a small sign read, ‘NO URINATING’. Next to this sign there was a parked yellow car in which three young men from Hyderabad were sitting, each one covering his nose with a hanky. (They would have moved the car, but the wall went on for a long way and the stench of piss ran its entire length.) When the driver saw Kishori, he said to his friends, ‘Hey, he’s coming. Kishori. And … and … hey, this girl’s really young! Guys, look — the one in the blue sari.’
When Kishori and Sarita came up to the car, the two men in the back seat picked up their hats and cleared space between them for Sarita. Kishori stepped forward, opened the back door and quickly pushed Sarita inside. Then he closed the door and said to the guy behind the wheel, ‘Sorry it took so long. She had gone to see a friend. So … so …?’
The young man turned around to look at Sarita and then said to Kishori, ‘Okay, then. But, look …’ He stuck his head out of the window and whispered to Kishori, ‘She won’t put up a fuss, will she?’
Kishori put his hand on his heart. ‘Sir, please trust me.’
The young man took two rupees out of his pocket and gave it to Kishori. ‘Go enjoy yourselves,’ Kishori said and waved goodbye. Then the driver started the car.
It was five in the evening, and traffic filled the Bombay streets — cars, trams, buses, and people were everywhere. Sarita didn’t say anything as she sat scrunched between the two men. She squeezed her thighs together and rested her hands on her lap, and several times just as she had built up the courage to say something, she would suddenly stop. She wanted to tell the driver, ‘Sir, please drive quickly. I’m about to suffocate back here.’
No one said anything for quite some time; the driver watched the road, and the men in the back seat were silent as they thought anxiously about how for the first time they were sitting so close to a young girl, one who was theirs, one with whom they could mess around without getting into any trouble.
The driver had been living in Bombay for two years and had picked up girls like Sarita both during the day and at night; he had had many prostitutes in his yellow car and so wasn’t nervous in the least. His two friends had come from Hyderabad: Shahab wanted to experience all that the big city had to offer, and so Kifayat, the owner of the car, had bought Sarita through Kishori. Kifayat had said to his second friend, Anwar, ‘You know, there’d be nothing wrong if you got one for yourself.’ But Anwar thought it wrong and couldn’t bring himself to consent. Kifayat had never seen Sarita before, and despite the novelty she presented, he wasn’t interested in her just then, since he couldn’t very well drive and look at her at the same time.
Once they left the city and entered the suburbs, Sarita sprang to life. The cool wind rushing over the speeding car soothed her, and she felt fresh and full of energy again. In fact, she could barely contain herself: she began to tap her feet, sway her arms, and drum her fingers as she glanced back and forth at the trees that streamed past the road.
Anwar and Shahab were becoming more relaxed, and Shahab felt he could do whatever he wanted with Sarita. He reached around her waist, and suddenly Sarita felt someone tickling her. She sprang away, wriggling close to Anwar, and her laughter trailed from the car’s windows far into the distance. Again Shahab reached out for Sarita, and she doubled over, laughing so hard that she could hardly breathe, forcing Anwar to scrunch against the car door and try to maintain his composure.
Shahab was in ecstasy, and he said to Kifayat, ‘By God, she’s really spunky!’ Then he pinched her thigh very hard, and Sarita reacted impulsively, twisting Anwar’s ear for no reason other than he was closest. Everyone burst out laughing. Kifayat kept looking over his shoulder even though he could see everything in the rearview mirror. He sped up, trying to keep pace with the laughter in the back seat.
Sarita wanted to get out and sit on the car’s hood next to its iron fixture shaped like a flying bird. She leaned forward, Shahab poked her, and Sarita threw her arms around Kifayat’s neck in order to keep her balance. Without thinking, Kifayat kissed her hand, and Sarita’s entire body tingled. She jumped over the seat to sit next to Kifayat where she began to play with his necktie. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Me? I’m Kifayat.’ Then he took out ten rupees from his pocket and gave it to her.
The money distracted Sarita, and she instantly forgot what Kifayat had said as she took the note and crammed it into her bra. She was a child — ignorant and happy. ‘That was very nice of you,’ she said. ‘And your necktie’s nice too.’
Sarita was in such a good mood that she liked everything she saw. She wanted to believe that even bad things could be redeemed, she wanted the car to continue speeding along, and she wanted everything to fall into the whirlwind.
Suddenly she wanted to sing. She stopped playing with Kifayat’s tie and sang, ‘It was you who taught me how to love/and woke my sleeping heart.’
After singing this film song for a while, Sarita suddenly turned around and said to Anwar, ‘Why are you so quiet? Why don’t you say something? Why don’t you sing something?’ Then she jumped into the back seat and began to run her fingers through Shahab’s hair and said to him, ‘Let’s sing together. You remember that song Devika Rani sang, “I wish I could be a bird singing through the forests”? I really like Devika Rani.’ Then she put her hands together, propped them beneath her chin, and batting her eyelashes began to tell the story, ‘Ashok Kumar and Devika Rani were standing next to each other, and Devika Rani said, “I wish I could be a bird singing through the forests”, and Ashok Kumar said …’ Suddenly Sarita turned to Shahab, ‘Sing along, okay?’