An Unrestored Woman by Shobha Rao Page A

around the room: the cot, the cushion, the rug hanging on the wall. All of these were in place. So she shook her head, puzzled, and had the hook replaced.
    Soon after, winter arrived. They shivered and built fires in the courtyard. They sat huddled in thick shawls. The girls, in their windowless rooms, waited for spring. What they couldn’t see were the foothills white with snow then brown with moisture then green with new spring grass. When the air turned warm, after long months, and swept into the courtyard, they were delighted. Bandra believed in none of the romance of spring, but the scented air loosened her limbs, made her more generous than she was in other seasons. So that when Abdul Kareem came to her and requested more straw, she smiled and said, “What for?”
    â€œThe girl’s bed,” he said, “it’s lumpy.”
    â€œLumpy? But it was refilled just last year.”
    â€œMy knees hurt.”
    â€œThen lie on your back, old man.” Bandra laughed. “Let her do the work.”
    Nevertheless, she ordered a bale of straw and had all the cots stuffed to capacity. But when autumn came, Abdul Kareem brought it up again. He said, “I thought you were going to have them stuffed?”
    She looked at Abdul Kareem for a long moment, longer than she’d intended, and said, “I did.”
    The following winter, Gulshan got sick. She was pregnant by one of the men. Bandra was used to this, it had happened twice before. She gave her herbs, the same ones she’d given the other girls, but Gulshan reacted badly. At first, she retched and retched, just as the others had. She was nauseated. She stayed in bed, screaming in pain. Bandra couldn’t understand it: for the others, it had been over in three or four days, but with Gulshan, it only got worse. Two weeks passed. She was faint with hunger, delirious with pain. Then she began to bleed. There seemed no end to the blood. “Call the doctor,” Siddiqah cried. The other girls turned away. Layla stood silently. Bandra refused. “She’ll be fine,” she said. Layla looked at her and walked out of the room.
    They took turns watching her. One night, while Bandra was at her bedside, Gulshan sat straight up on her cot and smiled. Her eyes were mad. She looked around the room with an ineffable pleasure, as though it were a room from a childhood she did not have, then she picked up the sheet—soaked in blood—that was between her legs and held it tight against her bosom. “Roses.” She sighed.
    You fool, Bandra thought, as if you’ve ever held a rose.
    The next morning she was dead.
    *   *   *
    When Layla was fifteen, Abdul Kareem came to see Bandra again. He was fifty-two but he sat on the cushion as shy and squirming as a little boy. Bandra served him tea. He still said nothing.
    â€œWhat is it, Abdul Kareem?”
    â€œI want to marry her,” he said.
    Bandra knew exactly whom he meant. “It will cost you,” she said.
    â€œI have money.”
    â€œYou can’t marry a randi,” she protested mildly. “You’ll never be able to raise your head again.”
    â€œThen I’ll keep her.”
    They decided on a price. It was twenty times what Bandra had paid for her. She could buy ten new girls with that money. Bandra could hardly believe her luck; she counted and recounted the money and laughed. The other arrangements too were conducted as if it were a wedding. Abdul Kareem sent more money for Layla’s trousseau, and he requested that Bandra apply uptan on the night before she was to leave the brothel. It’s all a rich man’s whim, Bandra thought. As for the trousseau, she kept half the money and with the other half, she bought cheap silks and thin cotton underclothes. She placed them all in a trunk in her sitting room, lest the other girls take them during the night.
    The day before Layla was scheduled to leave, the compound was