anyone, and he refuses to give out so much as a single teacup without getting his money first.
I ask if he ever sees the boy who used to bring us our tea. “Who?” he says.
I realize then that I do not even know his name.
NOT A NEW GIRL ANYMORE
I look around the table at mealtime. There is a pair of new girls. One is sniffling over her rice and dal, the other is too dazed to eat. A third girl, one who has been here a while, is wiping her plate with her bread.
The first one is sitting in Monica’s old seat, the second in Shahanna’s. The third is sitting where Pushpa used to sit.
It occurs to me that, except for Anita, I have been here the longest.
DIGITAL MAGIC
It is only afternoon, but already a customer is at the door. I see at once that he is an American. It is not the same one who gave me the flying-bird card; this one is taller, and he is wearing a vest of many pockets. I shrink behind the door frame; every day I have prayed for an American to come. Now that one is here I don’t know what to do.
I hear a noise from the counting room and see that Shilpa is watching. So I go to the man like a thirsty vine. I tell him I will make him happy. I tell him I know some good tricks.
Shilpa goes back to her movie star magazine, and the man follows me up the steps.
When we get to my room, he grips my hand in greeting, the same uncouth way the first American did. I pull away.
He says hello in my language. I say nothing in reply.
“What is your name?” he says. His words are hurried, and he looks nervously over his shoulder.
“Your name,” he says again. “What is your name?”
I cannot open my mouth.
“How old are you?” I don’t reply.
He sighs. “May I take your picture?” he says. He takes a small silver box from one of his pockets. He touches a button and its eye blinks open with a whir.
I do not like this seeing box, but I do not object.
“? will not tell the fat woman,” he says. “You have my promise.”
A tiny lightning jumps out of the box, the eye blinks shut. And for a moment, I see doubles and triples of the man, framed m a red glow. He is smiling, looking at the back of his little lightning box.
“Come see your picture,” he says.
I take just one step toward him and wait. He holds the silver box toward me, and I can see a tiny version of myself—smaller than the people on TV—in a tiny TV in the back of the silver box.
“Digital,” he says.
I don’t know this word, but it must be the name of the strange American magic he has that allows him to put me in his silver box. “Do you want to leave here?” he says.
I cannot answer.
How do I know if he is a good man?
What if he is like the drunken American?
What if he is like the ones Anita talks about, the ones who make young girls walk naked in the street?
“I can take you to a clean place,” he says. “Look,” he says. “Pictures. Of the shelter. Other girls.”
He holds out the silver box so I can see the tiny TV in the back.
He pushes a button.
There is a tiny image of a Nepali girl smiling back at me.
He pushes the button again.
There are girls in school uniforms sitting at a desk.
Girls fetching water at a spring.
The man turns off his digital magic machine. I am afraid, all of a sudden, that he is leaving. I wish there was a way to say something, to keep this American here a little longer.
I reach under my bed and pull out the American storybook, the one Harish gave me. I hold it out toward the American. He cocks his head to one side, puzzled.
I point to a picture. “ Elmo ,” I say. He nods slowly.
“Ice cream,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “Very good.”
“America.” The man smiles.
I do not mean to, but I am smiling at this queer-looking man, smiling and trembling at the magic—not of his digital image-taking box—but at the magic of a handful of nonsense words to keep him here a little longer.
BELIEVING
The American man whispers. His way of speaking my language is hurried now as he
I ask if he ever sees the boy who used to bring us our tea. “Who?” he says.
I realize then that I do not even know his name.
NOT A NEW GIRL ANYMORE
I look around the table at mealtime. There is a pair of new girls. One is sniffling over her rice and dal, the other is too dazed to eat. A third girl, one who has been here a while, is wiping her plate with her bread.
The first one is sitting in Monica’s old seat, the second in Shahanna’s. The third is sitting where Pushpa used to sit.
It occurs to me that, except for Anita, I have been here the longest.
DIGITAL MAGIC
It is only afternoon, but already a customer is at the door. I see at once that he is an American. It is not the same one who gave me the flying-bird card; this one is taller, and he is wearing a vest of many pockets. I shrink behind the door frame; every day I have prayed for an American to come. Now that one is here I don’t know what to do.
I hear a noise from the counting room and see that Shilpa is watching. So I go to the man like a thirsty vine. I tell him I will make him happy. I tell him I know some good tricks.
Shilpa goes back to her movie star magazine, and the man follows me up the steps.
When we get to my room, he grips my hand in greeting, the same uncouth way the first American did. I pull away.
He says hello in my language. I say nothing in reply.
“What is your name?” he says. His words are hurried, and he looks nervously over his shoulder.
“Your name,” he says again. “What is your name?”
I cannot open my mouth.
“How old are you?” I don’t reply.
He sighs. “May I take your picture?” he says. He takes a small silver box from one of his pockets. He touches a button and its eye blinks open with a whir.
I do not like this seeing box, but I do not object.
“? will not tell the fat woman,” he says. “You have my promise.”
A tiny lightning jumps out of the box, the eye blinks shut. And for a moment, I see doubles and triples of the man, framed m a red glow. He is smiling, looking at the back of his little lightning box.
“Come see your picture,” he says.
I take just one step toward him and wait. He holds the silver box toward me, and I can see a tiny version of myself—smaller than the people on TV—in a tiny TV in the back of the silver box.
“Digital,” he says.
I don’t know this word, but it must be the name of the strange American magic he has that allows him to put me in his silver box. “Do you want to leave here?” he says.
I cannot answer.
How do I know if he is a good man?
What if he is like the drunken American?
What if he is like the ones Anita talks about, the ones who make young girls walk naked in the street?
“I can take you to a clean place,” he says. “Look,” he says. “Pictures. Of the shelter. Other girls.”
He holds out the silver box so I can see the tiny TV in the back.
He pushes a button.
There is a tiny image of a Nepali girl smiling back at me.
He pushes the button again.
There are girls in school uniforms sitting at a desk.
Girls fetching water at a spring.
The man turns off his digital magic machine. I am afraid, all of a sudden, that he is leaving. I wish there was a way to say something, to keep this American here a little longer.
I reach under my bed and pull out the American storybook, the one Harish gave me. I hold it out toward the American. He cocks his head to one side, puzzled.
I point to a picture. “ Elmo ,” I say. He nods slowly.
“Ice cream,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “Very good.”
“America.” The man smiles.
I do not mean to, but I am smiling at this queer-looking man, smiling and trembling at the magic—not of his digital image-taking box—but at the magic of a handful of nonsense words to keep him here a little longer.
BELIEVING
The American man whispers. His way of speaking my language is hurried now as he
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