The Parcel by Anosh Irani Page B

this game doesn’t work,” Padma replied.
    “They are destroying the girls.”
    “Why do you care?”
    “I used to be a boy once,” said Madhu. “But in my heart, I was always a girl. And it is men who fuck us up. It is men who make us who we are. But you are not interested in my life.”
    “That’s right,” said Padma.
    “Then I will say this: it is bad business. That girl, Nilu, has lost her mind.”
    The mention of Nilu’s name made Padma take notice. She sat up a bit straighter. “How do you know her name?”
    “It doesn’t matter, Padma Madam,” said Madhu, offering respect because it would be unwise to get too much of an edge.“All I’m saying is that the girl will be of no use to you now. No man wants a crazy, even if she is underage.”
    “I’m listening,” said Padma.
    “Madam, I will keep men in this game, but I will use them differently. I will use them in such a way that the girls won’t lose their minds.”
    “Does your gurumai know you are here?” asked Padma.
    “No, but I’m hoping you will speak with her,” said Madhu. “And whatever I make from parcel work will go to gurumai.”
    Madhu knew that money would keep gurumai happy. The fact that Madhu was wanted by Padma might make gurumai appreciate Madhu even more.
    “Fine,” said Padma. “The next time a choti batti comes, I will send for you.”
    A girl was not called a “parcel” then. The code name was “choti batti.” Madhu did not know who had coined the term, but “little light” did not sit well with her. It meant that the light in these girls was being snuffed out, and Madhu’s aim was to somehow keep even a tiny spark alive. Not a spark of hope, not at all, because that was the deadliest of sparks, but something, a small, good-for-nothing spark that would prevent them from going completely mad. So she had replied to Padma, “Yes, call me when the next parcel arrives.” It just came to her, that word, and perhaps there was a better one out there, but it was her first contribution to the game.
    Madhu knew she needed to have a game plan, one that made business sense to Padma. The brothel pimps—not the clients—were the ones who inflicted the most damage, so Madhu had to keep them at bay. To train the girls, the pimps burned their soles with hot irons. Madhu explained to Padma that daintyparcel feet were a delicacy for men. They should be left untouched. When vaginas were burned with cigarette butts, marks were left there as well, and while drunken men did not care about aesthetics, the girls developed infections that would render them unfit for consumption. Thus, step by step, Madhu appealed to the common sense in Padma, and even though Padma knew what Madhu was doing, something within her thawed, and just an ant-sized piece of her allowed Madhu in.
    “As long as the girls listen, I don’t care what you do,” Padma said.
    Obedience was paramount. The pimps prepared the parcels for whoredom by plundering them beyond belief, turning them into vegetables. But if they were meat, meat they would remain, thought Madhu. She wanted their minds, not their bodies. It was only through their minds that she would be able to access them at a later point. If the mind was yours, the body could be made to withstand any indignity, she figured. Hope was taken away through the body, but it could be reinstalled through the mind at a later point, if required. But how to discipline them without raping them? How to scare them without thrashing them?
    The pimps did not realize that because they tortured the parcels so much, the parcels began to prefer their cages. The only time they were let outside was when they had sex with a client, so the cage was home, the dark sanctuary where the parcels found relief. They adjusted themselves to their new domain quickly, the way tiny animals did, sensing the danger outside, realizing that the cage was their friend. The bars were trying to keep them in and safe, just like the arms of their own