Read Online Garden of Dreams by Melissa Siebert - Free Book Online
Authors: Melissa Siebert
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searching for the bottle of green shampoo among the legions of toiletries on the shelf. But soon she remembered: it was Tuesday, an inauspicious day for washing hair. She’d have to live with herself till tomorrow.
One last glance in the mirror, then, opening the bathroom door, she listened carefully. Silence. She waited for a sign, a sound, of something coming, half-expecting a deadly portent, a dog’s bark or the shrill cry of a peacock. But only silence. Was the boy dead?
Only nothing.
Chapter 12
He couldn’t believe his parents hadn’t come for him. Twenty-five days. Eli had marked them off in vertical and diagonal lines, on the wall by his bed, the way prisoners did on cell walls. He lay there in the purple room, the colour of bruises, and touched his jaw, wincing, experimenting with the pain. It hurt to breathe. As the morning light filtered through the two barred windows, prying his eyes open, he squinted them shut and saw again Anand, the beast coming towards him, charging like an elephant, swinging his arms and knocking him flat.
Shoot me now
, he thought.
Finish it.
No, he had to believe his parents would find him. They knew people, didn’t they? His mother even knew India, a little. What were they doing, without him? If his father could help end wars he could find his own son, couldn’t he? Write about
this
for
The New York Times
, Mom, he thought. On the dark screens of his closed eyes he had a vision, a recurrent nightmare from childhood: running, running, a huge black bird, talons extended, chasing him. His parents nowhere in sight.
In the nightmare where he actually was, morning was stirring outside: the shouts of the shopkeepers as they lifted their metal doors, the toots and bells and big horn blasts of the traffic, the early-bird girls on their balconies – didn’t some ever jump? He dragged his sore body out of bed and went to stand at the window, gripping the iron bars, pulling on them as hard as he could; how many times had he tried to move them? There had to be another way out of there. He had to find it, soon. Who knew what else they were going to do to him.
The pain drove him back to bed, and he lay there, time hovering over him like a cloud. A timid knock on the door. It opened, and the scent of jasmine wrapped around him as the grass-green and silver sparkles of a sari brushed his face.
‘Poor you …’
He felt a warm cloth on his face, steeped in eucalyptus or some other healing agent.
‘Sanjana?’ She was kneeling by the bed now, comforting him with her deep, sad eyes.
Aside from a flicker of faith in his parents, Sanjana – even just the knowledge she was near – had kept him going. Since that first time in the bathroom, he’d seen her only a handful of times more, ‘off-duty’, passing in the hallways or for chai in the kitchen, when Anand let him out. They had talked; she seemed interested in him. Her English was pretty good; in the three years she’d been at the kotha, she’d told him, some of her clients had taught her the language. Or a certain vocabulary. She still had a strange way of saying things, much of the time, which made them both laugh. From a small village in the Terai, the jungle part of Nepal, she said. She’d been sent to Delhi by her family, promised a job in a restaurant, but it was a trick. She’d been brought here, along with all the other Nepali girls who ‘belonged’ to the kotha. To that bitch Auntie Lakshmi. But somehow Sanjana had stayed strong, in spite of all the drugging at the start and the dozens of clients forced upon her daily. Lakshmi owned her body but not the rest of her.
‘You’ve got a key to my room?’
‘I got it from that dog-man …’
‘Anand?’
Sanjana lowered her eyes but then looked up at him. ‘He gets me whenever he want. Part of what Auntie-ji pay him. Last night he very drunk, so key was too easy to steal. Must give it back before he wake up, or …’
Eli felt his insides twisting. ‘Does he beat
One last glance in the mirror, then, opening the bathroom door, she listened carefully. Silence. She waited for a sign, a sound, of something coming, half-expecting a deadly portent, a dog’s bark or the shrill cry of a peacock. But only silence. Was the boy dead?
Only nothing.
Chapter 12
He couldn’t believe his parents hadn’t come for him. Twenty-five days. Eli had marked them off in vertical and diagonal lines, on the wall by his bed, the way prisoners did on cell walls. He lay there in the purple room, the colour of bruises, and touched his jaw, wincing, experimenting with the pain. It hurt to breathe. As the morning light filtered through the two barred windows, prying his eyes open, he squinted them shut and saw again Anand, the beast coming towards him, charging like an elephant, swinging his arms and knocking him flat.
Shoot me now
, he thought.
Finish it.
No, he had to believe his parents would find him. They knew people, didn’t they? His mother even knew India, a little. What were they doing, without him? If his father could help end wars he could find his own son, couldn’t he? Write about
this
for
The New York Times
, Mom, he thought. On the dark screens of his closed eyes he had a vision, a recurrent nightmare from childhood: running, running, a huge black bird, talons extended, chasing him. His parents nowhere in sight.
In the nightmare where he actually was, morning was stirring outside: the shouts of the shopkeepers as they lifted their metal doors, the toots and bells and big horn blasts of the traffic, the early-bird girls on their balconies – didn’t some ever jump? He dragged his sore body out of bed and went to stand at the window, gripping the iron bars, pulling on them as hard as he could; how many times had he tried to move them? There had to be another way out of there. He had to find it, soon. Who knew what else they were going to do to him.
The pain drove him back to bed, and he lay there, time hovering over him like a cloud. A timid knock on the door. It opened, and the scent of jasmine wrapped around him as the grass-green and silver sparkles of a sari brushed his face.
‘Poor you …’
He felt a warm cloth on his face, steeped in eucalyptus or some other healing agent.
‘Sanjana?’ She was kneeling by the bed now, comforting him with her deep, sad eyes.
Aside from a flicker of faith in his parents, Sanjana – even just the knowledge she was near – had kept him going. Since that first time in the bathroom, he’d seen her only a handful of times more, ‘off-duty’, passing in the hallways or for chai in the kitchen, when Anand let him out. They had talked; she seemed interested in him. Her English was pretty good; in the three years she’d been at the kotha, she’d told him, some of her clients had taught her the language. Or a certain vocabulary. She still had a strange way of saying things, much of the time, which made them both laugh. From a small village in the Terai, the jungle part of Nepal, she said. She’d been sent to Delhi by her family, promised a job in a restaurant, but it was a trick. She’d been brought here, along with all the other Nepali girls who ‘belonged’ to the kotha. To that bitch Auntie Lakshmi. But somehow Sanjana had stayed strong, in spite of all the drugging at the start and the dozens of clients forced upon her daily. Lakshmi owned her body but not the rest of her.
‘You’ve got a key to my room?’
‘I got it from that dog-man …’
‘Anand?’
Sanjana lowered her eyes but then looked up at him. ‘He gets me whenever he want. Part of what Auntie-ji pay him. Last night he very drunk, so key was too easy to steal. Must give it back before he wake up, or …’
Eli felt his insides twisting. ‘Does he beat
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