The Fairy

Mazeda sat on a mat in front of the door of her small room, holding her daughter’s head in her lap. The room was part of a shed with a tin roof. Daylight could illuminate only a portion around the door, which stood along a narrow alleyway. The rest of the room lay in the dark.

After lunch, Mazeda had found Mala and sat her down to get rid of the lice. She picked them from Mala’s hair with her bare hands. The lice made Mala scratch her head in her sleep, all through the night. Even when she took a nap for an hour or so during the day, she slept restlessly because of her itchy scalp. In a crevice up the outer wall, sparrows warbled nonstop. Not far from the threshold, murky water flowed in an open gutter, slightly rippling in the breeze and spreading a foul smell. Swarms of flies buzzed around the water. After doing a thorough search of Mala’s head, Mazeda caught only a few nits and lice. Picking lice was as addictive as fishing. But many escaped her fingers due to her muscle aches and myopia.

Moyna emerged suddenly from a room adjacent to the left. She squatted by the gutter and vomited into the black water. Sounds of loud laughter had floated out of her room just a few minutes ago. She threw up yellow glutinous bile mixed with clumps of rice, which dissolved in the murky water. Then she gulped a mouthful of water from a melamine glass, gargled, and rinsed her mouth before spitting it out. Moyna and her pimp Siraj’s high-pitched giggles resumed in no time.

Moyna’s vomiting, gargles, and giggles—nothing could distract Mazeda from diligently picking lice out of Mala’s hair.

Noorjahan showed up when the sun had leaned towards the west; she stood leaning against the doorframe. Her slender build and beautiful face made her attractive, her personality exuding authority. Wiping beads of sweat from her neckline and face with the loose end of her scarlet cotton sari, she began, “Amin Saheb met me after visiting Samena.” She went on to drop more information on Amin Saheb, as if Mazeda’s silence warranted a short description.

“He’s the owner of Bismillah Petrol Pump. Rubs shoulders with the D.C, the judge, the magistrate, and the S.P. He’s got every damn person in his pocket, get it? See the problem?”

But Mazeda seemed to see no problem. This incensed Noorjahan a little. “Listen to me, he’s laid his eyes on your daughter!” she said, raising her voice. Although the tension in her voice failed to draw a verbal response, Mazeda looked away from Mala and up at Noorjahan. This encouraged her to continue, albeit in a low voice.

“He threatened me. He threatened all of us! He said, ‘Listen, I know you run this place. I’m sure you’re aware that moulvis and devout Muslims are hell-bent on evicting you all from this place. We know you guys pay off the administration. Even then, you won’t survive without our support.’ He then mentioned your daughter’s name, saying he’d met her the other day. He asked me to prepare Mala for him. And I know that Mala’s had her first period.” She paused before reminding Mazeda of the terrible disease in her uterus, the savings she’d drained for the operation, and the fact that she hadn’t been taking customers owing to her condition.

Mazeda still remained quiet. Her daughter was asleep, face down, head pressed into the pillow. She lowered her head and stroked the girl’s curly hair. Mazeda’s prolonged silence made Noorjahan leave. A fear gripped Mazeda as she pushed a few locks of Mala’s hair aside and got an eyeful of her daughter’s face—she saw an enchanting little fairy, asleep on her lap. Absorbed in Mala’s beauty, she whispered approvingly to herself, “Subhanallah!”

Mazeda was never really a pious woman; she prayed only on the auspicious night of Shab-e-Barat, and fasted and prayed during the month of Ramadan. Yet she uttered “Subhanallah” every time she gazed at her daughter’s face. She didn’t even know who the father was. Back in the day, every night she was visited by customers of all ages.

Mala was in class five now. As she could write in a beautiful hand, the women living in this brothel got her to write letters to their lovers.

Mala spent most of her time playing with kids her age. In the morning, she attended a school run by an NGO. After school, she hung out with other kids, chatting or playing with them. Since early childhood, Mala and her friends had become aware that fathers were non-existent in their lives. As dusk fell, Aunt Noorjahan, Aunt Sufia, and all the other aunts dolled themselves up to attract customers. That’s why the children here barely got a chance to sleep in the warmth of their mothers’ bosoms. They usually stayed with Lovely apa or other kids their age, but there were times when they slept all alone.

Before Mazeda went out to lure customers, she always fed Mala in the evenings. Mala had always seen her mother sitting in front of the mirror, putting on makeup with utmost care. Coating her eyelashes with mascara, Mazeda pulled out a bright-coloured sari, maroon or orange or red; she then draped it around her body and gazed at her own image in the mirror with rapt attention. One moment she knitted her eyebrows into a bow-shaped frown, the next she relaxed them, chuckling quietly and whispering to herself. Mala thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the whole world, when she was absorbed in herself like this.

Once Mazeda left, she played bouchi, gollachut, or dariabandha in the field opposite the brothel, or chatted her time away with friends.

Lovely apa—a year or so older than Mala—told her many stories. Once she’d said that a boy from a very rich family in the town had requested Aunt Noorjahan to make arrangements for a threesome with a middle-aged woman and her daughter. He’d seen in blue films that some men slept with sexy middle-aged mothers and their daughters in a threesome. Except Sheuli apa’s mother, no one else had agreed to engage in something like this. That spoiled brat, they said, had given the mother-daughter duo a lot of gold ornaments; he’d even gone as far as buying them a house down town. Lovely apa stayed over at times and related what usually happened in the neighbouring rooms. At times, she’d take Mala’s small hands and place them gently over her breasts, while she’d fondle different parts of Mala’s body with hers.

Meanwhile, Mazeda fell ill; she often lay writhing in pain and stopped dressing up or going out to solicit. She looked devastated all the time. Noorjahan took her to a doctor.

Before long, Aunt Noorjahan invited Lovely, Mala, and a couple of other girls their age to her room. She said, “All of you are my daughters. If I put the right clothes and makeup on you, you’ll look like fairies!” She set out plates of savoury snacks and bottles of Coke and 7-Up in front of them. After the girls polished off the snacks, she led them into another room and sat them in front of a television set. She played a porn video on a VCR and instructed, “Watch. This is going to be fun! Now that you all have grown up, you should know more about the world.”

That’s how a new world opened up to Mala. They were joined by another viewer, Uncle Khaled. He was known as Aunt Noorjahan’s bhatar, her lover; and he clung to her all day like glue. While the movie was on, he came up with a hundred excuses to touch Mala right in front of Noorjahan.

A few days later, Noorjahan decked Mala out in a sari and applied some makeup to her face before sitting her down in front of the television set. Only Mala was called in that day. The Coke she drank was laced with some sort of strong soporific, so she could barely keep her eyes open. As Noorjahan left the room, Khaled came in and hugged her. He touched her gently. Too drowsy under the influence, Mala drawled, “You are Aunt Noorjahan’s bhatar. Wouldn’t she wring your neck if she found this out about you.”

Khaled laughed. “She loves me—that’s exactly the reason she’s left you in my care. So that I can train you up.” Khaled gradually taught her many positions and acts from the Kamasutra.

Mazeda could neither go out for grocery shopping, nor cook. With her condition aggravating, Noorjahan indulged Mala more and more. The girl was full of her praise.

One evening, after dinner, Mala said, “I’ll be in Aunt Noorjahan’s room.” She left like a little fairy flying out of her room, with her eyes lined with kohl and ears adorned with flashy earrings, while her books and notebooks gathered new layers of dust in one corner.

Mazeda turned off the light.

Birds awakening from disturbing dreams desperately flapped their wings, perched on a koroi tree. Mala was flying off, riding on the back of a headless horse with dazzling white wings.

Mala was fading fast.

A few days later, Noorjahan collected Mala after lunch. She appeared again an hour or so later. “I’ve trained Mala up pretty well. Don’t you worry about a thing! She’ll take the room right next to yours. Amin Saheb will be here tonight,” she said. Noticing Mazeda’s face stiffen, Noorjahan went off on a tangent. “Mala tells me your pain is getting worse. The doctor said we should take you to Dhaka for chemo. I’ll send you to the city as soon as I scrape the money together.”

Noorjahan came back in the evening, carrying a plate of rice and curries. As Mazeda was asleep, she covered her dinner with another plate and left. But Mazeda was actually awake, lying quietly in the dark. Only when she was certain that she heard a man and her daughter speak to each other in the next room, did she scramble out of bed. She found a hole in the bamboo fence partition put up between the two rooms, and pressed her eye against it: with a thick gold chain around his neck, a clean-shaven Amin Saheb was in a thin white cotton panjabi while Mala, completely naked, sat on the bed, reclining against the pillows, a subtle smile on her perfect face—as if she were a seasoned sex worker, a tiny, naked goddess. Mala’s straightforwardness seemed to soften the man’s heart, so much so that his face shone with a covetous intensity, as if he were her slave. At one point, the little girl moaned like a beast. Before midnight, a visibly exhausted Amin Saheb kissed Mala on both of her cheeks, and left. The tiny goddess with her slight smile and perfect face had fallen asleep by then.

Mazeda began shivering from standing for so long. Her pain grew unbearable, as though someone had taken a hack at her lower abdomen with a sharp weapon. First she groaned, but then soon screamed in pain. Noorjahan came running to her room. Moyna and Sabiha followed suit; they poured water over her head. Noorjahan had Mazeda take two sleeping pills. In the next room, Mala was still in a deep, hooch-induced sleep.

Noorjahan requested the owner of the town’s biggest clinic to send a doctor for Mazeda. She had long been on good terms with the owner. A doctor came the next day; he examined her and administered an injection. Before leaving, he said Mazeda wouldn’t make it through without chemo.

Awoken around noon the next day, Mala came to see her mother. Lying next to Mazeda, she sank into a deep sleep again, and didn’t wake up until well into the evening. Outside, rows of small arum plants along the gutter swayed their heads. Across the gutter stood Sufia’s room and behind it was a fence over which a faded red petticoat was hung out to dry in the sun. Right beside it lay an old rag, used to absorb menstrual blood—now washed clean yet stained with red and yellow splotches. Armies of small and black insects, tiny shoals of fish, discarded Nabisco Biscuit packets and used condoms floated away along the gutter water.

Mala slept on a mat laid near the door. Gazing down at her daughter’s face, Mazeda thought to herself, “Subhanallah, Khoda, Subhanallah! If I die in six months, or in a year or two, look after what you once blessed me with”, she sobbed inwardly as she prayed. A cockroach, brushing against Mala’s feet, crossed the mat and darted away. A fat rat emerged from under Mala’s dust-coated books and notebooks, and scurried into the darkness beyond the door. The faded petticoat fluttered in the air. The old rag used as a sanitary towel could not be seen any more. Maybe it had been dislodged by a gust of wind.

Noorjahan came over around dusk; she woke Mala up and sent her to collect her mother’s meal. After Mazeda finished her dinner, Noorjahan gave her painkillers and sedatives; she turned off the light before leaving with Mala. The painkillers couldn’t do much to subside the pain though.

When Mazeda woke up in the morning, she found Mala asleep by her side. Moyna came in with two plates of breakfast. Mazeda coughed up a lump of phlegm and spat it out into the empty condensed-milk container which she’d picked up from the floor. She asked Moyna to hand her the chilmuchi—a hat-shaped wash-basin—from under the bed so that she could brush her teeth.

“Let me nudge your daughter awake. I have something urgent to attend to. Mala! Hey Mala!” called out Moyna, “help your mother brush her teeth and feed her after that. Can’t you see she’s in pain?” and left in a hurry.

With droopy eyes, Mala picked up the chilmuchi, filled a mug with water, and helped her mother brush her teeth. Mazeda’s once-beautiful face was now streaked with splotchy black patches. Her eyes were often rheumy. Her body gave off a musty smell and her skin had developed wrinkles like wizened women. Even a year ago, she was fit as a fiddle and her skin glowed like a young woman’s; she’d earned a reputation as the calmest and friendliest woman in their neighbourhood. How fast her once-graceful mother had turned into an old hag!

Mala fed Mazeda with care; afterwards, she massaged her mother’s hair with oil and pulled it back into a bun.

Noorjahan came in after a while and said, “Mala, get up. I’m going to the market and you’re coming along.” She sat down beside Mazeda. “Are you feeling better now?”

“Same as before.”

“Mala and I are going to the market. Do you need anything?”

“No, I don’t. Lay the mat close to the door and if you can, help me walk over there and lie down.”

Noorjahan and Mala made a bed of sorts on the floor; they helped Mazeda settle down on it before they headed out for the market.

Gusts of wind blew past all day. Mazeda heaved herself up into a sitting position, and leaned against the doorframe. Responding as if to the rhythm of the breeze, tiny koroi leaves swayed and spun circles in the air as they danced down on the gutter and also onto Mazeda’s hair, face, mouth, and sari. The wind stirred up ripples on the dirty water. From under the threshold, armies of ants marched into Moyna’s room. Mazeda felt faint and lay back on the mat. Moyna brought her lunch past midday.

“Have you seen Noorjahan? Has she gone out yet?”

“No, she hasn’t. She’s still in her room.”

“Mala?”

“Yes. She is in Aunt Noorjahan’s room putting on makeup.”

Mazeda gazed listlessly at the chilmuchi and the empty condensed-milk container.

There was a storm in the late afternoon. Mazeda did not close the door, nor did she call anybody to close it for her. Every particle of her body responded to the blustery wind and the raindrops; her hair blew wildly; her entire body was soaked in rain. In fact, she felt so light that she forgot all about Mala, her own mother and father, her love, her past, and her future. Like a teenage girl, she was overcome with desire to dance to the song:

Holud Gandar Phul/Ranga Polash Phul. Yellow marigold flowers/Bright red polash flowers.

The rain water inundated parts of her room. Washing the ants away; she sat up leaning against the door and after much physical exertion, placed all her body weight on her hands and somehow managed to move her body closer to the bed. She then grabbed hold of the edge of the bed and hauled herself up. She took off the sari which had got wet by then, and slid under a quilt with her blouse and petticoat on.

Noorjahan came to see her in the evening when the storm was over. “What happened here! Mazeda, your room is flooded. Why didn’t you call someone? Your daughter and I had been to the market. She dressed up just a little, yet looked just like a fairy. How did a beautiful fairy like this ever come out of your womb?” marveled Noorjahan.

“When I was taken to the doctor in Dhaka after my operation, he said my cancer had spread,” replied Mazeda.

“Yes, he did. He was also the one who said chemo might cure you. But you didn’t agree. You said all your savings were already gone.”

“Who’ll pay for my treatment now?”

“Don’t you worry about the money! I’ll pay for it. Your daughter is also earning now, and she’ll continue to earn more. If you’re alive, you’ll spend the rest of your life carefree.”

Mazeda sat motionless. She picked up the condensed-milk container and spat into the sand pooled at its base. Columns of ants marched up the outer wall.

Noorjahan broached a new yet related topic. “I’ve heard from reliable sources that in the big city, girls can enlarge their boobs and butts by administering drugs or injections. Your daughter is growing to be quite a lady. With big boobs and a sexy butt, she’ll have all the men in the world queue up for her. You won’t live in want anymore.”

“Where do you get all these ideas from? Are humans like cows that they’ll grow fat after being fed urea fertiliser? Are you going to feed my daughter urea?” Mazeda protested.

“Listen, it’s true that you gave birth to her, but I’ve always treated her like my own daughter. I give her whatever clothes she asks for. I’ve bought her gold ornaments. I even took her to the market and treated her to Chinese food. Don’t you worry about her! Okay? The doctor will come by tomorrow and explain everything to you.”

“The doctors and such people are your friends. They’re at your bidding. So they’ll say what you want them to say.”

“Mazeda, I swear I’ve never seen a traitor like you. I cook every day to feed you while you just lie in bed. I’m also paying for your treatment. How much did you have saved up?” Noorjahan retorted, and stormed out.

Mala’s attention to her mother dwindled. She almost always had Noorjahan breathing down her neck. She floated as if on air, all dolled up in new saris, salwar-kameezes, and ornaments. There were times when she’d lie down beside her mother and fall into deep sleep. She started growing taller all of a sudden, her breasts and butt becoming bigger. Sounds of laughter from Mala and her companion rent the night air more often now. On nights when she felt a bit better, Mazeda watched the exquisitely beautiful eyes of her drunk daughter through the hole in the wall. “My little moyna bird, my little fairy. Subhanallah,” she mumbled.

There were times when Mala’s screams, like wounded beasts, rent the air from the next room. Mazeda’s heart beat faster during those moments. An exhausted mother appealed to the Almighty, “Protect my little fairy, Allah,” her eyes misting over.

It was not until several months later when Mala slept beside her like a dead person that Mazeda discovered one afternoon: Mala’s breasts had ballooned so big as to reach her abdomen. With frightened eyes, Mazeda regarded the unusual growth in her daughter’s body.

Noorjahan dropped in to collect Mala. She woke her up and took her along. Afterwards, she sent Moyna over to look after Mazeda’s meals. Flocks of crows kept cawing from the koroi tree. A verbal fight erupted from Safia’s room and kept the entire brothel on edge. Noorjahan came back with Mala, who was shining in a flashy sari and ornaments. “Rafiq’s taking her to the S.P and the D.C. After hearing about her, all the big shots in town are keen on seeing her.”

Noorjahan, Moyna, Safia, Helen, and a few other middle-aged and elderly women came over and waited till Mala returned. Everyone was eager to know if Mala would ignite the imaginations of all those higher-ups.

It was around dusk that Mala returned, and sat near her mother’s feet. “Everyone was nice to me,” she prattled on. “One of the big officers was extra nice; he recited a poem for me, choking at times. Another big officer has asked Rafiq Uncle to take me to the Circuit House maybe.” Everyone was amazed, their approving eyes fixed on her as if she’d returned from conquering the world.

Mazeda gazed at her daughter and thought to herself, “Subhanallah.”

When Mazeda’s pain increased to the point that she let out agonised screams, Noorjahan assigned the pimp Majnu to take her to the PG Hospital in Dhaka. She instructed Majnu to take good care of her and help doctors with whatever they needed, including medicines. Before she set out, Mazeda almost went down on her knees and made an emotional plea to Noorjahan: “Please let Mala go with me to the hospital.”

“Don’t get so emotional—it’s making my skin burn. Your daughter is like a river at high tide now. That’s exactly why you’re being sent to Dhaka for treatment. If she takes you to the PG Hospital, the business here will go down the toilet in a day or two!” Noorjahan snapped.

A month and a half later, Mazeda got down from an auto-rickshaw and walked with much difficulty, leaning on Majnu’s shoulders. Emaciated, shoulders hunched over, head fully shaven, Mazeda provoked a strong reaction from Mala.

“Ma, O Ma, why do you look like this?’ she wailed, “Why the hell did they shave your head?”

Noorjahan pulled Mala away from her mother and locked her in a consoling embrace. She then took one of Mazeda’s arms around her own shoulders and helped her walk to her room. Mazeda simply couldn’t move on her own, let alone go to the bathroom. Noorjahan kept a small bodna—a pitcher with a spout—and a water pot by her bed. A maid was hired to wash the soiled sheets and clean up after her. There were spots on her skin that swelled up and cracked like an old map. She spent most of her waking hours screaming in pain. Noorjahan wanted to move her to a smaller room between a pile of junk and the kitchen, but Mala threatened that she wouldn’t sleep with customers if her mother was shifted to another room. So, Noorjahan had to keep Mazeda in her room.

Noorjahan found it increasingly difficult to tear Mala away from Mazeda. She lashed out at Mala, and there were times when she grabbed her arms and wrenched her away. Meanwhile, as Mala’s story began to spread to faraway places, people of all ages thronged the brothel, everyone desperate for her company.

When the customers were gone, Mala staggered in and crashed beside her mother. No sooner had Mazeda put her hand on Mala’s, than she sobbed like a baby. It was while sobbing that Mala gradually slid into a deep sleep.

Mazeda’s condition worsened. She thrashed around in pain and often fainted. Mala sat by her mother all day. As Noorjahan came around dusk and told her to dress up, Mala protested. “I swear I won’t go today. Ma’s condition is too bad. I’m aching and paining all over my body too. Don’t you feel even a shred of compassion?”

“If I had no compassion, why would I spend money like water on your mother? Why don’t you go ask who else does this? My sweet girl, don’t be so stubborn. I promise I won’t ask you again to take customers when your mother is so sick. But today a special guest of our local lawmaker has come to visit us; his secretary and the O.C have specially requested me to take good care of him. I swear by the name of Khoda that I’ll never ask you if your mother’s health falls. But you have to save my face today. We can’t live here without the lawmaker’s help.”

Mala clung tightly to her mother; as if refusing to go no matter what. “My body pains, and I have terrible cramps in my lower abdomen. I won’t go.” Noorjahan wouldn’t give in so easily. She made more dramatic pleas and eventually succeeded in tearing Mala away.

In a short while, drunken laughter roared out of the next room. It was clear that several men were there. One of them crooned, “Teri patli kamar ki hai jadu”, while others chorused “Hai jadu/hai jadu”, before breaking into fits of laughter. At one point, Mala, too, joined in the laughter.

Noorjahan had perhaps got her drunk before sending her in. One of them said, “I’ve never seen a chick like this one. Coming all the way from Dhaka is totally worth it for a chick like her.” Everyone burst out laughing, like it been a premeditated decision to laugh no matter what was said. Mala groaned, while the drunkards’ laughter soared higher. From the ruckus in the room anyone could tell that there were fifteen to twenty men—perhaps forty or fifty even.

Mazeda feared her daughter would not survive that night. She decided to crawl to the next room and beg the men for her daughter’s life. Mala’s screams made it crystal clear that she was screaming not out of pleasure, but in agony. Mazeda made an attempt to get down to the floor, crawling on her elbows. Pain shot through her body, like someone was boring a hole in her with a drill. She landed on the floor with a splat. Still she moved a little, crawling around on her hands. Mazeda felt utterly wasted. The shrieks and roars receded into silence all of a sudden.

When she came to, she could still hear Mala’s suppressed screams, although the drunken laughter had petered out. The dawn was breaking outside; if her daughter was all right, she’d have come back to her by now. Crawling on her elbows, she pulled herself forward. It seemed that her waist and back were being torn off her body. Yet she crawled, and scraping the front of her body against the floor, she reached and went past the threshold. Along the gutter she continued, crawling over the muddy surface.

Mala lay on the floor; a naked sculpture, chiselled out of white stone; a fairy with a child’s face. Marks and blotches of dried blood were caked on her legs and around her waist. Despite the pain coursing through her entire body, Mazeda continued crawling and finally reached her daughter. Her daughter must have passed out. Beside her lay two naked drunkards who, too, were fast asleep.

Mazeda called out to Mala and jabbed her in the ribs. There was no response. Her voice awakened one of the drunkards. He was startled out of his wits seeing the woman’s bloated body and face. Mazeda begged him for help. “Please take my daughter to the hospital, or call someone for help. She’ll survive if she’s taken to a doctor.” The man woke his friend up. The two of them exchanged a few knowing glances and dashed out of the room.

Mazeda crawled again on her elbows and pulled herself towards the door despite the excruciating pain around her waist and abdomen. Upon reaching the doorway, she mustered all her remaining energy and called out. “Moyna! Noorjahan! Take my daughter to the hospital!” She felt faint again. Gusts of wind whipped past her like crashing waves. As everyone in this brothel worked through the night, they usually slept like the dead around the dawn.

Along the gutter, green arum leaves swayed. Through the tin sheds, the first light of the dawn fell aslant Mazeda’s face. In her desperate attempt to crawl forward, the lower half of her body tumbled into the gutter. The flies hovering around perched on her eyes and face.

The green arum plants and their swaying leaves, the blustery wind as strong as waves, the bright rays of the sun, the flies buzzing around her face, the little fairy with a child’s face and curly hair—everything receded into darkness from Mazeda’s vision, one by one.