Priya Iyer J-SAW 2007

1
Asha - Hope

Khanaa, she pleads to passersby - her
dirty hands point to her stomach, then, to her
mouth. Her thin sari shields her newborn from the
scorching Mumbai sun. Sarita hasnt eaten in days.
Maybe, weeks. She doesnt remember. No one else
seems to care, her voice disappears in the sounds of
honking horns and zooming rickshaws. Tourists
gawk at her as she passes by flies crawl up her
neck, swarms on her chest, on her child. She feels
her baby crying, the tiny body constricting with
each scream. As she crouches in the corner of the
street, across from the arched Gateway to India, she
brings the babys mouth to her breast, the only
strength she can provide.
Oh my God! a tourist gasps, her chalky
white hands catapulting to cover her mouth. A
glossy pamphlet crashes in front of Sarita. The
tourist grabs her friends hand and scurries away,
turning around to see the dirt ridden woman
flipping through the airbrushed photos of Mumbai.
As her dark fingers turn the pages, flies fall
from her, running over the words: No Nehi, Yes
Hahn. She rocks her crying baby girl back and
forth as she peers at the unfamiliar words, Love
Pyaar. Despite the Mumbai heat, she shivers
thinking of her husband.
Covering herself and her child, she
continues her search through the city. At least with
her parents, the family worked together to search
for food. Now, her husband expects Sarita to
scavenge, to bring back food for him. For three
years, everything she brought home, he hoarded.
Then she sees him - bright ivory skin, dark suit,
blue eyes, and a briefcase. Sarita doesnt know if it
is the same man as last time, the one that had given
her a hard white candy with red stripes. She had
never tasted anything like it: the strongest smell of
western passion and the cold taste of escape,
flooded her senses.
She runs up to him, her tongue aching,
remembering the sweet salvation, Ji!
He turns around, sky blue eyes clouded
with confusion, Excuse me? They all look the
same to her - porcelain complexions and bright
eyes.
Ji! Khanna? she breathes, her deep-set
brown eyes starved, waiting for him to slip her
another piece of hard candy, fruit. Anything.

Before he can respond, she hears a voice behind
her. The one she dreads everyday.
Nehi, Sarita! the dark, bearded man
commands and pulls her as the American business
man smiles, completely unaware. Her husband the
only one who deserves the address of ji, of sir,
grabs her arm and drags her away, the Mumbai City
Guide tucked between her waist and her sari
hidden.
***
Four planks of wood covered with black
garbage bags: home. That was where he drags her,
throwing her on the damp dirt. The blue light shines
in the corner, the sound, deafening; Sarita catches
his bearded reflection in the screen.
He sits on the floor, holding nothing but a
banana peel, the leftover strings of fruit caught in
his beard. His eyes follow her body, wondering if
she can satisfy his hunger. Again. He runs towards
her, jumping, pushing her to the ground. With one
arm, she covers her child protectively, the other,
clutches the CityGuide. Hungrily, he turns her
around. She tries to push him, his weight too heavy;
his hands on her shoulders, pinning her to the
ground. Kicking him, she screams, Nehi, nehi!
He pushes further, his dirt covered hands creeping
up her sari. She presses her lips to her babys head,
unable to stop him; her fingers curling around the
CityGuide.
NO! she screams, suddenly, a new source
of strength pierces through her fingertips. He leans,
taken aback by her English, by the unfamiliar
sound. Sarita runs out, her child held to her chest;
tiny fingers clinging to her mothers haggled braid,
another, attached to her breast the childs only
chance.
Tucking the pamphlet back in her sari, the
Mumbai night greets her, the yellow moon sits in
the dusk horizon; a beam highlighting her route out
of the slum community. Blue glows and deep,
newscaster voices fade behind her.
Sarita stares at her child, seeing her
husband in the film of dirt that covers her forehead.
She sees herself, too - in the tears that form in the
corners of her babys eyes and darken her long
lashes. Why? Why did my husband lie to my
parents? Tell them that Id be happy and safe, in a
mahal a palace -- in Mumbai? Tease them with
his English, make them think that I would be better
off with a stranger than with my own. Instead, he
moved her to a hut in the middle of the slums of
Mumbai, gorging what little money he made.
Priya Iyer J-SAW 2007
2
The moons white glow spotlights the
picture an old woman serving a line of people,
steam rising out of each of their bowls, the word
Asha written below - hope. Sarita drifts toward the
building, captivated by the picture more so, by the
sight of food. Weak from days of starvation, she
knocks on the door, merely a tap reaching the other
side.
May I help you? a British accent asks, his
head cocked to the side, blue eyes questioning.
Ji! Sarita screams, her voice suddenly
strong, Khanna! she says, pointing to the picture.
Ah, you want to know more about the
Asha house? he continues, The Asha house was
started in Madras, provides food and shelter to
women of all ages. The closest one is in Delhi,
Mumbais wont be open for a few more months.
She stares at him blankly, her brown eyes muddled
with confusion.
Nehi Eng..eng-el-ish, ji she says, each
syllable foreign in her mouth, tasting it for one
second too long, hoping he understands. The child
slides down Saritas sari, she braces the baby on her
hip; the thick pamphlet pokes her skin. Ji! she
calls, shifting the child and unraveling the
CityGuide. She points to khaana food; Fu-ud?
she asks, almost a whisper.
His ivory fingers graze over hers, finding
nehi no, Ney-hi.
Kaahan where; Asha ki kaahan? she
asks, pointing to the words on the board, the words
in the pamphlet, gripping her child for an answer.
Delhi, he says, writing an address in the
pamphlet, All the best, he wishes, still unaware
that she cant understand his accent or how quickly
he speaks.
She stares at the address, at the city 3418
Shivaji Road, New Delhi. Delhi: the capital of India
- over 900 miles from where she stands right now.
Sarita has been to Delhi only once, just two years
ago, when her husbands father died. He took her
on the train, purchased only a ticket for himself and
forced her to sit under the seat for the twelve hour
ride. The train. Saritas eyes widen at the memory,
at the potential route to Delhi, and she starts
running towards the station, the Mumbai CityGuide
clenched so tightly, her knuckles turn white.
***
Delhi ki Mumbai gadi nikulney vaali hai;
platform number panch se aayage
Passengers, the train from Mumbai to Delhi will be
leaving from platform five immediately.

Sarita hears the announcers Hindi over the
intercom. Seeing a man alone, she sticks close
behind him and slides behind him at the turnstile.
Sarita licks her lips, stepping onto platform 5. The
station air tastes like refuge, she grabs the cool
metal handle and climbs up the steps to Gadi-3 - the
sleeping car. Most foreigners take the sleeping car,
traveling at night to arrive in Delhi the next
morning. Hoping for more lenient security, she
slides into a lower bunk. The babys hand reaches
for the cool wall tiny fingers outlined in Saritas
sari.
Excuse me, miss, a deep voice asks.
Sarita turns around; a lanky American boy with a
blue slip in hand, checks the seat number. He runs a
hand through his wavy brown hair, green eyes
darting between the numbers on the ticket and the
seat.
Nehi, nehi, Sarita says, rolling out of the
cot.
No! he calls after her. She turns around at
the familiar sound. Sit, he says, patting the cot.
Her eyes squint, head cocked to the side, wondering
why hes calling her back. I dont need to sleep,
we can both sit, theres enough room, he says
slowly.
Nehi Eng-el-ish, she says, forcing each
syllable out a little faster. He brushes off the dirt
and leans against the window.
Let me see your ticket, he asks, taking
out his own blue slip, waving it in front of Sarita.
She shakes her head, whispering, Nehi.
She expects him to kick her out of the seat, to tell
her to leave. Instead, he grins mischievously,
revealing dimples in his cheeks. The train jerks
forward, rattling along the iron tracks. The smell of
coal drifts into the cabin cars.
TICKETS! the security guard screams,
his boots stomping so hard on the wooden floor, the
change in his pockets clinks. His accent dripping on
each syllable, TEE-KETS! He walks slowly,
heavily, from seat to seat, punching holes in the
passengers tickets. Foreign faces recoil, taken
aback by his forest green hat and uniform; by the
long black beard that reaches his chest. Their
fingers quiver, handing the ticket forward. The boy
sits next Sarita, his eyes on the green uniform for a
moment, then on Sarita ticket-less hand the next.
Hes going to kick you off the train, the
boy whispers, showing her his ticket. Her long,
black braid swings from side to side as she shakes
her head.
Priya Iyer J-SAW 2007
3
Pata nai, she says, barely audible, I dont
know. His green eyes bore into her hands, searching
for something to pass as a ticket. Theres something
about her, that dark hair, the sad, but determined
eyes. But everyone here reminds him of Nishtha
of her curly black hair and deep set eyes, of her
passion for India. If I cant go back, Richie, you
have to go for me, okay? her high-pitched voice
sings in his ears, Youll do something special
there, I know it.
Richie pulls the CityGuide out of Saritas
hand. Her eyes widen, she pulls her knees up to her
chest, the crying baby nestled between. Where are
the translations? Why did I throw mine out earlier?
He flips through the book, the last page
Conversational Hindi. Running his finger down
the list, he searches for what to tell her, how to get
her away from the guard.
Sun-daaz, he pronounces slowly. She
looks at him, urging him to continue. Sundas, he
says more confidently as she nods her head,
Sundas, abhi jaao! his whisper so quiet, it rings in
her ears. Sundas, he says again, pointing his chin
to the bathroom, abhi JAAO. Go to the bathroom,
now! She turns and slips out of the seat, down the
crowded aisle, and into bathroom.
No light. She sits on the floor, next to the
ceramic hole-in-the-ground toilet. She can feel each
track the train passes, reverberating under the thin
plastic floor. It smells like the slums, maybe a little
better - the familiar scent of pressure, sweat,
unhappiness.

***
In the slums for just a few weeks thats
what he promised three years ago. Until today, I
was still there, three years later. He promised karya
a job and he did that much. Then all of it went
into the television. One thousand rupees in one
month. Right after the baby came, they fired him. I
still dont know what he was doing; hed leave
every night and come back early in the morning. I
dont care - at least that month, I was free.
***
Come on, check my ticket and get out of
here. Richie wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans.
She seems so innocent, so alone. Nishtha, is this
what you wanted me to do? Why couldnt you just
be here with me? TEE-KET! the guard
announces, the beard touches his belly every time
he stretches his jaws to scream. He punches his
ticket and goes to the next seat. Richie stares into
the window, catching his reflection.Theres
nothing you can do to help me, Richie. The cancers
not your fault. The machines arent your fault. You
have to be my eyes on earth after, you know, Im
gone. Youre only twenty. Go to India, go see Delhi.
Go see everything I cant. He meets his own green
eyes and then gets up, an airbrushed Mumbai rolled
in his hand like a newspaper only CityG visible.
***
A knock on the door snaps her alert. She
gathers herself, hoping the guard is gone, that she
can reach Delhi. Opening the door, she squints -
adjusting to the brighter light.
Aaja? he says, almost questioning -
concerned she wont understand, Come, he
mumbles under his breath; more for himself than
for translation. She nods, a small smile crossing her
face. The passengers turn, confused at the sight -
the ragged Indian woman, the clean-cut American
college boy, walking side by side. He ducks his
head and slides into the cot, his back to the window;
she sits on the other end, her baby asleep on her
shoulder.
He unrolls the pamphlet and flips to the
end, Aapka naam kya hai What is your name?
reflects in the glass. Aah-p-kah na-hm kya hai, he
says, slowly. Nishtha, help me with these
pronunciations. She looks at him, confused. He
points to the words, moving the book towards her.
The yellow around her eyes seems to fade.
The smile widens just a little; Sarita. Aapka naam
kya hai? she asks, laying her child on the cot
between them. Her eyes dart around the room,
relieved to see no Indian faces staring back at her.
What would they think of me? Talking to this
American boy?
Richie, he says, smiling confidently. He
points to the next line: Kahaan jayange Where
are you going?
Delhi. She traces tum with her fingers,
Yoo?
Delhi, he points to why que. She
responds, pointing, to khaana food. He looks at
her, in awe of how a woman with a child can travel
all the way to Delhi for food.
Asha house, she says, bohot khaana hai,
big food!
He laughs; then points to himself, and then
to pyaar love. She looks back at him, confused.
Pyaar ki Delhi? Love in Delhi?
Richie shakes his head, brown waves
falling over his eyes, Nehi. Pyaar jayangee, he
whispers to himself, gone. Sarita picks her child
Priya Iyer J-SAW 2007
4
up again, pulling her in her arms, she curls up next
to the bar of the cot and falls asleep.
***
TEE-KET!! the guard screams, his voice
rattling the carts. As he shakes Sarita, she trembles,
eyes widening.
R-r-richie, she stumbles, rolling the Rs;
pushing him awake.
TEE-KET! the guard screams again, his
eyes nearly popping out of his face, NO
TICKET?? he bellows, waking the rest of the
sleeping car.
Bas: Kurekshetra; Baad Bas: Delhi 20
kilometers.
This Stop: Kurukshetra; Next Stop: Delhi 20
kilometers

Richie hears the conductors voice over the
intercom. How can she get from Kurukshetra to
Delhi? She has no money; she snuck on this train.
NEHI TICKET?? JAAO YAHAAN SE GET
OUT!! the security guard screams. Sarita holds her
child close to her, the CityGuide between them, and
walks down the aisle.
Nehi! Sarita! Richie shouts down the
aisle, her braid swings as she turns around. He runs
to her, handing her the small, blue slip and steps off
the train before she can respond. As Sarita holds out
the ticket, the heavyset guard hole-punches it and
walks away. She returns to the cot and sits by the
window, seeing Richie standing outside. He waves
to her in the distance and the train speeds into the
dark night.
Her reflection catches her by surprise; she
hasnt looked at herself since her wedding. She
touches her empty earlobes. He sold your earrings,
Ma, I tried to stop him; her bare neck, he took the
necklace, too. She sees her childs reflection in the
window. Ill never let anyone near you.
***
Es-coose me, Sarita tires to mimic
Richie, vh-ere? she asks the security guard,
pointing to the address on the paper: 3418 Shivaji
Road, kahaan? He doesnt speak, he merely
points outside. Ive come this far, Ill find it
somehow. Sarita leaves the train station and enters
the city. The early morning sun casts a pink hue on
a white building across the street the letters Asha
highlighted by dawn. She opens the door to see the
picture in Mumbai brought to life a line of women
waiting for food.
**One Week Later**
Sarita hasnt been hungry in seven days.
She remembers. Somehow, everyone else seems to
care. The baby sleeps peacefully on a soft cot in the
corner; the other womens children side by side.
The one-room building is filled with cots and
bunks. The women wait in line for a meal. Sarita is
first now, mounds of rice and fresh vegetables,
stained orange with turmeric gleam on her plate; the
smell of saffron and cumin tickle her nose, making
her mouth water. Walking to a table, she sees a
woman, not much younger than herself, at the door,
staring inside. A beta a small boy - holds her
hand, his other on the glass, his eyes following the
mounds of rice.
Sarita opens the door and bends down,
putting the plate in the boys hands, Khaana,
beta?