Run For It

By Adithi Vijaya Kumar

Cool breeze wafted through the branches of my dad’s beloved mango tree. As I lay under it, on my mom’s lap, I looked up at the divided sky. Cloudless, with a piercing blue outlining the green mango leaves, hanging low with fruit. My oiled hair and the sweat trickling from my scalp sent jitters through my skin as I jolted up. I suddenly asked my mother, “Why do I need to oil my hair so often?”, to which she jokingly replied, “Now you no longer need to. You’re old enough anyways. Your wish to continue, Mita.” I couldn’t believe my mom let go of the issue this soon. I was expecting a snide remark on my dry brown-black hair or immaturity. Due to my age, there were talks of my marriage as well, but it never really took off the ground.

This is the most I remember of last year. So much has happened, but I recollect very little. Between surviving, fending for myself and finding peace, time has dissolved my youth and complacence. My memories lie to me and paint such a picturesque image, leaving me to blame myself for what happened.

The man was 50, and had a lazy eye which didn’t stop his other eye from wandering. His peculiar accent and roundabout way of speaking created a distance between us, which I was grateful for. Maybe we’d learn to never argue, as couples do, as we’d never understand each other enough to develop conflict. My parents seemed to like him, their eyes beaming so brightly that I thought their eyeballs would pop out of their skull. A date was fixed and my clothes had been selected a long while back. The man asked to talk to me in private and said, “You’ve never seen the city before, have you? Let’s take you there for a week, show you what real fun looks like.” My parents overheard and began packing my bags, eager to send off their 20-year-old. 

Maybe there were signs and I should’ve been alert. Staying compliant and allowing life to happen to me was hardly a way of living. On arriving in Mumbai, I was surprised by how bright even the night was. Red and yellow fluorescents hurt my eyes with their heat. He dropped me off at this house, where several other women lived. Their eyes filled with the same horror as that of a person watching goat-slaughter. Their clinking bangles and sparkly saris truly brightened the night. Once the door shut, they all rushed to me, telling me they’d pray for my well-being and that it was a shame another came here. They told me they’d hide me in the back for a couple days until I could run away.

I was confused. The man didn’t seem that malicious, saying he’d take care of the wedding, and even gifted my parents gold and cash to spend. But that was the trap. I really wish I didn’t have to learn the hard way, but life doesn’t teach, it imposes. I felt stupid that it took me so long to realize. I was now a caged bird, flapping its wings with a cut tail. My anger, resentment, confusion and misery boiled my blood.

So, I made a plan. I snuck around every day, snooping and trying to find any bit of useful information. Since the women covered for me, and trusted that I’d get them out, I spent every moment trying to know more. I found out that the house was owned by the Rathores’ gang and used it to launder money and secure weapons. They threatened to use the pistols on the women if they rebelled, thus controlling them. The guards worked at different shifts, giving us an advantage if we united. Firstly, the keys would be kept in the register, by Motilal’s room. He usually crashed after a heavy dinner, making it easy for us to steal some cash and the warehouse keys. 

The next part entailed the most challenges. Defeating the guards, stealing the weapons and exiting safely. We carefully snuck downstairs, and directed the other half to create a commotion outside the house to distract the guards. As the guards left, we swiftly unlocked the safe and took some weapons. Now armed, we united outside the house, firing at the guards and successfully liberating ourselves. Our vigilante was a spectacle. We all ran in different directions, towards the light. I still can’t believe it worked. Between healing and discovering my new self, I am slowly growing up.

By Adithi Vijaya Kumar