Kulfi

I HAD A FATHER FOR a mother, and a father for both. I lived in shadows, looking on children who had hands weaved in to their mothers', my eyes bereaved. I would head over to a swing set and watch the sun set, sighing over a mother I never had. I'd think about her name often, or the sound of her voice that would bring me to sleep every night . Was she a Nisha? An Atasi? A Rani? Would she have actually tucked me in, her sweet voice singing a lullaby? I never bothered to ask my father; every night, although he locks his door, I know he holds a photo of her, cradling the frame, his tears falling like snowflakes. But never did my father let go of his grasp on me. He never left me in the shadows, nor did he leave me in the depths of anguish, like those depressed in movies. He brought me, no, both of us, up to the sky, our arms outstretched for the stars. And when I knew that in my heart, stamped and sticked in big, bold words, I never looked back.

But came the day I lost him.

Afternoons on Saturdays consisted of me and my father heading over to a kulfi shop, our mouths watering over the numerous kulfi flavors we have tried and didn't. This particular Saturday, 6 long years ago, I could hear the tinkering of the coins in my father's pocket. And I, my pigtails swaying as I jumpily walked, was beaming. A wide, toothy grin, not bothering just yet on my homework. In India, the sun seeped deep into my skin, warmth leaving a trickling touch. A short paradise passed when we cut along under a tree, the shade an umbrella. My head turned when the sight of a pair of eyes startled me. It had a hint of blue, and gave a sinister look, like a jaguar ready to pounce. I tugged my father's hand and pointed, his face oblivious. "What is it, Avni?" he asked. I kept on pointing, even though sure enough the glassy eyes were gone. "I don't see anything. There's nothing in there." But he made the mistake of walking towards it.

Curiosity killed my father. If not for curiosity, he wouldn't have cared. He would've just hauled me to keep on walking to the kulfi shop. He wouldn't have let out a short scream and widened his eyes. When he realized his slipup, it was too late. A shining, small dagger was thrusted deep into my father's stomach, blood spurting everywhere. His head was taken aback at the metal in his body. I remember standing there, tears sliding down my cheeks, screaming. No one came. Maybe someone did, but it was too late. The owner of the sinister eyes let go of the dagger and picked me up with my father's blood in his hands, bringing me to a van that just surged in. The smell reeked, but I didn't care. My father was dead, his body frigid and cold. He lay in his own blood, his eyes stiff. The police will come, camera will be flashed, news reported. They will collect his body in a black bag, and examine the huge cut in his stomach on a dissecting table in some lab. And I was to blame, for making him suffer, for bringing him to an early death. It was my fault. Mine. Mine. Mine.

I feel a a hard jerk on my hair.

"You stupid girl! Your trembling is causing scratches on the desk! Clean it well, you blockhead!" Husaam, one of the handlers, says, his fingers still curling around a handful of hair. I let out a soft whimper.

"Oh, are you complaining? Huh?" he yells.

I shake my head hard, my tears even flowing down faster. He brings his face closer to mine, and says, "Good. You're not complaining. Now if you complain again, you will suffer." His breath tickles my nose; his eyes still staring deep into my eyes. He lets go with another hard jerk, and continues walking towards the other end of the hallway. I choke in a sob.

I am a slave. I've lived it for 6 years now, and each day gets harder than the previous. We attend to a compound that buys and sells illegal goods, from gold to drugs. We are kept secluded by a high wall of concrete, security kept on guard, and no contact to the outside. Anyone seen awake after curfew is sentenced to a whip in the back. Anyone caught touching the goodies is penalized to death. It's harsh, and I've seen people and fellow slaves get bruises and cuts, even die. But I kept a straight mind; don't be stupid, Avni, I'd tell myself. You will get out someday. And when you do, you will avenge your father's death.

But it's a mountain to climb as days pass. It seems impossible to be free from this hell.

I clear my face of tears and continue scrubbing the foyer table as lightly as I could, getting my rag in spaces from its intricate curves. I spray wood polish once in a while, the strong smell curling at my nose. Before I started cleaning, I carefully unplaced the items from the desk to the floor. I was sure that my shaking the table would cause some of them to topple, and I did not want to get a whip on my back again. I had enough.

I head over to the drawer section. Slowly rolling it out of the table's body, I hear a knock on the wood. I feel for the thing that made the sound in the back of the drawer, and bring it out.

A pocket knife, in all its glory, glints back at me.

I look behind me, in front of me and beside me. No one was looking. I pocket it.

+

After hours of errands and abuses, lights turn off for the night. We are herded to our rooms, guards behind and in front of us, like gates. They take our presence seriously; we aren't just maids. We are captives, made slaves. An escape is a disgrace; an idiotic thing to do. Or so they say. Who wouldn't want to escape after all their whips and punches and shouts?

"Get in, animals. Get a goodnight sleep. There'll be another working day tomorrow, and the day after that, and forever." The guards let out a loud chuckle as they lock all 10 of us girls in, their boots clattering along the hallway. We can still hear their fading sentences. "One of them almost dropped a knife on my feet. I wanted to grab the knife and..."

We all walk over to our beds; ten double decks in all. I counted up until the 5th one, and lay on the lower bed. I see Ladli climb up to her bunk, and hear creaks of the other beds. It's dark; they never installed lights. They think it would be an advantage for us. Why? I don't know, but I am certain that light is my only friend now. It's the only thing that guides me, that reminds me of a world I know better of. A world of hope.

+

Deep into the night, I toss and turn at a dream of my father. He wears trousers and a jacket, his hair plait with a visible line in the middle. We're in a kulfi shop, devouring over the luscious flavors in our mouths. We are smiling at each other, our spoons midair as we told stories of our separate lives. And came a split second when blood starts to ooze from the midsection of his jacket, a stain getting bigger and bigger. My face creates a horrified look. "What's wrong, Avni?" my father asks. I scream at the top of my lungs, surging forward to stop the bleeding in my father's stomach. But when I blink, a dagger appears in my grasp. I'm crying now, tears falling. I killed my father.

I wake up with cold sweat in my forehead.

I remember the pocket knife, and I grab it from my pocket. It gleams from the reflection of the moon's light. Blood races to my head, my breaths quickening. I silently head to the door, and pick on its lock with the knife. A click, and then I push the door, the hinges creaking. I look back to the people I grew up with, although we weren't that close at all. We never had time to have friendship in this place. Sure, we talk, but just a few sentences, then off to work or to bed.

I close the door, and run along the hallway in tiptoe. The hem of my shirt flaps along the air, and I run to the other exit I see. I again pick on the lock, my hand trembling, the image of guards catching me and bringing me to a room for whipping. Once outside, the sight of the familiar grounds made my heart leap. Lampposts lined along the walkway with long intervals. I walk by the side, near the plants, in case I needed to hide. I hear trucks coming to deliver, their engines roaring like lions in a cage. Several guards stand by the entrance with rifles across their backs and guns strapped to their hips. Men unload the contents of the trucks and place them in the warehouse that was filled with illicit goods, their worth as much as vaults and vaults of money. After minutes of wandering, I find myself in front of a small gate. It is open, the darkness from it unnerving. I can hear the voice of liberty, chanting my name. "Avni, come."

But I turned my back.

I head to the opposite way, to the office where the leaders of this scheme stay. The AC makes wheezing sounds, and light comes off from the window. I hold the knife close with its point on my heart. I hear mumbles and chatter as around 3 people are talking about some other delivery to come next month. Something about their biggest investment yet.

I never did care about their activity; it seemed a subject I was too far away off. I know it's an act of the devil, but how will I bring them to justice, me locked away and under surveillance? All I've did for the past years was to follow their commands, their errands. To live, until this very day comes. Tomorrow, when the sun rises, I will be free. And the death of my father has been repaid.

I place my fingers on the windowsill, raising myself to take a peek. Inside, I see 3 men playing a game of cards. I closely look at each of their faces, my eyes adjusting over the brightness of the room. As sure as I am, I see the killer of my father. Same build, same hands. Same sinister, glowing eyes. It is he, the man I've been cursing at for the last five years. I've always wanted to see him suffer, see him die the way my father did. To make him feel what my father felt. From the last years, there wasn't ever a right time. But I do have that chance now.

"We'll head over to the warehouse, Nishant. The boss wants us to check on the deliveries," the man who wears a black cap says. "We'll fetch some coffee too, if you'd like." Nishant nods, his tongue clicking. "And when both of you get back, we'll have another round." They both laugh heavily, making my ears bleed. They laugh like an inexperienced violinist playing in a self concert.

The two men leave for the warehouse, banging the door to the room shut. I lower myself down, creeping to the front door, the freeze escaping from the small slits. I quickly slide in, the man's back facing me. I ready my knife. Certainly, he heard the noise I made, causing him to turn around. "Back so soo-"

I give him a face of resentment as he held up his arms. "How could you."

He seems to remember me, his eyebrows raising at the sight of my presence. My arms shake. I yell this time. "How could you!"

He slowly brings down his arms. "There, there, honey. It's been years. Do you still remember?"

"Of course I remember, you idiot! You killed the person I had left!"

"That was the past, hon. We can forget that. We can live lives by forgetting the past."

"You don't talk to me that way! You killed my father, you kidnapped me, you brought me to this hell. You're a monster! You deserve to die!" I am crying now, my face red and my eyes puffy. I move close and closer to him, mustering the courage to drive the knife in. He breathes.

"Look, sweetheart. Drop the knife, go back to your dorm, and I won't let the boss have you whipped. Drop the knife now, plea-"

I surge forward, and I jab my weapon deep into his chest. He screams as blood spouts everywhere. I feel the hot blood on my face, on my hands. I quickly let go, and see what I have done, my mouth dropping. I feel my tears mixing with his blood in my cheeks. He starts wheezing, but it is evident he is fighting it. His eyes grow wider by the second, his hands clutching the knife. I turn around and leave the room, running towards the gate and into freedom. I am finally leaving this place, finally gonna live the life I was supposed to have.

But I feel a pang of pain in my back, right near my heart. I hear the aftereffect of a gun shot, and I touch the wound. My finger comes back red, dripping. I look back, and see him with a gun in his hand, but his body now limp. As blackness starts to crowd in my vision, I think about how my father's killer has avenged his death in this slip of a chance, the way I avenged for my father's.

I fall to the ground as guards and people hurry to see the commotion. Slowly, as I lose my grip on the world, I remember those days I ate kulfi with my father, at days when I seemed like I needed a mother, at days when I felt alone. At days when family meant everything.

Now, I am free. Forever.

"Goodnight, my father," I say, as I close my eyes and exhale my last, young breath.