She was given a windowless room in the back, on the first floor. There was a cot on the floor, a framed picture of Ganesha over the door, and a small refrigerator in one corner. There was an attached bathroom with a latrine and a sink with running water and a high strip of window, which Poornima couldn’t reach. She stood and stared at the unreachable rectangle of light. Then she examined the bathroom; she’d never been in a room with an attached latrine or running water. She hid the money and jewelry under the cot and then went to take a bucket bath.
When she came out and tried to open the outer door, she found that it was locked. She pushed on it, banged and yelled, but there was no sound on the other side. She stepped back and stared at the door. Maybe it had locked by accident? But it couldn’t have; she’d seen the metal rod on the door handle, and how it had to be pushed into a set of grooves to lock. What did that mean? Were they imprisoning her? Were they? The thought pushed a scream out of her throat so loud that the frame of Ganesha fell off the wall. She flung herself at the door. She grew hoarse from yelling and crying; her hands stung from pounding on the door. Nothing. Not a sound from outside. She slumped against it and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw the refrigerator on the other side of the room. She rose unsteadily and looked inside. There were two bottles of water and a bowl of glistening fruit: guavas and apples and sapota and grapes. She closed the refrigerator and banged on the door again. Still, nothing. When she’d exhausted herself, she went and lay down on the cot and forced herself to sleep.
She had no idea how much time had passed when she woke up. For a moment, she was afraid. Afraid of what? she asked herself. Being locked in a room? The door never opening again? The door opening? Suddenly, none of it felt much different from the years she’d spent in Namburu, so she went to the refrigerator again and took a hesitant sip from one of the bottles of water. Then she took another, longer sip. She was hungry, so she reached for one of the fruits, but then her hand, of its own accord, simply stopped. Paused. Just as she reached for an apple. She held it there, motionless, wondering why, and that’s when they came back to her, Guru’s words: Nothing in the room will belong to you. Why had he said that? It seemed—with her hand still hovering near the fruit—a strange thing to say. But was it? Maybe this is a test, she thought, with sudden clarity. Maybe he wants to test whether I’ll take any of the fruit. It seemed a perfectly reasonable test for an accountant: to see if they would steal from their employer. Take what had been clearly stated didn’t belong to them. But she was hungry, and she thought for a moment she would take the fruit anyway, but then she thought, If Savitha is here, eating an apple—an apple—might spoil my one chance of finding her.
She closed the refrigerator door.
She sat in the room for three days without eating. At first, she felt a slow, growing hunger that soon gnawed at her stomach. Doubled her over in pain. And then weakness. The hunger was a beast, and she willed it to be still, restricting herself to the cot as if chained, drinking great gulps of water. She slept fitfully but stayed in bed well into late morning. By the middle of the second day, her skin was hot and feverish. The water did no good. She wondered if she was ill. She seriously considered eating the fruit—what if they never opened the door?—but then she thought of Savitha. She was here. Poornima only needed to pass this test; she was here. She settled back on the cot and thought about food. That did no good. So then she thought about hunger. In Indravalli, there had been plenty of days when she’d gone hungry, giving her share to her brothers and sister, but there had always been a little for her, even if it was only a handful of rice and pickle. But this hunger: this hunger was a ravaged land.
The weakness spread. She was tired from the exertion of going to the bathroom, of lifting the water bottle. On the third day, her skin ceased to function. A drop of water landed on her arm, and her entire body convulsed from the impact. It was as if she no longer had skin, and the water had landed on raw, exposed tissue. She didn’t take a bucket bath on the third day. She could hardly stand. But her body began to emit an odor. She thought her burns might be infected, or the bandages were rotting, but it was neither: it was her pores. It was not her usual sweat; that smell she knew. This was more piquant, intense, and absinthal. The sheet on the cot was sticky with it, and yet the peculiar scent of her famished body, every one of her limbs afire, felt to Poornima as if hunger were the most natural state, the truest one. She hardly even wanted food; food became an abstract thing, a memory for which she felt mostly apathy, and sometimes hatred.
On the morning of the fourth day, the door opened.
Still on the cot, Poornima opened her eyes and didn’t bother to get up. It was Guru. He looked at her, visibly disgusted, and said, “What is that smell?”
She continued looking at him, and then she closed her eyes. She said, “I didn’t eat them.”
He went to the refrigerator, looked inside, and said, “So you didn’t,” and then he turned to her. “I wouldn’t have cared if you had.”
She opened her eyes again.
“Is that what you thought I was after? To see if you’d eat the fruits?” He laughed. “You village girls are all so amusingly stupid. They wouldn’t have lasted past the first day, anyway. No,” he said. “No, what I wanted to show you, what I wanted you to appreciate is what I own.” Poornima began to sit up, confused, but he said, “No, no, don’t sit up on my account. In fact, lie back down, and turn over.” She lay down again, but remained on her back, watching him. “If you’re going to work for me then I need you to understand what I own. I own you,” he began. “I own the food you eat. I own your sweat, your stink. I own your weakness. But most of all, I own your hunger.” He was standing above her, looking down. “Do you understand? I own your hunger. Now,” he said, unbuckling his belt, “turn over. I don’t like faces. Especially not yours.”
*
She began working for him the following day. Her desk was next to his, but smaller, so he could watch over her. But he was rarely there. She was usually alone, and she left the door open, looking up at every girl who passed by it.
None of them was Savitha. At least, none at this location. Poornima wasn’t allowed to talk to them—Guru watched her keenly when he was there, and when he wasn’t, the cook, named Raju, watched her—but every time one of the girls came downstairs, Poornima nodded or smiled. They mostly ignored her. Some of the younger ones, or newer ones, would look back at her sadly, or bravely, and then they would go back upstairs. There were thirteen girls. But were they girls? Poornima wondered. Of course they were. None of them was probably older than sixteen. But there was something missing in them; some essence of girlhood had left them. What was it? Poornima thought about it every day during her first few weeks at the brothel. Innocence, certainly. That was obvious. And they were damaged. That, too, was obvious. But there was something else. Something finer.