Where Shadows Learn To Dream

The Street's Silent Screams

Aanya's body ached from the constant blows, her muscles stiff and bruised. The days had blurred together, each one a nightmare of pain and fear. She and the other children were dragged out of the godown every morning, paraded through the streets like puppets on strings. The kidnappers had devised a twisted way of making money off them-they were to perform, sing, dance, act like clowns, and entertain people on the streets. If they failed, the punishment was swift and brutal.

The men-there were four of them now, each more cruel than the last-had turned the godown into a training ground of sorts. They made the children practice their routines in the cold, damp corners, barking orders and lashing out whenever someone stumbled or forgot a step. The short, stocky man, who seemed to be in charge, carried a thick wooden stick. He was always ready to use it.

"Again!" he barked, slamming the stick against a metal barrel to emphasize his point. "You! Baldie! Move your feet!"

Aanya flinched. She had learned to hate that name-Baldie. It was what the men called her, mocking her crewcut,laughing at the way she looked. Her hair had been a source of shame in the village, but now it was even worse. Here, it was a target. She was "the boy-girl," the one who didn't fit in anywhere, and that made her a prime target for cruelty.

She stumbled over her feet, trying to keep up with the makeshift choreography they had forced on her. Her legs were trembling, her body exhausted. The other children were just as terrified, their eyes wide with fear as they tried to perform their parts. One of the younger boys, no more than eight, slipped and fell. The thud of his body hitting the ground was followed by a sharp cry.

The man with the stick, whose name she had learned was Ratan, stormed over to him. "Get up!" he roared, kicking the boy in the side. The boy yelped and scrambled to his feet, tears streaming down his face. "Useless brat! If you don't earn, you don't eat!"

Aanya felt a wave of nausea but forced herself to keep moving. She didn't want to be next. She had already felt the sting of that stick too many times. She could still feel the bruises on her back, her arms, and her legs. She had lost track of how many days it had been since she was taken. Three? Five? A week? Time had become a foggy concept, and the only thing she could focus on was surviving the day.

When they were deemed "ready," they were pushed out onto the streets, still sore and bruised. The kidnappers would line them up in the busy markets or intersections and bark at them to perform. People stopped and watched, some out of pity, some out of amusement, tossing coins into a rusty tin can. Aanya and the other children would dance, sing, or do whatever humiliating act they were told, their hearts pounding with fear. If they didn't earn enough, they knew what awaited them back at the godown.

Their appearances were deliberately crafted to maximize humiliation and draw attention from onlookers. The kidnappers had dressed them in ragged, mismatched clothes that seemed designed to ridicule them. The outfits were neither clean nor comfortable, and they were intentionally exaggerated to add a sense of mockery.

Aanya was given a faded, oversized shirt that hung off her shoulders, the fabric stained with patches of dirt and sweat. The sleeves were too long, swallowing her hands, making it difficult for her to move gracefully. Her trousers were a pair of old, loose-fitting shorts that barely reached her knees, stained and tattered, with frayed edges that scratched her skin. They were clearly meant for a boy, reinforcing the kidnappers' twisted perception of her due to her haircut-just like Priya. She felt exposed and out of place, like a caricature of herself.

Her feet were bare and dusty, the ground cold and rough against her soles. Each step was a reminder of her vulnerability. Her face, smeared with a thick layer of chalky white powder and smeared lipstick, gave her a clownish look. The kidnappers had crudely painted exaggerated, wide eyes and rosy cheeks on her, making her appear like a broken doll rather than a human being. Her cropped hair only amplified the strangeness, sticking out in odd angles after days of not being cared for.