Abhina

Part One - Scarlet Hunger

Abhijit watched the shifting golden waves of Kashvi's sari as she swayed. The slight movement of his mother's hips and feet were mesmerizing, enough to attract a ring of dedicated patrons who would frequent the El Dorado dance bar. His father—once a key member of this ring—had met her when she first became a bar girl, and had left before Abhijit was born. His two older sisters joined their mom as bar girls once they turned thirteen.
Abhijit himself was fascinated with his mother's accessories... dangling, glimmering earrings reflecting glints of white light and the silvery bangles encircling her wrists. He would stand at her dirt-flecked mirror each evening after she left and wrap himself in one of her red saris, draw black lines across his eyes with her make-up, and sway. These nights he felt complete, no longer Abhijit, but Abhina. He was not yet fifteen, and Abhijit already knew he was different. For as long as he could remember, he had felt three parts girl, one part boy.

The scents of cardamom and cumin drifted through the hot, afternoon air of their small apartment. As Kashvi stirred the pot of soup she hummed faintly, sometimes gesticulating with her hand. The spices she used depended on the generosity of her patrons. Last night she had been showered with many rupees. She cracked the lid of the pot. A cloud of scalding steam burst into her face. Her cheeks burned like twin suns. She stepped back and sighed, waving her hand in front of her face in an attempt to cool herself down. They couldn't afford an air conditioner.
"Abhijit, why don't you go outside and play with the other boys?" his mother called from the kitchen. She poked her head out to glance at him. A sheen of sweat glistened across her face.
Abhijit, who lay sprawled across a thin rug wearing only a pair of khaki shorts, closed his eyes and replied, "I will mama...give me a minute to put some clothes on."
He got up and found a plain red polo shirt, one of three other shirts he owned, besides his school uniform. Shouts drifted up from the street. He couldn't call the boys his friends; they spent their free time playing cricket while he....Abhijit made sure his mother wasn't looking before he slipped several rupees into his pocket.
Abhijit scampered down the staircase and into the lazy warmth of the streets. He ran around the back of the apartment complex and ducked behind several stalls selling Singapore fried rice and deep-fried vegetable vadas. If the cricket-players saw him they might ask where he was going, and Abhijit couldn't risk the chance of getting caught.
He fingered the outline of the wad of cash resting against his thigh. He waited until he heard the telltale shouts indicating the game of cricket had escalated, and sprinted down the street toward Mumbai's International Airport. Abhijit's bare feet slapped against concrete, then dirt road, then onto the soft sand of the strip of beach where his friend Sevita lived with her family in a house made from plastic and cloth tarps.
"Sevita! Sevita, come out!" he yelled.
He had become friends with the tall, pretty girl almost a year ago after he noticed her selling produce on the street and complimented her on her earrings. If his mom discovered he was spending his time with a girl from the beach slum, she would never let him out of the house again.
Sevita applied a coat of mascara over her eyelashes and a gentle dusting of blush across her cheekbones, then strolled out of the patchwork assemblage of salvaged material she called home. Unlike the guys her age that lived in her community, Abhijit always noticed when she wore a new sari or did her makeup especially well. He stood outside looking somewhat disheveled. His curly hair had grown down to his ears. Combined with his narrow jaw, it imparted a certain enticing androgyny.
"Have you come back to work?" she asked.
Abhijit rushed over and pulled her into a tight hug. "I have enough" he whispered, "thank you."
He looked up into her face. She smiled. "Are you ready?"
Abhijit nodded, "This'll be fun!"
He remembered the day Sevita and he had first seen the scarlet sari in a beautiful shop display. Abhijit had gasped, grasped her hand, "Sevita...look." She had paused and stood with him, giving the garment a cursory glance and turning to observe his shining eyes fixed on the vibrant fabric. She saw hunger.
About two months after Abhijit noticed her selling Methi, a fast-growing crop that turned a handsome profit for the local beach farmers, he joined her in the Methi business as a laborer for one of her neighbors. He worked mainly on the weekends, when school was out and his mother assumed he was playing cricket. It had taken five months to earn three thousand rupees.