The Stolen Girl by Renita D'Silva Read Free Book Online Page A

our breath, having lost our bearings, standing in a deserted road in the middle of nowhere. She would laugh a fake laugh that sounded more like a sob and say, ‘That was fun, wasn’t it? An adventure. Now, let’s see where we are.’
    I know.
    And I don’t want to. I don’t want to.

The Cavernous Emptiness of a Wasted Life
Aarti
    B reakfast : Cereal: Bran Flakes – 30g, with a dash of skimmed milk.
    Mid-morning snack: Orange.
    Lunch: 1 boiled egg, 1 slice of wholemeal toast (400g loaf) – no butter, and a banana.
    Afternoon snack: Apple.
    Supper: Mixed salad. No dressing. No croutons.
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    W riting in her food diary comforts Aarti. She started the habit in the clinic as part of her programme, when she was hospitalised, after…those terrible, black days after.
    She still finds it hard to force food down past the barrier in her throat, but she makes sure she eats something at the requisite times; she makes sure she eats enough so she can pen it down in her diary, her lifeline. There is an entry for every day, going back thirteen years. So many books, charting what she has eaten each day of her life for the past decade and a bit. So much unsaid; the gaps in between breakfast, lunch and dinner, speaking of longing and yearning, hurt and loss, the cavernous emptiness of a wasted life.
    She has not binged since her interlude at the clinic and she has not made herself sick. She was sick the other day of course, retching and welcoming that long-lost feeling, the comfort it gave her, but that was nerves. She is proud of how she got to the very edge and bounced back, how she has survived despite the devastating blow that life, via Vani the traitor, has dealt her.
    And now, the culmination. Vani, that bitch, the very thought of whom is like harbouring a burning, stinging mouthful of raw chillies, is in prison where she belongs. And Aarti’s child, her child… This part she doesn’t understand. This cold, grey country with its incomprehensible laws. She is the mother; surely her child should have been brought to her once her kidnapper had been apprehended? But no, not here apparently. Instead, her child has been shipped to some stranger.
    ‘Because she doesn’t know you, you see,’ her lawyer had explained patiently. ‘And she’s undergone a lot of…’
    ‘And she knows them, the people she’s currently with?’ Aarti had asked, unable and unwilling to control the rising shriek in her voice.
    ‘She has been through so much; she needs to come to terms with what’s happened. The trauma… She will come and see you soon. Give her time.’
    ‘What about me? The trauma I have suffered?’ Aarti had yelled. ‘I have been waiting thirteen years for her. My child. Mine.’
    Silence at the other end.
    And so, she is waiting, walking the fifteen paces from one end of the room to the other, waiting for her daughter to deign to visit her, giving her time.

Strategy
Diya
    S trategy
    Noun: a plan or method for obtaining a specific goal or result .
    Synonyms: approach, manner, system, technique, way.
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    I have a strategy . I am not going to think about it, any of it. As strategies go, it’s not the best. But I do not have the energy to think of something else. I am drained. It will have to do.
    I stick to my strategy, ignoring the stinging in my eyes, the vacuum in my heart, ignoring the social worker who talks me through what will happen, in her soft voice that washes over me like water tripping over stones and makes me think of marshmallows, pink, fluffy, melt-in-the-mouth.
    I stick to my strategy until she says, ‘She is here, staying at a hotel nearby. She would love to have you stay with her, of course. Or, we could arrange for emergency foster…’
    ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘who?’
    The social worker blinks, startled by my sudden input, and then she smiles, her eyes tender as she looks at me. ‘Your mother.’
    My weighted heart perks up, does a tango in my chest. ‘Mum is at a hotel?’ Was this all some sort of