I would gaze up at the leaves. They helped me hide from the sun.

My mother had recently delivered two more boys and they cried all day. Just like her. I remember we were always hungry and the shade of that tree was our only home. On those days, we were lucky, we shared our home (and the cot under it) with Mother’s customers. The best days were when a passing truck, a car, or a traveller from the nearby village, would ask for my mother. On those days, we got food. 

Mother would tie a sari around my chest so that both the boys could cradle in it. The instructions were clear. I had to take them away from the cot, find another shade; sit there for one hour and return. “Walk with bowed heads, don’t look at the villagers. NEVER look at the villagers,” she yelled after me.

When we returned, she sat me down and we ate the meal together. On those nights, I wondered about my father, but I knew better than to voice my thoughts. The last time I asked her who my father was, she got so angry that she hit me with stones. Just like the villagers would if I crossed their path.

But that was years ago when I was a child; when I couldn’t do anything. Things are much better, now that I have grown up. Mother loves me because I can take care of the family. My brothers don’t cry anymore, we always have food, and our home is made of bricks. It is exciting how the entire neighbourhood envies us.

The tables turned around for us when I was fourteen. When the village landlord visited us, instead of tying the sari around my chest, as usual, mother draped the sari around me. She had applied make-up on my face. I looked just like my mother and I had never felt more beautiful. It was a special feeling until she removed my nose ring. That’s when I understood what it all meant.  

“What’s the shame in it?” she asked when she saw a look of resistance on my face. My mother, her mother and almost every woman in the neighbourhood was in prostitution. They always told me that if I got married to a man, I’ll have to serve him all my life; but if I married myself to money, money would serve me. 

I was fourteen, I wasn’t a child anymore. I couldn’t afford to dream about a husband. It was time to work and earn. My brothers were growing up too. We would need more food. So I couldn’t resist. “What’s the shame in it?” I asked myself. 

It was difficult. 

Painful. 

It still is. 

But I gaze up at the leaves. They help me hide.

*This is a fictional account of a survivor’s experience and is written with the intent to raise awareness