Free The Stolen Girl by Renita D'Silva Page A

by the entire country and yet, alone. Friendless, unhappy. She was lost and drifting, she was bulimic and struggling, until…Vani entered her life.

Part Two
The Past
    A Curtain Ripped Open

Fish Food
Vani, Childhood - Dhonihalli, India
    V ani is crying , open-mouthed. She has been for a while. Her face is wet, her nose is running. She can taste salt and slime as the tears mix with snot and run into her open mouth. She doesn’t know why she is crying, the reason for her tears long forgotten, and yet she is unable to stop. She sits at the base of the hill, in the shade of the mango tree, at the very edge of the field, her legs dangling in the stream below.
    The stream is just as happy as Vani is sad. It babbles and coos, and deposits wet cuddles onto her bare legs. Birds warble and whistle high in the trees above and the air smells of bruised mango, a haunting scent that makes her even more melancholy, if that is possible. Her stomach feels hollow.
    Silvery fish dart past her feet, scales iridescent, and she is beset by the sudden craving to catch one, tears momentarily forgotten except for the residual taste of salt at the corners of her mouth. She bends down to try and grab one as it swims past, tantalising, and her hand inside the water looks huge, broken, separate from the rest of her arm. She lunges at the fish, makes a fist and she is sure she has caught it. She can feel its slimy body flutter helplessly inside the prison of her palm; she can feel her lips moving upwards in a contented smile, even as the sun dries the few straggly tears on her face. She opens her palm gently, her heart in her throat, but it is empty, wet, water trickling down it in sorry, silvery drips.
    She screams, she rants. A leaf falls into the water with a plop, a shimmering ripple, iridescent blue.
    And then, without warning, the water is dark, no longer glinting. A monster, blocking the sun. She looks up, mid sob, heart thudding in the enclosure of her chest. And there is her father, standing in front of her, across the stream, tall as a giant, single-handedly obstructing the sun, casting the stream in shadow. He drops the tiffin box he is carrying beside him with a thud, not caring that the gleaming container is now tinged muddy brown. He bends down and ties his lungi higher, above his knees, and Vani watches transfixed as he wades across the water, mastering the stream in two big strides. And then he is beside her, his finger, cool, wet, on her chin. He lifts up a corner of his shirt and wipes her nose.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.
    ‘I want to fish,’ Vani sniffs.
    ‘That’s all? Why are you crying then?’ His voice is gentle, deep as the well in Charu aunty’s courtyard that Vani has been warned against. ‘Come, we’ll do it together,’ he says, rubbing his hands.
    He puts his arms around her and hoists her up the hill, her legs dangling like the cat’s tail when it has stolen fish and escaped to the rafters. He sets her down gently by the loamy soil underneath the recently watered coconut trees.
    ‘First,’ he says, ‘we have to make a fishing rod. For that, we need a stick. Will you find one for me?’
    Her tears forgotten, Vani flies around collecting twigs, showing them to her da.
    ‘Not that one, too small. Nor that. Ah, that one’s perfect,’ he says and she grins.
    ‘Next, we need some thread. I’ll get that, you wait here,’ he says, winking.
    He disappears into the house via the front door so Vani’s ma, who is in the kitchen, doesn’t spy him. For a minuscule second, Vani is worried that he might not reappear again. Her chin wobbles, but before a sob can escape her lips he is out again, holding up a spool of thread.
    ‘Shh,’ he says, ‘I stole it from your ma’s sewing box, don’t tell.’
    And she giggles happily, glad to be in on the conspiracy, sob forgotten.
    Her da asks her to bite off a length of thread and when she does, he says, ‘How strong you are!’ His praise makes her chest puff out