Free She Will Build Him a City by Raj Kamal Jha Page B

detergent from their clothes, lavender from the soap. Balloon Girl’s hair is short so it’s almost dry but her mother’s is still wet, dripping thin trails of water on her shoulders, across her blouse.
    ‘Careful now, we are leaving, lie low and quiet. There are cameras at the gate, we have to be very careful.’
    It’s before daybreak, the darkest hour.
    ~
    Of course, there’s nothing illegal in what he has done, he is sure of that, but to be doubly sure, he runs through the sequence of events in his head. He invites them over, he asks them clearly, in Hindi, at the hospital, do you want to come home. She says yes, the mother, an adult. No coercion there. He gets them home, he asks them to take a bath, no, he merely suggests they take a bath which they agree to. He provides them with soap, cream, the kind he uses, bathrobes, the use of his bathroom, living quarters, all for free; he even washes their clothes for them, he gives them food, now he will give them some money and he will never ever see them again. Yes, he does touch the child and the mother but there’s nothing irregular, out of place, about the touches. His fingers do brush the mother’s breasts when he adjusts her bathrobe but that was accidental and, anyway, she is asleep when that happens, he is sure of that. There is no camera in his room that would have recorded anything.
    He is safe, he rolls down the car window.
    ‘We are all clear,’ he says, ‘you may get up from the floor and sit next to the window, the wind will dry your hair.’
    But the mother doesn’t move. In his rear-view mirror, he sees Balloon Girl looking out, the wind in her hair, yellow neon lights, from the street outside, dappling her face.
    ~
    He will take Ring Road, he decides, because traffic is thin at this time of the night although these days they have police everywhere with speed guns and breathalysers. He hopes no one stops him but if they do, he has his story ready, the same one from last night. They are his maid and her daughter and he is taking them back home. He will drop them off in Yusufsarai Market, at least two traffic lights before AIIMS, near Green Park Metro Station, Rhythm Restro Bar, closed at this time, at a place where no one is looking, where there is no police van. Then he will keep going straight, take a left at the next light and get onto the highway via the Dhaula Kuan exchange. They don’t know how to open the car door so he will have to do it. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he will reach back and click the door open. Close it as soon as they are out and then there will be no looking back.
    ‘Here, take this,’ he says, one hand on the steering wheel, the other extended behind him – with the cash, 5,000 rupees, in 500-rupee notes.
    ‘You can get change from any shop.’
    The mother’s fingers brush against his.
    She is cold as ice.
    Balloon Girl is fast asleep.
    He will wake her up when the time comes.
    ~
    Drop-off is perfect.
    He closes the door, doesn’t wait to see which way they go.
    ~
    On the way home, traffic has surged. A long line of cars is backed up at the highway toll gate. Sixteen lanes, all full, he slips into the Tag Only lane but even that’s choked, bumper to bumper, but today he’s fine with the waiting because there’s nothing to worry about any more. Relief washes over him, from his head to the tips of his fingers. There’s a strong whiff of detergent in the car, he must have poured a lot more than needed, just five pieces of clothing he should have measured more carefully. He will tell Driver to wash the car, maybe take it to the carwash. He lowers the four windows to let wind come in, blow away all traces of Balloon Girl and her mother. He has done nothing wrong, he is sure of that, but as extra caution, he should get the seats and the floor wiped clean. Disinfected.
    All fingerprints removed, too.
    Still not moving, to his left, in the next lane, he sees two mynahs, both the birds hopping between two cars, pecking