She shivered at the back of the line in the moonless night, shoulders hunched, her gaze fixed on the damp grass beneath her bare feet. Her heart rattled in her chest, and she cringed as the black earth crept between her toes. She followed the others, naked under the coarse hessian sheet she was wrapped in, more alone than ever.  

Wide-eyed, with brown legs still trembling from the horrific month-long voyage, they trudged like lambs to the slaughter towards a feeble oil lamp outside the small shed. The shrieking crickets and howling wind, together with their stifled sobs, sent their heads spinning. The caustic powder they had been doused with clung to their raven locks, stung the corners of their eyes, and burned their parched tongues when they moistened their quivering lips.

A burly lady in a knitted jumper stomped down the line, barking at the whimpering women in different languages.

“Name*?*”

“E-Emavanthi,” the woman stammered.

Fat fingers crashed against her cheek. Tears filled her eyes, drawing muted cries from the others.

“The boss can’t say that! You are Emma! Call me Auntyji.”

The next girl stood upright, pre-empting the question.

“I am Patma, Auntyji.”

Auntyji continued to the front and yanked a girl by her hair into the shed. The ringing in Emma’s ear faded and was replaced by drunken babble that spewed out of a distant farmhouse, swarmed together with the trilling insects, and disoriented her further.

“Does it hurt?” Patma whispered.

Emma turned to the meek girl, barely discerning the large inky pools of her eyes.

“No,” Emma lied.

“Good. Life in Natal won’t be easy, but we will get what we want if we can do whatever it takes. After a few years of cutting sugar cane, we can live freely. I didn’t have that option in India. My caste limited me. But here I can make a new life for myself.”

Emma said nothing.

The wind strengthened, whistling as it swam between the trees, shooting goose pimples across their skin. Girls entered the shed and limped out one by one - some in silence, some in tears, but all under Auntyji’s iron grip. Only Emma and Patma remained in the biting cold. The lonely lantern light reflected in the big eyes of the excited girl.

“Why did you come here?” Patma buzzed. “My family sold me to an old drunkard. He drank so much that he died on our wedding night! The village wanted to burn me with his body to fulfil my duty as a wife! I ran and ran, and here I am.”

Before Emma could reply, Auntyji stormed out of the shed and wrapped her meaty hand around Patma’s spindled neck, dragging her inside.

Emma’s skin burned as the insects stirred in the fibres of the sheet and scurried across the body that was no longer hers.

She wanted to tell Patma how she had a plan for her life. How, because her father had allowed her to study, Emma saw an opportunity to be more than a future financial burden. Without a wheatish complexion, her mother said, her dowry would be immense.

She wanted to explain how, like Patma, Emma was there because she obeyed her parents - her primary duty as a daughter. How a fair-skinned, hazel-eyed stranger with a silver tongue waltzed into her village, charmed her parents, and upended her life. His entourage arrived in lavish carriages, proffering bags of gold in exchange for a bride.

Her parents lit up, and out-bargained other families also burdened with unmarried daughters to win the ultimate prize. Their daughter would follow tradition, be married, and bear a family - with a wealthy, fair-skinned boy who would pay them, no less!

It wasn’t Emma’s place to decide her future. It didn’t matter that it was not the life she wanted for herself, that skin colour and wealth meant nothing to her. It was her parents' wish, and that was all that mattered. It didn’t matter that none of the promised wealth was transferred upfront - the sum was so significant that her parents would accept payment later.

Emma wanted to explain how she was whisked away immediately, stopping after a few hours to be transferred from a decorated chariot to a rickety wagon that went in a different direction. How she asked for an explanation but was told it was a shortcut.

And she believed them.

How, over dinner, her husband described the riches available in Natal. How their new family would build immeasurable wealth. How she grew scared and asked to return home. She knew of the dangers of that alien land across the kala pani, the dark water—a place where everything wanted to kill you.

How he had assured her that it was just idle talk. A dream. Nothing to worry about.

And she believed him.

How then she grew drowsy, and when she woke, she was in a camp waiting to board a ship to the cane plantations in Natal. Alone. Her husband had vanished. She pleaded with the authorities, imploring them to see that there had been a mistake. How they told her that the system didn’t make mistakes, and any errors, although unlikely, would be corrected.

And she believed them.

How she felt like her life story was written for someone else.

How none of that mattered.

She was here.

 The door creaked open. Patma hobbled out, tears streaming down her face, grimacing with each uncomfortable step.

 “Auntyji!” A voice boomed in the night, “how is this batch?”

The farmer’s frame towered in the blackness. An unbuttoned red coat hung open to reveal his tight round stomach. He brought his bloated face to within an inch of Emma’s, suffocating her with his hot reeking breath. As if inspecting a horse, he pinched her cheek with his greasy fingers and rubbed a filthy thumb across her lips, smiling through his unkempt beard. Revelling in his prerogative over her body, he pulled her head to one side and ran his fat wet tongue across her neck.

Auntyji cooed like a schoolgirl in her master’s presence.

“Luke,” the farmer called to the young man in a white coat who had stepped out of the shed. “Hurry up. The men are restless. Auntyji, I’ll have this one with the big eyes. Son, you keep this one.”

Auntyji shoved Patma towards the farmer, and they left.

“Come,” Luke bade Emma.

She crept inside, terrified. Four oil lamps lit up the small room. Apart from a bare desk and a medicine cabinet, the space was empty. He sat on a low stool in front of Emma and lifted a candle.

“Lower the sheet.”

Emma froze, realising why the other women had left in tears, and pulled the sheet tighter around herself.

Luke sighed, accustomed to the women’s protestations.

“I know you’re scared. You’ve had a long voyage, and the conditions were harsh. If you need medicine, I can get it for you.”

In his eyes, she saw a kindness, which contrasted with the savageness in his father’s.

“What is this place?”

“Sugar plantation,” he mumbled.

“Where are the men and crops?”

He looked downwards.

“Please let me examine you.”

“What is this place?” She repeated.

Silence.

“What did your father mean that you can keep me for the evening?”

“Don’t worry,” he insisted, “I won’t touch you.”

“But he’ll touch Patma? She’s a child!”

Silence.

“You’re a real doctor?” Emma asked.

Luke nodded, still looking down.

“You swore an oath to do no harm! What are you doing here?”

He rose and turned away, pressing his knuckles into the table. After a minute, he spoke.

“My father said he found an opportunity in sugar, and it was my duty as his son to help him. When I arrived and saw this place, I realised something wasn’t right.”

Luke turned to her, still avoiding her gaze.

“He’s supplying other farmers with…entertainment.”

“Whores.” She corrected him through gritted teeth.

Luke nodded. “His network across the empire brings women here off the books.”

The sheet grated her skin, but Emma was now numb to the pain.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“You are here,” he breathed, trying to convince himself of the same miserable fact. “There’s nothing you can do. If you want to survive, just do what they tell you to do.”

Luke handed Emma a soft sheet and a shapeless gown, and she retreated to a corner, unconsoled by the realisation that not all victims looked like her.

In the night, screams rang out as the other women relinquished any trace of hope they had clung to. She drew the sheets over her ears, trying to stifle the wailing reminders that every second brought her deeper into hell.

She wasn’t meant to be there, but there she was. Here, alone, there was nothing she could do to change that.

The world was built the way it was, and it wasn’t going to change. The easiest option, the only option, was to accept her position in it. Others had made this journey before her, and more would come after. There was no alternative. As she had done so often in her life, she tried to smother the kindling feeling that the status quo did not serve her.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, Emma thought. Luke was right. If she just did what she was told and stayed out of everyone’s way, she would be safe. If she could somehow make the farmer’s and Auntyji’s life easier, that would keep her safe.

Acceptance lulled her, and she slept.

Emma's eyes shot open. She could barely hear the banging on the door above the pounding of her heart. Between the slurred screams outside and Luke’s scrambling inside, she felt the room spin in the velvet nothing of the dark. She pressed against the wall for comfort as she had done so many times on the ship.

Luke eventually lit a lamp and opened the door. In the faint light, she saw two heavyset men with bare bulging bellies sagging between the tired front flaps of their shirts. They lugged a stuffed sheet inside, dropped it to the floor with a dull thud, mumbled something to the doctor, and laughed as they left.

Luke’s shaking hands set two lanterns on the floor next to the sheet. The shadows vanished, save for blotches of dark crimson that patched it like a quilt.

Emma knelt on the floor and braced herself.

Luke peeled open the fabric as if unwrapping the delicate sweets Emma’s neighbours would bring her family at Diwali. She had tried to avoid the colourful shapes and cloying syrups that soaked through the cloths they were sent in. Still, her mother would insist that Emma eat the obligatory amount to show her appreciation. What would the neighbours say if she refused their gift?

Instead of the clear oily syrup, a maroon treacle stained the wooden floor. Instead of the sweet smells of warm sugar and rich ghee that set the tip of her tongue aflutter, a hot copper stench spewed from the gorged sheet, stabbing pins into the sides and back of her tongue.

Emma shrieked as a girl’s arm flopped out and slammed against the floor. Luke eased the bruised and lacerated body over. Thick welts had formed across the bony thighs and buttocks, running across the bulges of the gaunt spine. The welts had split the skin along her upper back and shoulders, revealing streams of red in ponds of purple. The upper thighs were a rust-coloured mess. Murky, viscous liquid continued to spill from the darkness between her legs. Emma winced at the sight of the severe bruising on the ribs and chest – feeling the pain tear through her own body.

She forced the vomit back down her throat. Emma looked higher towards the claw marks that had dug up the flesh around the thin neck. Higher, towards the ripped, swollen lips on the bloodied mouth that hung open like a torn pocket. The pointed nose was bent at a horrifying angle. Two streaks ran from the nostrils and pooled on battered cheeks, like clotted brown streams that snaked into a muddied lake. The left eye was a bulging purple plum.

Emma finally focused on the right eye, the only unspoiled part of the otherwise destroyed body. Its delicate lid lay closed, as if peacefully asleep, ignorant of the ravaged vessel it was attached to. Emma touched the matted hair, careful not to place too much pressure on the frail frame.

She leaned closer, to within centimetres, scanning for an identity.

Closer.

She moved the lantern nearer, searching for something recognisable.

The eye sprung open.

Emma screeched and knocked the lamp over.

She steadied herself and looked into the eye. It was a dark orb that widened when it saw her - a calm port in an unforgiving sea.

Patma groaned like a wounded animal. She tried to force words out, but all that left her lips were red bubbles and breathless mewls. Emma shushed the girl. She turned to Luke, pleading, but he could only shake his head. He mixed some powder from a vial into a glass of water to help the girl sleep. He handed the rest of the vial to Emma before pulling on a thick coat and disappearing into the night.

Emma cradled Patma’s sticky head until the functioning eyelid grew heavy and closed. Patma was a child, unable to grasp what it meant to be where they were. She had traded a certain death for the promise of a life that would not come - that could not come. Not for them. Not in this world.

Emma rocked the girl long after the limp body had grown cold and leaden, and the soft knocks of her heart disappeared. Long after the numbness from sitting on the unforgiving floor spread from her body to her soul. She held the girl while the sun started its climb, sending the darkness scrambling but bringing no light to the day.

Auntyji’s cackle outside the door forced Emma back to reality. She scooped up the vial of powder and tucked it into her gown.

Auntyji thundered into the room and threw a dirty yellow sari on the floor. Two men followed her in, spilling water as they lowered a warped metal pail along with some rags. They hoisted Patma’s body out of the shed.

“Clean up this mess,” Auntyji commanded.

Emma hoped Auntyji would leave so she could change into the sari. Yet, the older woman planted herself on the doctor’s chair, crossing her arms over her buxom chest. Emma retreated to her corner, hoping that the powder did not clatter to the ground while she changed. Fortunately, her nimble fingers kept the contraband well-hidden during the process.

She dropped to all fours and began sloshing water onto the stained wooden floor. Scrubbing, scraping, pushing, pulling, she tried to clear the smears from the beams' cracks. She wrung the rags into the bucket, watching as her fingers turned red, as the water turned red, until all she saw when her eyes closed was red.

She thought of how Patma came to Natal to escape the fire that meant certain death for her. She had fled to the other end of the world but could not escape her fate. Their lives were not their own.

She finally rose to her feet when all that was left of Patma was a damp patch, which would eventually dry and evaporate into the ether.

“Auntyji, what will happen to Patma?” Emma fixed the pleats of her sari.

“The men are returning to the town this evening. The doctor will travel with them, and they’ll dump her somewhere. Now, go clean yourself up with the others.”

Emma didn’t feel the freezing water chill her skin or the abrasiveness of the tiny rag she washed with. She continued to wash away Patma’s blood long after it had gone.

She counted thirty women standing on the green slopes around the stream. Emma could identify their vintage with ease. The ones who had been there a while were comfortable in their nakedness. They spoke in hushed tones about the dead untouchable girl, glancing at Auntyji’s stocky figure at the top of the embankment to make sure she stayed out of earshot.

The newer recruits bathed themselves in embarrassed silence, trying to hide the shame they were taught to feel in their bare bodies. Those selected for their first tour of duty the previous night had awkward gaits. The red streaks of their puffy eyes carried the awareness that they had surrendered their bodies and their lives.

Patma was dead. It was only a matter of time before they shared the same fate. She thought of the ocean they crossed. How separate waves joined together and grew. Independent, but connected.

Auntyji had disappeared out of sight, and Emma decided to speak up.

“Those who can understand me, translate for the others. Patma is dead. The rest of us will die too if we stay in this place. We have to escape.”

The group murmured.

It was one of the older members that dismissed the suggestion, “Escape? If they catch us, they will kill us. I am not going to risk my life because of what happened to an untouchable!”

“We’re all untouchable in this place! We are here together – what makes us different? Nothing! If we stay, we are dead; but not before we suffer. There are things worse than death. What worth is your life if someone else decides everything for you?

“I know you’re scared. I am too. I don’t know what is out there. But out there, there is hope. Here, there is certainty that nothing will ever change. I held Patma in my hands and saw all our futures. We need to do something.”

Emma saw heads nod, and the seeds of hope sprouted buds. She pressed forward.

“I have a plan.”

Auntyji was still out of sight when Emma revealed the vial.

“Tonight, all the men will be gone. The farm will be empty. I’ll put this sleeping powder in the farmer’s food, and when he’s asleep, we can escape.”

Tongues clicked, and heads shook.

“And what about the fat hawk on top of the hill? She is always watching. You are going to get us all killed.”

“Maybe if she sleeps, we could…”

“She never sleeps. You don’t have enough to drug both of them either. We’ve all dreamt of escaping - we have everything planned already. But that’s what it will remain – a dream.”

The women turned away from her. They were right. Emma did not have enough powder to knock out both Auntyji and the farmer. It was a foolish thought. She was alone again.

As they shuffled back to the barracks, her thoughts returned to her original plan. If she could just prove to Auntyji that she could be useful, maybe she would be assigned to the house duties instead of working in the field. She broke the line and hurried to Auntyji.

“Auntyji, who will help you with the housework this evening?”

The old lady scowled and glowered at Emma, trying to divine her motivations.

“I would like to volunteer if you don’t have anyone to share the workload with.”

“You want to put yourself in that house after seeing what is expected here?”

“Yes, I am prepared to do whatever I need to do to serve the farmer.”

Auntyji stood in silence for a while, squinting her eyes and furrowing her brows.

“Fine, you can handle the night duties. Come to the house when the cook arrives.”

Her hands were still red in the orange light of the little flame as she scrubbed the pots. Her heart pounded in her chest as she dried her fingers on the thick material of her sari and turned to the two plates laid out on the kitchen counter.

Sympathisers had approached her during the day, applauding her courage to speak but reminding her of her place. They were just a handful of women against an entire world that was not designed for them. What could they do? 

The cook heaped the final piece of meat onto the farmer’s plate, and Emma prepared to carry the meals to the dining room. When she was sure she couldn’t be seen, she slipped the vial out of her sari and mixed the powder into the mound of rice beneath the meat. She would try to charm Auntyji when the farmer slept.

In the dining room, the farmer sat at the head of the table. Auntyji fawned to his right. He lowered a glass of brown liquid from his lips when he saw Emma approach. She set the dhal and rice before Auntyji and served the meat to the farmer. He leered at Emma, pulling her onto his lap, pressing his bulbous belly against her, and planted a wet kiss on her cheek. She coughed as the acrid smell of his stale breath poured into her nostrils.

“Did you show my son a good time? I’ll see for myself tonight.”

He loosened his grip, and Emma scurried to her feet. She stood against a wall, head down, praying that he ate quickly so she could make an impression on Auntyji.

“Auntyji,” the farmer mused, “I think I’ll drink tonight. Take this meat and treat yourself.”

Emma’s throat ran dry. Auntyji leaped to her feet and raced to the plate before the farmer changed his mind.

“Clean the kitchen and come back in an hour,” she shouted at Emma while shoveling food into her already full mouth. 

In the dim light of a solitary lamp, Emma felt the kitchen walls close in on her. Her face grew hot, and her mind raced. She had ventured into the lion’s den, and her plan had backfired spectacularly. She cursed her naivete. Even if her plan had worked, and she had managed to subdue the farmer, she would still need to charm Auntyji. Impossible. Tomorrow would come, and without sleeping powder, nothing would save her. She planted her elbows on the kitchen counter and buried her face into her palms.

She thought of the monster ravaging her body, exerting his inalienable right bestowed upon him by a system he created. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she scrambled to maintain her balance, knocking aside a cutting board, sending cutlery clanging against the wooden surface.

She regained her footing and started to organise the utensils, which tinkled and scratched as she restored them to their rightful places.

When she lifted the large serving spoon, she stopped. In the dim light of the lantern, her eyes gleamed. She stole a glance over her shoulder and turned back to the countertop.

Emma traced her slender fingers along the cold steel to the sturdy tip of a broad knife. She drew them back along the blade's aggressive face and wrapped them around the wooden handle. Her forearms stiffened as she lifted it, surprised at its weight.

She drew a deep, silent breath to slow her pulsating heart. Her legs vibrated, and her hands shook as she set fire to her boats, marrying herself to the only path that would bring her absolution.

She touched the long, curved cutting edge, which had glided through the chunks of meat earlier. Emma hoisted it higher, growing accustomed to its weight, thrusting and jerking in the glow of the lantern.

Whatever it takes, she thought.

She wrapped a cloth around the blade, knotted it, and tucked the weapon into the back of her sari, concealing it in the drapes.

When the farmer summoned her to the dining room, Auntyji had disappeared. He sat next to an empty bottle. At the sight of her, his glossy eyes sparkled, and his mouth snarled through his untidy beard. He had unfastened the buttons on his shirt, and he ran one hand through the red curls of hair that covered his enormous stomach.

With a grunt, he heaved his mountainous frame upright, gripped the table to steady himself, and gestured to the back of the house with a clumsy twist of his neck. He pushed her ahead of him and lifted a candle as they passed through a dark corridor deeper into the bowels of the house.

With every step, the floorboards creaked, and her muscles tensed and grew stubborn. The farmer’s rancid musk and the stench of alcohol he breathed on her neck mixed with the house’s stuffy air and made her dizzy. Her eyes flitted between the doors lining the hall, finally spotting Auntyji’s feet on a bed, whose intermittent snores began to ring out in the quiet house.

They reached a large room at the end of the hall and the farmer bundled into it. He stumbled around the bed, struggling to light two fat oil lamps on a side table, before removing his shirt and dropping his pants.

He pointed to the bed.

Emma froze.

Her breathing was rapid, and her throat felt as if she had swallowed dust. Her face grew hotter than it had under the summer sun of her village. Tears stung her eyes as the gravity of the situation paralysed her.

Emma screamed when he gripped her arm and flung her face-first onto the lumpy yellowing mattress, which stank of sour sweat and stale smoke. She was sure that Patma’s tears were stained there too. He ordered her to remove her sari.

Emma scrambled to the far side of the bed, but he lunged at her in his drunken rage. He clawed at the stubborn material, his clumsy hands rocking her body this way and that. She kicked and screamed, battling to keep the animal at bay. She picked at the dogged knot.

It wouldn’t budge.

In a flash, he wrapped his strong fingers around her thin ankles and spread her legs on either side of his wide hips. Her energy drained in the face of his depraved single-mindedness. He threw his head to the ceiling and howled.

She felt the cloth part in her fingers, and the strength surged into her arms.

With his head still raised to the ceiling, he pulled her towards him, bringing his eyes down in time to see the cold steel disappear into his hairy stomach.

The farmer released her legs and staggered back, his mind racing to process what was happening. His curious eyes met Emma’s, who, defiant, rose to her feet in front of him.

When she slid the blade out and plunged it back into the relenting flesh, he roared, a chilling deep roar, like a wounded bear.

Again, she pulled the weapon out. Again, she forced the knife through his oafish defence. Her hands burned from the thick, oozing blood and bile that drenched them.

He tried to tighten his broad hands around her neck, but they slumped around her shoulders. Her nimble arms darted forwards and backwards, twisting and slicing, turning his vital organs into a useless slush of flesh and tissue.

He fell to his knees in front of her, whimpering as he clambered to hold his insides together. Red bubbles burst on his lips and seeped into his darkening beard.

She pulled the wet curls of his head with one slick hand. His vacant eyes looked at her again, seeing her for the first time. With the other hand, she slid the blade across his thick neck, splitting the skin as if by its seams. The last of his sanguine fluid sprayed across her face, baptising her a warrior in this fight that she had wanted no part of.

His body flopped to the floor with a thud. A lifeless arm knocked over the side table, sending the lamps crashing into flames that streaked up the wall.

It was done.

Emma was breathless. Her legs gave way, and she dropped onto the bed.

She raised her bloodied hands and studied them as the shadows of the flames, which had leaped from the wall to the faded sheets covering the window, danced on the viscous liquid. She followed the thick blood as it trickled to her elbows, rubbing her fingers together, growing accustomed to the level beating of her heart.

She lifted the knife, which now felt lighter in her hand, and strode out of the room.

In the fresh night, a thick cloud dissolved to reveal a cold, white moon. Millions of twinkling stars littered the sky as if a bag of marbles had been emptied on a black carpet. One for each tear shed crossing the dark water.

The farmer’s screams had drawn the other women’s attention, but now all was still. Even the crickets fell silent as if stunned by the disruption to the world. The women huddled outside the barracks, mouths open, clinging to each other as the orange glow inside the farmhouse grew brighter.

Emma stopped in front of them, soaked in blood, calm, despite the adrenaline that coursed through her. Smiling, she stood tall and raised the dripping knife to the bright moonlight.

“From now on, our lives are our own,” she crowed. “They didn’t build this world for us, and there’s no reason for them to change it for us. But if we burn it down, we’ll give them a reason to.”

At that moment, the women returned to their village temples and the hours spent bowing before the goddess Kali, the destroyer of evil. Now, thousands of miles away, under Emma’s fiery gaze, an unfamiliar flame exploded within them. They saw arms shoot out from her body, smash the walls and ceilings that had bordered their lives to pieces, and scatter them over the dark water.

Emma nodded at her tribe of warriors. They would not lie down any longer.

The fire in the farmhouse had swelled. Smoke billowed but could not black out the shining orb in the sky.

Emma marched into the night, and the women followed.