All That Is Bitter and Sweet_ A Memoir - Ashley Judd [168]
I said to her, “Will you believe there is hope for you?”
“No.”
“Natasha, can you believe, then, that I believe? When you are completely hopeless and despairing, will you remember me, can you believe that I believe?”
She broke down. “Yes. I will try, I will try. I will try to believe that you believe.”
The time for which we had paid was up. She was crying as she hurried out the door. As a team we raged, sobbed, planned, plotted, and despaired. With Papa Jack guiding us with his New York police and FBI experience, we tried frantically to sort out ways to reach Natasha again, to rescue the children. Every idea was a bust, as each one, given the vulpinic efficiency of organized crime, led to potential danger for Natasha. Their network is so vast, so thorough, so complete—and girls and women are so disposable. It is unlikely we will ever find her. She and the other slaves of her type are a mysterious, inaccessible component of prostituted commercial sex. But we will never forget her. And every day, every minute, every breath, I bless her. I still believe, Natasha, I still believe.
The evening with Natasha made my meeting the next day harder. We passed again through rows and rows and rows of houses, many with modest religious icons or now dead flowers over the crumbling portals, crammed full of people going about their daily lives. In one of these houses Neelam, fourteen, and her sister, Komal, twelve, were waiting for me in matching yellow saris. They were AIDS orphans who lived with an aunt in two low-ceilinged, windowless rooms. Both girls were very small and thin, with long dark hair. Komal’s was lustrous and smooth, Neelam’s was rough, coarse, dry. I wondered if it was from malnutrition. The children each took a hand, brought me in, sat me down. They were eager yet reserved. Indian women sit alongside one another, knees touching, arms draped across each other’s legs. I had picked up on this and gratefully snuggled into a comfortable position with these precious girls. They would never sit in my lap, but they did sidle up to lean on me and let me love on them.
Their story was all too familiar. Their daddy became HIV-positive having sex outside the marriage. He died soon after being tested. Their mama also tested positive and died soon after. The girls, plus their then five-year-old brother, were suddenly orphans. An aunt who lived with them was also HIV-positive and suffered from tuberculosis. She slept alone in the back room, as she was highly contagious. They had, thank God, a grandmother, who did much of the cooking. When I asked Komal how she prayed and what she prayed for, she replied she prayed her auntie didn’t die, too.
Neelam, at fourteen, exclusively supported this family of five. From eight thirty a.m. until five p.m., six days a week, she worked sewing embroidery to earn 1,200 rupees a month, the equivalent of $27 U.S. (and one-tenth of what Natasha’s pimp charged each client). It was not nearly enough to feed them all; Neelam’s diet was supplemented through PSI’s nutrition program, which provides families in need with rice, wheat, sugar, lentils, cooking oil, and nuts. After work she had a half-hour break, at which time she then went to night school until nine p.m. Neelam was incredibly bright and eager to learn. English was her favorite subject, and she wanted to be a flight attendant. Her brother and sister were able to go to school, but this small child was at home each day only long enough to eat a little bit and to sleep. It dawned on me later that her baby sister’s hair was shiny and smooth because Neelam took care of it, as a mother would. But there was no one there to take care of Neelam’s hair.
She told me she liked where she worked, she liked sewing. She had no idea that having a job was illegal at her age. She had no sense of our outrage. She had simply adapted, naturally, for the survival of