The American Man

“My name is Lakshmi” I cry.

“I am from Nepal

I am fourteen years old”

As the precious words that Harish once taught me come spilling from my mouth for the second time, third and a fourth. I’ve come to realize that the American man who promised to take me far away from here is carrying me as I look back to the house.

The house with the room that I was locked in, drugged and beaten.

The house where the men paid to take away the innocence of the helpless 14 year-old Napali hill girl that I am. Was.

The house where I met Shahanna, Monica, Pushpa, Jeena, Harish and Anita. My soul aches at the thought of the people who kept me going in this house of horrors. The people who loved and cared for me unconditionally. The people who gave me strength when I thought I had lost it all.

Almost no time has passed when I come back to the reality that is my life. As I’m being taken away by the big American I can hear the rage in Mumtaz’s voice as she says the dirty words that I’ve heard for what felt like eternity. I can still hear the words spilling from Mumtaz in her cruel tongue, but what is joined with them now is the outcry of the girls who until this moment thought they would be slaves for the rest of their life to the dreadful woman who is Mumtaz.

The American man looks to me and speaks in words that mirror those of compassion. A tone I haven’t heard in so long that I am now able to register the warmth on my cheeks and the slight burn in my eyes to the tears of pure solace. When his hand meets my shoulder he repeats those words that brought me courage.

“ I make it my life to help the boys and girls of the world just like you.” he repeats as he reaches for my hand. “ That woman, that disgraceful woman has corrupted the way you love and have trust in others, but the one thing that she can never take away is who you are. She can never take away the brave 14 year-old girl from Nepal that you are and always will be.”

As the american man finishes his empowering words he walks us toward what looks to be a bus that Auntie Bimla and I road on when I first left home. The thought of home leaves me frozen in one spot.

I do not hear the loud sound of cars in the city.

I do not smell the thick smoke that permeates the city air.

I do not feel the thin fabric around my body.

But instead I feel mud in between my toes, I smell musky smoke from the chimneys of homes and hear the sweet sound of Amma’s voice calling my name. As I am running towards her the mud, the smoky aroma and Amma are gone. I’m back on a bus and all I see is a city that I never imagined I would leave racing by me.

The American man caresses my shoulder to reassure me that that we will be at the house in no time. When he moves back I am still watching but my eyes move to Anita who until now had escaped my mind. When her eyes meet mine I am in her arms before I could feel my feet move beneath me. I move my head off her chest to meet her face. When I do, I don’t see my sad crooked faced friend but behind all the drooped skin and her sad eyes I see something beyond that. I see a new side of her, someone who has gone through the unimaginable and is still standing on her own two feet. She wears the face of bravery.

It has not been long when the bus comes to stop. Anita and I stay frozen in our seats as the other girls come parading off the bus. The American man is making his way down the narrow walk way between seats. He kneels down while grabbing our hands guaranteeing us that we will be safe and that no one can hurt us anymore. Anita and look to each other and begin to stand while hesitantly walk off the bus.

When we are