The voice of Pinky Madame:
I put my finger to my lips. He must be quiet; he must make sure no one finds out. I clutch my bag tightly in my hands until my knuckles turn white. I feel no remorse for the life I am leaving behind, as I tell him to just drive. My heart is full of contempt for this filthy place. It does nothing but restrict me. I will no longer live with this feeling of oppression.
My husband.
What a fucking joke that marriage was from the start. I thought he was different from the other men. He was educated in America, as evidenced by the way he spoke. Like an intellectual. No, he was just like the others. So full of it, when really all he could give me was his dirty coal money. He trapped me in that house, forced me to play the perfect Indian wife. I married an illusion of a man. He turned into the shit he pretended to hate. Nothing he said was ever true, and no amount of begging would ever change it. He would never take me back to America, no matter how much I pleaded. He loved India; I would never understand, nor did I want to, because I hate this place. He has held me down for far too long, keeping me stuck here.
I know it will ruin him, me leaving. Ruin his family.
I know it will ruin that bastard driver, too. If it could get any worse for him. I do not care. That sister fucker belongs here. His dirty hands on the wheel. I hate how his eyes dart around when we drive, taking in the trash-covered streets, just like every other lowlife servant here. It’s a breeding ground for people like him and Ashok, different but the same. They pull you in with their tricks, and then they trap you in a cage of control. Keeping me locked up with the other spineless women. Let them rot here. Stuck like animals in their little Rooster Coop.
There is a distant cry of a crow. The car is dark, dingy, like the rest of this godforsaken place. How happy I am to leave. With each mile that passes, I feel my freedom slowly creeping back into me. I can feel myself regain the strength this place has stripped my very soul of.
The airport was loud as the car pulled up, the last bit of India’s eternal tantrum. Announcements echoed in broken English. Families shouted around me over the distant sounds of plane engines. The reeked smelled of cheap perfume, nothing I would ever wear.My escape was coming; it was so close.
“Here”, I snapped at him. Balram turned, and I reached out my hand. Inside my palm lay a small brown envelope. It was money. Enough money to keep him silent.
He mumbled some “Thank you, madam” and then turned away, but I could see his eyes follow me in the mirror, that hawking gaze as I got out of the back seat. I could see the resentment in his eyes.
Leni Broomberg Writings 