Fight or Flight

Breathe through your mouth, Mallika reminded herself, leaning heavily on the ropes outlining the boxing ring.

“Boxing ring” was generous, really. The mat was a grimy, torn relic, and she was pretty sure the ropes had been stolen from the wharf across the highway. She shook her head of the thoughts. The crowd jeered as her opponent assumed a ready stance, beckoning her with a cheeky crook of her finger. Mallika rolled her eyes.

She hauled herself to her feet. Stepped forward, parried, punched, and then deliberately dropped her guard. Her opponent’s fist connected with her jaw, and would’ve easily shattered it if Mallika hadn’t been prepared. She rolled with the punch, spitting out blood.

She snuck a glance at the clock. Two minutes. She was already down by a point, so all she had to do was not score any more hits, and she’d get her cash.

***

“Tera shauher?” the woman at the door asked, taking a long drag of her cigarette. Your husband? Sifar wrinkled her nose at the smell and the question.

“Nahin hain,” she replied. He’s not there.

The woman eyed the henna on her hands suspiciously. “You running from your wedding?”

“I don’t have a husband,” Sifar repeated. It was technically true, anyway.

“Were you followed? Cops, relatives…”

“No. No one.”

The woman took one last look around, then pointed Sifar in the direction of the door. “Right hallway at the end, third door on the left, down the stairs if you’re looking for a place to stay the night. If you want to stick around and make some dough, you can probably get someone to teach you.”

“Thanks.”

***

“Baaqi kahan hai?” Mallika spat, counting the bills. Where’s the rest of it?

“Itna hi hai,” the man replied. This is all.

That was the wrong thing to say. Mallika hooked his jaw, kneed him in the stomach, and brought her elbow down on his back. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, groaning.

“Leave him.”

Mallika looked up. “You?”

It was Varsha, her opponent from the ring.

“Yeah, me,” Varsha said regretfully, as if she’d rather be anyone else at that moment. She prodded the man on the ground with her foot. “Idiot. I told him to stay out of here, but he can’t listen.”

“You know him?”

“Unfortunately. My stupid cousin. Don’t know what he’s trying to prove by paying people to lose to me.” She kicked him in the ribs again, a little harder. “How much did he promise you?”

“$20,000.”

Varsha whistled through her teeth.

“Sorry,” the man on the ground whimpered. “I thought I could…”

“You need to stop underestimating the ability of any woman in here to kick your ass if you don’t pay up,” Varsha scolded, scribbling out a check. She looked at Mallika. “Here. Give this loser his cash back.”

Mallika tossed the bills down and snatched the check out of her hand.

“Should have knocked you out proper in the ring back there,” Varsha mused. “Would’ve been less embarrassing for both of us.”

***

“Whom do I ask if there is a room open?” Sifar approached a woman sitting cross-legged on a bunk. She’d followed the doorkeeper’s directions to what looked like an overcrowded hostel room, but wasn’t sure what to do next.

The woman snorted. “Room?” She waved an arm around. “What does this look like to you, a five star hotel?”

“The lady at the door said-”

“She probably said you could stay the night, yeah? Well, see if you can find an empty bunk. Put your stuff down.” The woman shrugged, going back to her magazine.

Sifar walked around. It didn’t look like any of the beds were empty. She walked all the way to the end of the hall, and was contemplating going back to that one bunk that seemed unoccupied except for the large cockroach, when she saw it. A relatively clean bunk with nothing on it but a spare sheet. Surely nobody slept there.

Sifar settled down, digging through her hastily-packed knapsack until she found what she was looking for. A worn black notebook - her journal, the one shred of honesty in her life. The reason she had faded anniversary henna, but no husband.

She set it at the edge of the bunk, fully intending to write or at least read a bit before sleeping. But the moment her head hit the pillow, she was out like a light.

Hours later, she came to, groggy and still exhausted. And hungry, she realized as her stomach grumbled. The room was empty except for a handful people fast asleep in their bunks. Sifar groaned, propping herself up on an elbow. She reached for her small black notebook.

But the moment she picked it up, a piece of paper fell out onto the mattress. Sifar blinked, disbelieving. It was a check - for $20,000 USD.

It quickly became obvious that this was not her notebook. It was the exact same type: pitch black, synthetic leather cover, cream pages. But it wasn’t hers. The words, the stories, clearly belonged to someone else. As did the money. She could just barely make out a name: Mallika.

***

This is the wrong notebook, Mallika thought somewhat frantically. She tore through the pages, shaking the book as if that would make her $20,000 check fall out. But there was no check, because this wasn’t her book.

She realized, belatedly, that it probably belonged to the stranger she’d found sleeping in her bunk last night. Mallika had tried to wake her up, but she’d been out stone-cold. Then Mallika had caught sight of the ceremonial henna on her hands, and figured the woman probably needed a good sleep more than she did. So she’d gathered her stuff and gone to sleep in the arena.

It was totally possible that the notebooks had gotten swapped in the dark. Mallika dragged a hand down her face in exasperation. The stranger would probably have run off with the money by now (and honestly, she couldn’t blame her). But it was worth a try going back, just in case.

Like a miracle, the bunk was still occupied. The woman, all bedhead and sleep wrinkles, frowned at the check in her lap.

“I’ll take that,” Mallika said smoothly, grabbing the check and her notebook. She dug the other one out of her bag. “And this is yours, I believe?”

The woman looked relieved. “Thank you,” she said. “Mallika, right?”

“Yeah. And you?”

“Sifar. Wanna sit?”

Mallika chuckled dryly at being offered a spot on her own bunk. “Yeah. Move over.”

“I read it,” Sifar confessed. “You’re from America? Why did you come here?”

“It’s rude to read other people’s stuff,” Mallika mumbled.

“I thought it was mine.”

“Oh.”

“Well? Why’d you come to Hyderabad?”

Mallika laughed condescendingly, shaking her head. “Y’all Indians really think we have it made in the States, don’t you? We go there, living the immigrant dream, happily ever after. Right?”

Sifar didn’t answer right away. She’d had only a vague idea of where she wanted to go after leaving her husband’s house, and if she was honest, it had kind of involved America.

“I heard you could at least marry who you want there,” she muttered eventually. “And divorce. I heard if you don’t like your husband, you can divorce him.”

“Shit, that’s legal here, too.”

“Yeah, it’s legal. But it’s not allowed, you know?”

Mallika leveled her with an incredulous look. “It’s not allowed there, either. Look, sometimes when people move to a new country, they find this renewed interest in holding on tight to their culture. To what they left behind. And one way to do that is to marry their daughter off to a nice Indian man. Have a haldi ceremony, dress up in saris, the drill. A small slice of the life they escaped,” she finished sardonically.

Sifar was a little taken aback at the outburst. “Is that why you left?”

Mallika shoved a hand into her hair and yanked absentmindedly. “Couldn’t fucking tell them ‘no.’ Didn’t have it in me. You know how hard it is to say that two-letter word? Sometimes it feels like it’s coded in our blood, to be doormats for tradition.”

“So… you ran away to Hyderabad? And now you lose fights for a living?”

“You really read it, huh.”

“Sorry. You can read mine if you want.”

Mallika waved her off. “Just tell me. Why are you here?”

“My husband found my journal. You’d know if you read it, but I’m gay.”

“Ah. He kicked you out, then? Or you ran away?”

“Neither. I’d readied a blade, if you’ll believe it. I expected him to rage, get violent, come at me. Then I could slit his throat and disappear. Even if people spread rumors, I’d know I was justified.”

“But he didn’t?”

“No. Of course I had to get one of the nice ones. Just my luck. He asked me if what I'd written was the truth. When I said yes, he sat me down. Said he was sorry no one asked for my consent before getting me married to him. And that he was sorry for making love to me. For enjoying it.”

“Goddamn.”

“It wasn’t even his fault, really. I never resisted. Sometimes I even acted like I liked it.”

“Then what happened?”

“He gave me some money, bought me a train ticket. Said I could leave, but I didn’t have to. He told me to call him anytime if I needed help. Then he took me to the station, asked for one last kiss, and drove away.”

Mallika laughed. “They don’t make men like that, do they?”

“I feel terrible. It would have been better if he’d gotten mad. A few bruises on my face, a split lip, and no person with half a conscience would look down on me for walking away. But kindness? What am I supposed to do with that? How do I justify leaving?”

“You didn’t love him. It’s enough.”

“There are worse things in life than being tied down to a kind man.”

“Yeah. I mean, I had it all in America, right? All they were doing was tying me down to a nice man. I should've stuck around, it wasn’t so bad…”

Sifar frowned at her tone. “That’s not what I meant, Mallika.”

“Then what?”

“It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It was bad for you. It could always be worse; that means nothing. Today you marry some nice guy because it’s ‘tradition.’ Tomorrow they tell you tradition is letting him handle finances. Before long, we’re back to fighting for the right to not get beat for burning dinner.”

Mallika hummed in triumph. “Right. You get it now?”

Sifar gasped softly, realizing she’d argued herself into a corner. “That was sneaky.”

“Here,” Mallika murmured, slipping the check into Sifar’s journal.

“Wha-”

“Go to America. Take a chance. Maybe it will be better for you than it was for me.”

“This is $20,000!”

“It’s fine. I’ll just lose another match in a few months. Gotta build back that rep first, though, to get people to bet on me again.”

Sifar ran her fingers over the check reverently. She looked back at Mallika. “Hey. Come with me.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s more than enough for two one-way tickets, right?”

“Sifar, I can’t.”

“You don’t have to go back to your family. We can do something different. Start a new life.”

“Now you sound like my parents, probably.”

“Just… think about it, okay? If you really wanna keep beating the shit out of people in that ring, fine. But if not, meet me at the auto stop tonight. I could use your help.”

Mallika closed her eyes, exhaling steadily. “I’ll think about it.”