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My Father met Sarah Bates when I was eleven. Sarah was tall, blonde, and snobbish. Her perfect blue eyes were sinfully sweet, and to show interest in them when looking at my father, he didn’t last long. She was nineteen at the time. My father married her on her twentieth birthday. It was then that Sarah Bates became Sarah Ashton. One day before my own September first. I knew from then on out, things would never be the same.
Sarah forced my Father, already in his sixties, to move to America with her later on that December. I, being his daughter, was forced to come along. She never did want to bring me, the twelve year old brat along, but that was the only thing my father did not give to her.
Whenever I look at Sarah, I can remember back to the day when she burnt the last thing I had to remember my Mother by, her Picture. My Mother, as beautiful as a desert goddess, as beautiful as the great Durga, the great Mother Goddess, Sarah burnt her photo right in front of me. I remember beautiful cherry red lips sneering at me, showing bleached whitened teeth, and baby blue eyes, as cold as ice. “Whoops, sorry ‘bout that.” That’s all she said before she kicked the ashes away and left, swaying her hips, her chest puffed out with pride.
Before that moment I had never thought it possible to truly hate someone. But I suppose, I had thought correct. Even now, I still can not hate her, no matter how much I try to. I can reflect on all the nasty, hateful things she did to me, and yet I will still always fall short of hating her. I sometimes like to think it is my mother holding me back. But then again, she never had to meet the woman. And, even better for her, she probably never would. Hopefully her spirit stayed back home, in India.
Sarah, just hearing that name makes my skin crawl. I knew she felt that same way about my name, Ananda. It had been my mother who had named me. My name means Spiritual Bliss, and I have to wonder sometimes if Sarah knew this. I had seen a cold flame ignite within her whenever my father said my name. That blue fire was always followed by her clutching the small golden cross pendent she always wore around her neck. Would she have screamed if I told her that I preyed to Kali the destroyer?
I was the greatest evil to her. To her I was her Devil himself, come to tear her apart and take away the fortune that she had married an old man for. To her, I was a threat. I was the savage Indian threat, who was to dark skinned, to dark haired, to dark eyed, to tall, to dark, evil. That was probably whey she invited them, to have them agree with her.
I was seventeen when I first met Sarah’s flunkies. They were all thin, blond, small breasted and cold eyes; all except for one. Anya was short, no more than five feet. Her hair was the color of a soft midnight fire, and her eyes were the color of dried magnolias. Her skin was just as white as the other girls’, but small freckles brushed her nose. She was not flat chested, but rather the opposite, with full breast that were just as white, from what I could see, as the rest of her. She was truly beautiful.
She wore a white sundress and copper sandals, different from the designer cloths the other four women wore. She seemed like a small beautiful angel next to three terrifying vampire seductress’.
“So, like girls, this is my, like, husbands little…twerp.” That had been how she had introduced me. She knew I hated being called a twerp, especially because I was taller than her. She was by no means short herself, but I was clearly taller.
“Like, what the hell is she wearing?” It had been Amber who first spoke out of the three newcomers. She looked like some New York Broadway Musical girl who belonged back in the fifties. Her blond hair did this flip and curl thing that, as far as I knew, only some models still wore for photo shoots. It did not help that she wore gold hoops and leopard print.
It was Chrystal who spoke next. “Like, eww! Who chose that thing out?!” To this day I can recall the pink suit she wore. It had been such a bright shade that it clearly told you something important about her. She had a huge need for attention. She was the oldest out of the group.
At the time I had expected for the redhead to speak next and trash my Sari, but she never did. All she did was look past me, to the sitar that sat by the fireplace. My father had once played it for me all the time when I was young, but had stopped once he had met Sarah.
“Do you play?” That was all that she asked. Her eyes were calm and she obviously was not disgusted in any way. When I nodded, she smiled.
“I have a friend who plays as well.” She did not say anything else, which probably was what made Sarah mad. Sarah, in her ice queen like glory, ignored her for the moment and instead gripped my Sari. Even though I had chosen one I thought she would like, the disgusted look said it all. What she said next was the acid on the wounds.
“What have I told you about wearing this shit around my home? You little Indian freak! Why don’t you try to be normal hmm?” Images of a trip to Hawaii I had been on with my father the year before flashed through my mind at her words. I remembered being completely nude on the beach. A flat yellow stone was my resting place as I stared out into the sea…It was the color of the sky, the color of Sarah’s eyes.
As I think back to that same coast, that same rock, I feel the same peace that I had felt as I sat upon its roughly textured surface. I have yet to feel as peaceful. I suppose that peace like that is not meant for people like me. But, in a sadistic sort of way I was happy. I was happy because I knew, deep down inside of me, that though I had only felt that feeling once, it was by far more times than Sarah would ever feel it.
I never did speak to the girl, Anya. I have a feeling that she has not forgotten me, the girl in the sari. But as it were, after that I never saw her again. If she had left, well, good for her, but chances were Sarah had most likely gotten rid of her. Sarah was never the type of person to keep people around who did not follow her every whim. That is probably why she sent me away.
I was seventeen when my father died at the age of seventy. It would have been his birthday in another week. It had been the anniversary of my Mother’s own dead. Sarah did not greave. Sarah, the bitch, the ice queen, smiled. She did not keep that smile for long.
My Father was no fool. When he married Sarah he did love her, but she knew that she did not love him. He knew what she wanted from him every time she got on her knees. He knew that she was nothing but a pretty whore. And most importantly he knew that no matter how many times she denied it, she was abusive to me. And so he left her with the only thing he was willing to give her, the house that she chose for us all to live in. Nothing else was to be hers. The rest all belonged to me.
When we were called in for the will reading, she had been so angered that when her lawyer tried to calm her down, she hit him. He did not hesitate to bring up assault charges. She had broken his nose, he had won, and she was sentenced to six months in prison. During that time, I was kicked out of her house. I was shipped to the only relative I had left, my aunt Genevieve. And so, that is where I am now.
My aunt is a beautiful fifty-five year old full figured woman. Every time I look at her I think about how beautiful she is, instead of her size. She looks almost like a fertility goddess to me; someone who should be thanked and loved and cherished. It amazed me that she was not married. I knew it was not because she didn’t want to, because I had seen a look that from time to time every woman gets when they are unmarried, the look of wanting and hope. She had worn that look at my Father’s wedding.
It saddened me to think that so many people would judge her size than to see past it, but what could I do about it? I was not built like her, but like my Mother. And I was afraid to even bring up the topic, let alone talk about it. It was just one of those many sad facts of life in these times.
My metallic blue sari clung to my body in the humid British summer. It was a sari meant to be seen and flaunted. It was made of thick silk, and it almost glowed as it moved with my body, like metallic snake skin. I could hear the small tinkling of bells from my silver anklets. They were my grandmother’s. I was careful to avoid mud as I walked quickly, trying to keep my thin sandals and sari from getting to wet. So far I had been doing a pretty good job of it.
Then again…I looked down at my feet and as I felt my toes squish in mud, a most undesired feeling. It reminded me of when I was a little girl and I fell into a sinkhole after the monsoon season was over. I had been eight years old and our maid, Bandhura, who Sarah fired, had taken me with her to the market. We were returning when I saw a mango tree. I love mangos. I had tried to climb it, but when I was about to I stated to sink. I tried to get out, but the more I tried, the faster I sunk in. I only managed to get out because Bandhura had pulled me out when I had grabbed onto a root. She had saved my life. I could have never thanked her enough for that.
I quickened my pace as I moved back towards my Aunt’s sea side home. I had gone through mud, and now I had to go though wet sand. I just hoped that the rain had packed the sand enough for me not to sink into its cool grainy depths.
“Aunt Gen I’m home!” My voice sounded sharp in the small quiet home. It held an accent to it that this home had probably never heard before me; that of someone whose home was once my beautiful India.
The thick wooden walls of the sea-home were covered over by thin wallpaper. The design was of old willows over water. Not by water, over it, their roots exposed and reaching downwards; as if trying to drink once more. It was both a sad and beautiful scene.
Many shelves were attached to the walls, all of them holding small shells and knickknacks. I recognized some of the figurines that lined the shelves as Hindu gods and goddesses. Each one was well made and was colorful and beautiful. It was the closest part of home except for my sari that I had seen in years.
I had not noticed my aunt walk out of a room to my side until I felt arms wrap around me. She was much shorter than me, but you never really noticed or cared when with her. She had enough excitement and exuberance for ten people. It was one of the many things I loved about her.
“Aunt, it is so good to see you!” She squealed like a young teenage schoolgirl and she hugged me tighter.
“And you too my dear! Oh, just look at you; my, how you have grown!” The last time I had seen my aunt was when I was fifteen. Sarah never did like her. It was one of the many prejudices she had that made her dislike my aunt. She did not like people to be as large as my aunt was. It was one of many things that I despised about Sarah.
Genevieve Ashton wore a beautiful pink dress that showed off her figure rather than trying to hide it. It made her stand out and look stunning. Her pink lips smelled of bubblegum strong enough for me to smell them. She was dressing a little young, but she still looked great.
Smiling once more she stepped back and raked her eyes up and down my figure measuring me up. Nodding she picked up her cell phone and started dialing,
“Who are you calling Aunt?” I smiled at her, expecting an answer, or maybe even “it’s a surprise”, but I was not ready for the fierce glare she gave me. Stumbling, I fell to the ground, twisting my ankle slightly in the process.
“Yes, yes she is here.” I could hear someone leaving the room and I looked up to see a big burley man. He looked nice, with his dog on a leash and a smile on his face, but the look in his eyes told me otherwise.
“Tie her up and put her in the room. I can’t have her running on me.” I didn’t say that I couldn’t run anyways at the moment, and I guessed my silence was the right thing to do because the dog began to growl and his large teeth glinted in the sunlight. He reminded me of an attack dog out of a movie.
“Sure thing Doll face. Come on little Ananda. Wouldn’t want you to run away now would we?” The man had an American accent and…so did my aunt?
Who was this woman who looked like my aunt?
I felt my wrists being tied together, and I didn’t even bother screaming. The reason I had to walk here in the first place was because the road stopped half a mile away and there was no one around for another five miles. Even if I had screamed, it would have been in vain.
“Hey Merry, where did you say she was going again?” I was inside a stuffy room that reeked of whiskey. This must have been where one of them was sleeping. I could hear them through the door; a good thing for me.
“We are selling her to a client of the boss. Sarah said she had a good voice and from what I can tell she has a nice body. She is to be his to do whatever with.”
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