” She smiled and said “yes, mai 17 ki tthee, which means ke now I am 38.” “You look 32 or 33,” I told her. I wasn’t exaggerating, she really looked young. She said “Oh stop, you are just flattering me.” She then excused herself, and went into the kitchen to get something. When she came back, her pallu was a little out of place. I saw a glimpse of her cleavage. Wow, those melons really looked juicy. This time, she came and sat next to me on the same sofa. She had brought a plate of dry fruits, and asked me to have some. I waited for her to get some first, and as soon as she had her hand in the plate, I got a hold of it and looked at her. She was blushing, yet she didn’t take her hand away. I then got closer to her, she blushed even more and looked away, but her hand was still in mine. I then, with the other hand, turned her face towards me. I asked her “kiya mainay kuch ghalat kiya?” She moved her head, indicating a “no.” I now saw the gates of heaven opening for me. I then kissed her. She sensed madness and death to be just around the corner. Yet the adults did no more than push more pills at her. One night, after palming her meds for three days, she slipped out the kitchen door to thumb a ride to Vancouver. She disappeared into the seediest part of town, where she fared better than most sixteen year olds. Neither stupid or vulnerable, Anamarika just wanted the elbow room to apply her sharpie without interference.She left behind a confounded family, their church, a creepy boyfriend who stayed only because “everyone knows crazies are great humps”, and all the other aspects of small Valley town clingy closeness. She found her place in the Downtown Eastside, where she amused her fellow denizens, sassed the cops and aggravated owners of the buildings she graffitied. The shelter staff got way more leeway. They really tried, without judging, and provided physical and social shelter. And it was there she truncated Anamarika and resurrected the pre-immigration version of.
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