They reached the trading coasts of Surat five months and two weeks later.

The heat was instantly familiar to him, the sun constantly looming above. Maya clung to him – if she spoke Gujrati, he did not know; it was not as though she could speak anymore. He doubted she did. They lumbered around on the first day, seeking shelter from the sweltering sunlight. Maya held onto him, and as the hours ticked by, her grip became tighter and her weight, heavier. Her body too weak to survive the Indian temperatures, she gradually wilted.

The dock was a labyrinth of rotted wood – wobbling and creaking with every step, making his heart stutter…would they fall? Wouldn’t they?

The ocean water was a soiled green, Yang didn’t look back when he descended from the ship; there was nothing for him onboard, least of all a familiar face with glad tidings.

Yang struggled, staggering around, balancing her weight with his lack of strength, searching for a haven. He ignored the curious looks of the inquisitive locals – such came easily to him now – and after stumbling through the market place, the ache in his belly awakened by the sweet aroma of rice and potato, the exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. His footing was shaky, after months of limited walking, and near the port, they collapsed beneath the shade of a house’s window pane. The house was stripped and bare, an ugly long thing, like a pirate’s thick, overgrown yellow nail. Bright markings and images danced across the dusty surface, leaving an ominous feeling tracing down Yang’s spine. Maya’s breathing became shallow and rough. She sat in his arms, her lips dry and protests unvoiced. Her limp body and tired eyes frightened Yang; he did not know what to do. For the first time, he regretted running away from England. In England, he could communicate – despite the mutual racial prejudice – but here in India, he had no common grounds. He did not speak the common tongue, and he stuck out like a sore thumb. A Chinaman in British rags with a mute, mixed blood girl on his arm.

But he would survive.

He would die trying, but in the end, he would prevail. He had not ventured this far to fall victim now. He cast a glance at Maya, and the resolution within him strengthened. He would do someth-

A shadow fell over him. Small relief from the scalding sun. “Who are you?”

Yang lifted his head to meet the gaze of a fat woman. Her eyes black – the white stained with angry red slashes – her stomach spilling over the tie of her colourful sari, her skin naturally bronzed, and her hair dyed with foul smelling henna. Yang stared at her in astonishment. “You speak English?”

The woman’s fat, flabby hands went to her hips. “I do,” she said, her accent thick – layered on like the fat flesh to her body. “What are you doing outside of my house? I will not be known as a saviour of beggars.”

She gave out a horrific cough that shook the heavens. Her lungs heaved – the motion visible through the rough overthrow of the sari – and she spat congealed yellow phlegm onto the sand beside him.

“We’re not beggars,” Yang started to protest. He stopped. Their clothes were torn and dirty, they reeked of waste and ocean, and they had no shelter. They were beggars, homeless, alone, in many ways. He knew silver still clinked in Maya’s pockets, but he did not know what to do with it. He could hold it up and trade it with the merchants who sang in their melodic language at the stalls, but he knew he would be cheated out of their only wealth.

Yang switched strategies. “Please,” he said. “We’ve just disembarked from England. We have no place to go. We cannot trade – we’re helpless. Help us.”

Pride was bitter, and slipped down his throat with the consistency of rocks.

“Do you know who I am?” the woman demanded, gesturing to her attire and the flamboyant paintings on her house. The stink of opium and incense wafted from her opened windows, gauzy pink curtains billowing.

“No?” said Yang.

The woman laughed; a cruel, unforgiving cackle.

“Who are you?” asked Yang.

The woman continued to laugh. “The follower of a god whose name you will forgot as soon I speak it. Such it the way with forgotten Hindu deities – they can never be remembered,” the woman paused. “Come, inside. But do not think my kindness is without a price.”

Yang rose. Maya tugged violently on his arm. When Yang looked down, she had written in the sand with her fingertip: W-I-T-C-H. Yang stared hopelessly at the meaningless words. He crouched down. “Please, Maya,” he whispered, heat and embarrassment coating his tone. “You know I cannot read.”

Maya tugged harder on his arm, a feral desperation in her eyes. When he attempted to pull away, she yanked him back down. “Maya, let go,” he pleaded. “I have to. We won’t survive on our own.”

Immediately, her hand flew to her pocket, but Yang placed his hand over hers. “We can do nothing with those here,” he said. “You know it and I do too. Even if we squandered them, we will still be left here in the same situation. This is an opportunity. We must.”

The woman, who’d already gone inside, poked her head from the window. When she saw Maya’s words in the sand, she cackled once more. “The girl is wise. Of our blood, too. You would best listen to her.”

But Yang could not. He did not have the ears for her words, nor her the tongue for her own words. He could not listen; he did not know what she said, what she warned.

Maya refused to enter the house. He went alone, the woman assuring him she’d be safe outside. “My name is Jyothi,” the woman said. “Welcome to my employ.”

A sense of dread encompassed the room.

Jyothi’s house was decorated in reds, pinks and oranges. The fabrics diaphanous and flimsy, the stink of incense always present in the air. Jyothi gave him the address of an inn down the street where she’d pay for his lodge, if he agreed to work for her.

He deposited Maya there without much thought. She kicked and dragged and gestured wildly back at the woman’s home, but Yang silenced her with a dark glare. At the inn, down the lane, Yang handed the innkeeper – a short, stout older woman with thin hair – the reference Jyothi provided in Sanskrit, and he was given the keys to a room labelled ’17’. The room there was small, humid and reeked of sweat. But at least Maya agreed to step onto the property. There was a bed in the corner, and a window that looked out onto the street. It was a climb to the third floor, but it was progress. Yang had spent his fair share of time wandering the streets of Canton aimlessly as a lowly dock worker trying to make ends meet, and if life had been difficult in Canton, it would be harder in Surat. Maya bolted the door after Yang left, and Yang wasn’t sure if it was to keep her safe inside or to keep him out. He was doing this for her, for them, he assured himself, but the words were a sieve and the water drained out; his promises without substance.

He returned to Jyothi’s abode, and she shoved a broom in his hand. “Clean,” she commanded and Yang sentenced himself to servitude once more. In the name of Maya.