My Father's Daughter

By Akashni Maharaj

This book explores the journey of a young South African girl of Indian origin, Romy, who is kidnapped and raped while on a study visit to the Sorbonne in Paris. She escapes from her captors and flees back to her family in South Africa but discovers later that she is pregnant. A friend of the family, Arish Metha, a psychiatrist and long-time secret admirer of Romy, claims the child as his and she agrees to marry him to gain social respectability.
Romy and Arish lead a happy life as husband and wife, but cracks begin to appear in this family when Arish undergoes a complete personality transformation, later revealed to be Dissociative Identity Disorder. It is only when Romy undergoes hypnotherapy to help her cope with the post-traumatic stress of the past 17 years that she discovers that her rapist could be Arish, her husband.
Before Romy can confront her husband with what she has learnt, he flees to Paris, taking Rusha and Rusha’s cousin Arielle, with him which leads to dramatic events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin Beck
• Release date: Jun 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781920535919

Akashni Maharaj

Dr Akashni Maharaj is a psychologist who lives and practices in Durban, South Africa. She is a graduate of the University of Kwazulu-Natal and the university of Zululand. Her PhD took her on a journey towards the metaphysical aspect of life and now presently in her practice; she works holistically by focusing on the interplay between the mind, body and the spirit. She facilitates a process of self-discovery within the individual towards finding their soul purpose.

Book preview

Chapter Twenty One: Nate / Arish

Chapter Twenty Two: Nate

Chapter Twenty Three: Nate / Arish

Chapter Twenty Four: Rusha

Chapter Twenty Five: Rusha

Chapter Twenty Six: Romy and Arish

Chapter Twenty Seven: The Mehta Household

Chapter Twenty Eight: Romy’s Therapy Session

Chapter Twenty Nine: Romy’s Next Therapy Session

Chapter Thirty: Hypnosis

Chapter Thirty One: Romy

Chapter Thirty Two: Arun and Pia

Part Three: Paris

Chapter Thirty Three: Nate, Arielle and Rusha

Chapter Thirty Four: Jaanvi aka Sonia

Chapter Thirty Five: Rene and Sonia

Part Four: South Africa

Chapter Thirty Six: Arun, Romy and Pia

Part Five: Paris

Chapter Thirty Seven: Rene

Chapter Thirty Eight: Nate

Chapter Thirty Nine: Arun and Romy

Chapter Forty: Rusha and Nate / Arish

Chapter Forty One: Romy and Rene

Chapter Forty Two: Nate

Chapter Forty Three: Romy and Rene

Chapter Forty Four: Rene

Chapter Forty Five: Prefunct de Police

Chapter Forty Six: Romy and Nate / Arish

Chapter Forty Seven: Romy

Chapter Forty Eight: Club le Victorious

Chapter Forty Nine: Romy and Nate / Arish

Epilogue

About the Author

PART ONE

Paris

CHAPTER ONE

Romy

1993

She lay on the floor with her legs curled up under her. She could feel her pulse racing as she battled to focus her eyes on her surroundings. Her eyes felt heavy as if they had been glued together, a lot like the time when her grandmother died and she had cried so much so that her eyelids had felt like lead and all she had wanted to do was sleep.

With great effort, she opened her eyes to the unfamiliar surroundings and was repulsed by the smell that immediately assailed her senses. It stank of a combination of blood, stale perfume and sweat, but also a smell that she could not identify. As she tried to move, shafts of pain ran through her body, making her legs feel like jelly, as if she had just run an entire marathon.

As she moved her legs, her muscles protested in agony and a sharp pain was localized in her rectal area. She was sore and could not straighten her body without enduring great agony, and when she put her hand to the small of her back, she felt her clothes were damp and filthy.

She stood up and slowly made her way towards what seemed like a faded mirror in the distance. She looked at the reflection that stared back at her. She did not recognize the creature caricatured by the mirror. The person staring back at her was an exhausted, fragile, worn-out girl. Her face was sunken, her chocolate eyes were huge as saucers and her cheeks were blackened by the kohl that dripped from her eyes.

Who are you? she asks the reflection staring back at her. The cloying stench became more distinct, causing her to retch reflexively; she gagged on the bile burning her throat but didn’t throw up. A noise emanating behind her startled her.

You up my sweet? The voice, like the smell, was unfamiliar. As her gaze focused once again in the dimly lit room, she became aware of a heavily built black man who had planted his bulk in front of her, dwarfing her small frame. He put a hand on her shoulders and she quivered uncontrollably at his touch. She recognized this touch, it was the touch of evil – pure unadulterated evil, and yet there was something unsettlingly familiar about it. She stepped away from his silhouette.

Don’t run away from me sweet … you are still my sweet aren’t you? You were especially wonderful last night.

Romy looked up at this strange figure and tried to remember the previous night. What happened last night, she thought to herself. Why does he call me sweet all the time? Where am I? Who is this person?

The burly man came towards her once more, causing Romy to trip over and fall onto the bed. He put both of his beefy hands on either side of her body, barely touching her yet still leaning into her. She moved further back onto the bed, wishing that the bed would swallow her up.

She closed her eyes in the hope that he would go away but just as he was attempting to plant a kiss on her parched lips, the door opened and a small voice in the corridor calls to him.

Are you coming?

He replied back. He looked at her and whispered in her ear, "For a tasty morsel like you, I will be back later."

She cautiously opened her eyes when she heard the door slam shut. This jolted her into action and she began to move as fast as her aching body would permit. I need to get out of here, I need to get out of here. She grabbed some clothes that were strewn over the floor and made a dash for the door.

The door would not open; it seemed it was jammed from the outside. She desperately turned the knob repeatedly, hoping the action would cause the door to open. On her last attempt the door swung open, hitting her in the face and causing her to stumble backwards onto the floor.

She got up quickly and tried to run past her captor who stood in the doorway, obstructing her route of escape. He pushed her against the wall with uncalled for violence. Her head hit the wall hard and the pain that shot through her skull caused her vision to blur. Her hands fell onto the soft, fluffy carpet and moved her fingers over the carpet fibres. She could hear voices and see shadows and gathered that there were two men standing over her.

She recognized the outline of the burly man but there was another man with him who spoke in a soft tone. He leaned over and touched her face gently, enabling her to feel the warmth of his hands as he brushed her cheek.

For a second, the touch felt familiar and she felt safe, allowing herself to slump into his arms as he reached out, picked her up and laid her gently on the bed. In her subconscious state, she could feel the lights in the room become brighter but she was unsure whether it was the drapes being opened or a light in the room being switched on.

She managed to slowly focus her attention as the blurriness of her eyes was resolving itself and she was able to focus clearly on the light. It was a camera light being shone on the bed. Fear gripped her as she realized what this set-up was. She knew she was in mortal danger if she did not make a run for it. She scanned the room quickly and saw a tall, well-dressed, man with his back towards her.

She called out to him. Please can you help me? Why are you doing this to me?

The man did not respond but gestured to the burly guy. Romy got off the bed and was making her way towards the man whose back was turned towards her when the burly man crossed over to her and held her back firmly. It struck her that his body gave off an offensive odour that was a mixture of tobacco and sweat with cheap perfume.

She could feel his breath on her, brushing over her. Romy fought as he held his hand over her mouth. She bit down and he swore at her. He tightened his grip on her, lifted her off the floor and threw her onto the bed. Romy screamed and kicked and pushed and fought with the little energy she had left, but she stopped when she felt a cold rush in her arm. The drug was so powerful that within seconds Romy’s eyes lost focus and she was engulfed in silent darkness.

Sunlight poured into the room, making it seem bright and airy and, for a time, almost pleasant. Romy could feel a breeze coming through the open, grilled window as well as the warmth of the sun as she lay on the bed. Her body was warm but still very sore. Her legs hurt a little and she looked at her right arm and could see a big purple and black mark there. She touched it and it felt sore to the touch.

She managed to bend her arms so as to get the blood flowing through her abused limbs again. She got up from the bed and felt searing pain in her rectum. She got up and made her way over to the open window which looked out into the street.

She could see many people moving around, and as she looked below, she could see that she was at least three storeys high above the road. She moved away from the window and looked around the unfamiliar room. She did not recognize anything from her previous conscious state. She walked around and looked at the beautiful furniture, imported rugs and paintings of beautiful, Indian women clothed in colourful, Indian garb.

She made her way towards the bathroom which had high ceilings and a spacious jacuzzi. The bathroom was clearly decorated for a romantic interlude – there were red candles all around the tub and rose petals scented the bath water, the thick, woven rug and the other bathroom accessories were all in red or black, there were massive mirrors on two of the four walls with the third supporting a huge painting of an Indian man and woman engaging in the vrikshadhirudhaka position extoled in the Kama Sutra. This room could have either been in someone’s luxury home or a very expensive hotel.

Her movements were agonizingly slow, but after she had conducted a brief investigation of the room, she came to the realization that she was alone and she was free. Her first thoughts were to flee as there was no one to stop her, nobody in sight. She ran to the door and turned the knob. Surprisingly, the door was unlocked. She carefully opened the door a crack and cautiously looked out, only to see a long, empty corridor.

She opened the door a little wider and, reassuring herself that no one was in the corridor, ran for her life. She decided that it was too dangerous to risk taking the elevators, so she made her way to the silent stairwell. Where she was escaping to, she was not sure but one thing that she was certain about was that she needed to get out of and as far away as she could from that building.

She ran down the stairs, floor after floor, for what seemed like ages when she noticed an exit sign and opened the door to find herself in the lobby of an apartment building which had the name Ambika Apartments on the gate.

The gate was locked, so she hid in the shadows, waiting for someone to unlock the security. When the opportunity presented itself, she stole through the gate without raising any suspicion or warning bells. She entered an alley where the stench of urine was overpowering. As she walked down the narrow road, she could see graffiti scratched on the walls but one stood out for her; a saying – Bandar Ka Bachcha (monkeys child). As she continued to walk she found herself on a busy street.

She listened to the voices that floated around her and immediately recognized the language they were speaking. Thank goodness she was still in France. She searched for any markings that might give her clues as to what street she was in. High up on the side of a building was a sign board that read Passage Brady. The pedestrian passage was lined with many Indian restaurants and shops, almost as if she had just been teleported to one of the streets in Delhi or Mumbai.

Many of the local Indians spoke Tamil. Romy recognized the language as many of the indentured labourers, who had moved from India to South Africa with her grandfather and other relatives, had been from South India.

Colorful lanterns dangled from the rusted crossbeams and danced rhythmically to the sounds of north Indian music which was emanating from one of the coiffure shops where haircuts were advertised for five euros. Romy looked with amazement at the many shops that lined the passage with names such as the Reine du Bangladesh, Passage de Pondicherrry, Sheetals.

She had never been to this part of Paris before but she recognized that she was in Strausburg, a part of town that she had been warned to keep away from because of the crime. It was lunch time and the passage was lined with hungry workers hoping to get served before their lunch hour was up. Being of Indian descent, the dense crowd provided Romy some comfort. She slowed her gait, which helped to steady her heartbeat and normalize her breathing.

She needed to call someone to get her back to the Sorbonne. She walked into Pooja restaurant and was greeted by a young Indian waitress who could not have been more than eighteen years old. The waitress agreed to speak to the restaurant manager – a big Indian sardar with a white turban – on her behalf to obtain permission to use the phone.

She took a seat rather reluctantly at an obscure table, and fiddled with the string tied around her wrist. She ran her hand underneath it and over it, playing with it but silently praying that she gains raksha(strength) from it. Romy knew that in Hinduism, the red string was a symbol of strength.

It is customary for Hindus to tie a red thread on the wrist at the beginning of a religious ceremony, on the right wrist of men and the left wrist of women. She remembered their family priest relaying the origins of the red string. For Romy, the significance was of protection from the Mother goddess, Shakti.

Shakti is the concept, or personification, of divine feminine creative power, sometimes referred to as 'The Great Divine Mother’ in Hinduism. It is from where strength and courage prevail. She held the string close to her eyes and prayed for the divine Mother to open her way for the Sardar to allow her the use of the phone.

As she completed her silent prayer, the Sardar looked in her direction and gave her a look of contempt and shook his head with a look of disgust, easily readable on his pock-marked face. In answer to Romy’s prayer, he signaled to her to come over as he pointed to the phone. She thanked the Divine Mother and the kind waitress and ran to the phone.

CHAPTER TWO

Nate

1993

Where is she? You moron, did I not tell you to lock the door after me? She could be anywhere. We must find her. Go out there and don’t return until you find her. She could not have gotten very far.

Sorry boss, I am on it.

Nate hated incompetence. It was something he detested more than anything in life. When he had asked the locals that he often interacted with in Paris to hook him up with a guy who can get things done, little did he know he would be introduced to the incredible hulk.

Obasi Chika was a big black guy who came to Paris from Nigeria. He engaged in all kinds of activity, but primarily he was part of a ‘gun for hire’ group" that smuggled cocaine and heroin into Paris for distribution. Nate needed to have some work of a ‘delicate nature’ done so he asked around and a young Turkish gentleman named Gabir Iskander introduced him to Obasi Chika.

Obasi Chika was more than adequate for the job Nate needed to have done. Obasi took care of everything that required physical effort. He was good at it. He was a man who could follow instructions and got things done. He was also quite clued in as to where and how to get the best drugs. He knew the direct source, he did not believe in getting things from a middle man. So for Nate, Obasi Chika was exactly what he needed during his stay here in Paris.

Nate looked around the room and picked up the shawl that lay on the bed. He put it to his nose and breathed in her scent. He closes his eyes as he remembered the nights he had spent with her. She was amazing – young, beautiful and all his. Her body had felt like silk, so smooth and perfect, when he’d run his hands along her back.

Her eyes were dark and dusty, like an Arabian princess. All those beautiful memories, six days and five nights spent with the perfect woman. He needed to have her more and more each day. The more he was with her the more he craved her. She was every man’s dream woman. He threw the shawl back onto the bed and slammed his wrist against the dresser.

Where could you be? As he was asking himself this question the phone rang.

Did you find her?

No, Boss. She is not at the Sorbonne, she never returned. There are lots of people trying to find her. I think it’s quite dangerous to pursue this. What shall we do?

Leave it. I will call you before I leave.

Okay, Boss.

Nate looked at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes looked tired and dull. He needed to catch up on his sleep, so he decided to go back to his hotel room to get some shut-eye. He made his way down towards Brady passage. Lunch time was over and the passage was virtually empty. He walked into Pooja restaurant and gave his favourite waitress a smile as she was making her way towards him.

How are you, Mr Nate?

I am well Jaanvi, and you?

I’m great, thanks. So what can I get you?

Tandoori chicken skewers with raita and sambal. Can you make it quick? I have lots to take care of before I leave to go back home.

Are you going back home to South Africa?

Yes I am.

When will you be back?

I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I went back home. I need to go back and I’m not sure when I will return.

Oh that’s a shame! It was good having you here. I’ll miss you coming in for lunch and dinner every day. It is going to be so hard not having someone whom I can speak fluent English with. Now I have to settle for the locals and their broken English.

Maybe you should try and brush up on your French?

Maybe, but I prefer to be more posh and speak the international language of English which I so rarely get an opportunity to speak. Did you know I came first in my English class? I always knew I was meant for bigger and better things but, unfortunately, I got stuck here in this restaurant, to repay my aunt and uncle for their kindness. And do you know Mr Nate, kindness can take forever to repay, She looked at him with a smile pasted on her face, yet the eyes brimmed with sadness.

Nate was too engrossed in the whereabouts of his escapee to notice that Jaanvi was looking to him for comfort and encouragement.

And you know French people are so bourgeois, She continued, smiling sadly as she spoke about her dislike for French people. Nate smiled back, disinterested.

Jaanvi walked away from the table with his order written in a little notebook, clutched delicately in her hand. Nate smiled at Jaanvi’s words and wondered what life would have been like had he not come to Paris. Paris had never been something he’d needed or wanted but somehow he had found himself on the plane to Paris, following a dream, a dream that came true during the past week. Never had he dreamt that it would have been possible.

He reached into his pocket and looked at his phone, scrolling through the acquaintances he had made over the month he spent in Paris. There were many but the last one was what he had come all the way to Paris for. She was his dream woman and he would follow her to the far ends of the earth if he had to. However, when she told him she was going to Paris, he could not forget the demeaning manner in which she had treated him. He had to come and show her how much he loved her. Unfortunately, he could not do it face to face.

His thoughts went back to the night he saw her in the club, the first time he had seen her outside South Africa. She had looked gorgeous in her blue sequinned top and tight, black jeans. She looked through him and he had not understood how she could not recognize him.

He had smiled at her from a distance and she smiled back but when she made her way towards him, she walked right past. Holding the drink in his hand he turned to see the person she was greeting and this enraged him. It was a young white male in his mid-twenties. He looked okay enough but he had a drink in his hand and he whispered into her ear. She bent her head slightly to the left and smiled at him with her warm, captivating eyes shining.

The young Frenchman had then put his hand on her shoulder and directed her towards a table. She sat down and he sat annoyingly close to her. He could see the French guy’s hand brush over her thigh, watched her move closer to him and then saw the man’s hand run along the side of her face, causing her to close her eyes in apparent enjoyment before he moved closer to her and sealed his lips on hers.

Nate remembered how that had enraged him. He knew she belonged to him only, and to hand herself over to a white man was inconceivable. How could she? What is she thinking? Didn’t she remember the Apartheid era we were currently transitioning out of in South Africa. We are barely opening our new born eyes into democracy and she forgets how the whites treated us. Has she no loyalty to our Indianness?

He turned around with the drink in his hand and placed both hands on the bar in apparent disgust and irritation.

Another vodka and tonic please! Nate took the drink and had gulped it down in seconds and was making his way towards them when a hand was placed on his shoulder.

Mr Nate? Nate turned around so abruptly, he spilled a little of his drink.

Yes, who wants to know?

I am Obasi Chika!

Obasi Chika? Oh yes, yes! Obasi Chika. Nate took Obasi Chika’s hand and shook it and they made their way over to an empty booth. At this point Nate remembered that he was at the bar for business and that she would have to wait till later. He looked in her direction and snarled.

No one gets away with what belongs to me. He turned to Obasi Chika and continued with his conversation. His reverie was interrupted by the waitress Jaanvi coming back.

Here’s your tandoori chicken with raita and sambal, Mr Nate. Can I get you anything else? Nate snapped out of his daze and looked directly up into Jaanvi’s eyes and wondered why he never found her attractive. She was nicely built with beautiful hair and eyes.

Jaanvi, what are you doing tonight? Would you like to go out for an early dinner and speak more of your English with me before I leave?

"Oh Mr Nate really, it’s your last night here and you would like to have dinner with me. I am really honoured. Yes, I would like that very much. But let me ask my uncle if he can find another waitress to work the night shift. If he is okay with it, then