I first saw her in the airport, the day I was taking my flight home to England.

My eyes were drawn to her. A young bride, an Indian girl in her marriage garb; a blood red sari, one end looped over her head, so only her fine young face was showing. Glass and gold bangles on her slim wrists.

The tops of her feet and the backs of her hands had patterns painted on them, in henna.

She was surrounded by, I supposed, her relatives. She was beautiful, very beautiful. But she did not look happy, not happy at all. The look on her face, her expression, was more of defiance than anything else. Her eyebrows were knitted together, the corners of her small mouth turned downwards in a frown.

Her mother was sobbing a little. A simply dressed man, her father? Was talking to another, higher caste man, a higher up. I didn’t like him.

As if it was up to me to like or dislike any of these people. I didn’t know them; I couldn’t hear what they were saying in any case. My turn came to check in, and I forgot them.

I was pleasantly surprised when the young bride was shown to the seat next me by the English stewardess.

She had the window seat, I, the aisle.

Fate is a strange thing, if you believe in fate. I never did, but I think I must now.

The flight was delayed for several hours. Were that not so, we probably would’ve never had the time to get to know each other. The flight to Kuwait is only four or five hours. For that’s where she was headed to; Kuwait. To be married.

“My name is Tom.” I told her, hoping that she would speak some English.

Sometimes I’ve taken transcontinental flights without exchanging a word with the passenger in the seat next to mine. Other times, I’ve had great conversations, even started friendships on planes.

It didn’t seem very likely that I’d have much in common with this girl, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be fun to talk to.

“I am Salima.” she replied, hesitantly.

We made a little Small talk, then I asked her;

“So why are you so unhappy?”

“He’s horrible.” she replied.

“Then why are you marrying him?” I asked, like an idiot. Was not the scene in the airport self-explanatory?

“I have been sold.” She said.

I had realized she was less than willing, but I was still taken aback at what she told me.

“I thought that sort of thing didn’t happen anymore,” I said.

“Oh yes,” she said calmly, “it is happening every day.”

“But perhaps,” I offered, “you’ll find happiness after some time.”

“How can I ever be happy with him,” she replied, “when he is old enough to be my grandfather?”

I was shocked into silence for a minute, then I replied, “Now surely he’s not that old.”

“One moment,” she said to me, “and I will show you his snap.”

After looking in her little bag, she produced a little folder, and opened it. A black and white photo, passport sized, head and shoulders. Indeed, the man did look nearly old enough to be her grandfather. 50, 60 years old at least. How could this happen? This girl had to be a teenager. I was flabbergasted.

“How, how old are you?” I immediately regretted the question, it was too personal. Then again, we were already having a pretty personal conversation.

“I am 16 years old” she replied.

“This has to be illegal, there must be some authorities to appeal to, to prevent this.”

“Here in India,” she replied, “everybody is corrupt only. Nobody will take my side. We are poor, while my husband’s agents will pay money, and everyone takes his side.”

“So you’re already married?” I asked her

“It is not legal,” she replied, “we were married by a mullah, but there is no paper. We are to be married properly when I arrive in his country.”

There was silence for some time, then I said; “Your father accepted money for you.” It was not a question, a statement.

“Yes,” she said, “my father likes to drink. He has no money, he has no work. One man suggested to him that I could be answer to this problem. Normally here in India, a dowry must be paid to get a daughter married. My father would never have this money, and this is shame to all of us. By marrying me to this Kuwaiti man, he will be taking money instead of giving money.”

“But that man, your husband, he is so old and you are so young.”

“He was wanting a virgin.” She said to me.

I was quite shocked at the forwardness of the statement. She was young, 16 years old. That she should speak to me, a foreigner, about her virginity, impressed me.

I said to her “Do you have a boyfriend, somebody you would’ve liked to be with?”

“Yes” she said, “I had a boyfriend, in Delhi.”

I was filled with emotion, the hopelessness of her situation, the mundaneness of my own. Returning from my holiday. A cheap Third World holiday, sharing a flight with her, as she headed toward her emotional doom.

“Is there anything I can do for you,” I asked her, “is there any way I can help you?”

What a stupid thing to say, I thought, how can she know what it was possible to do. If she knew, she wouldn’t be here; she wouldn’t be on this flight, which was now heading towards the runway at last.

In she was looking out the window, and then she turned to me so her that her lips were nearly at my ears, and she whispered to me: “What upsets me most is that he is getting what he paid for.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She said nothing. She looked down between her feet. I looked there also. She wore open shoes. She had very pretty feet too. She had silver rings on her toes.

I looked back up at her face. She was dark, for an Indian girl. In India, a dark complexion is equated with lower caste. I found her very beautiful.

Her dark complexion was silky smooth, and the thin gold ring in her nose contrasted wonderfully with it.

At last, I realized what she meant. That she had saved herself, she had not allowed her boyfriend what he wanted. She had saved herself, but not for this.

I slid my hand under the armrest and took her small brown one in it. I had no intention to take it further, I merely wanted comfort her, I swear.

As we reached cruising altitude, and the little dong sounded announcing that we may remove our seatbelts, and use the toilet, the evil thought came to my mind. I could have her here, on this plane, in the toilet.

The temptation. could any man resist? Yes, I can hear you saying, a man could, should resist. But it was not I. I looked into her eyes. They were huge, brown, and clear. Sensuous, almond eyes, eyes I could look into forever. Could she possibly be thinking the same thing that I was thinking?

I squeezed her hand lightly and brushed across her palm with my thumb. A simple gesture, almost nothing, yet filled with meaning.

She looked out the window and squeezed my hand in return, and I thought I detected an increase in her respiratory rate.

She kept her silence as I ran my fingertips up her slim brown wrist to the inside of her elbow, and back again. She turned her head to look at me, and her large young eyes stared deeply into mine again. I had overwhelming urge to kiss her, to hold her, to comfort her, to love her. I wanted to defend her against the world and its horrible reality. Yet, weren’t my own feelings a part of that horrible reality? What I wanted was only the same thing to the old man from Kuwait wanted, to have this beauty for my own, for this moment, or forever, whatever I could get.