Now published in Not Like Most Young Girls, a collection of stories based on the lives of sex workers published by NGO Aastha. The book is available in all major book-stores.
A Bedtime Story
Once upon a time...
“What do you think I am- a toddler?”
I scowled.
Once upon a time I was. I still am, of course, but today I am just a ‘was’. I still live, lifeless, though nobody cares now. Not that it matters though. Not to me, not to them. I belong to nobody, I am nobody. My name was Riya, but nobody knows it today. To me, I am still Riya...
“I think I’ll just leave now. You’re going nowhere. Cut to the chase, dammit.”
“Do you or do you not want it?” I snapped. You should never let them get the better of you.
He chose silence.
“Then we’ll do it my way,” I said. “Argh, now I forgot where I was.”
“You are still Riya,” he said helpfully, his voice suitably humble.
I don’t want to get into my birth and all. Ma and Pa worked at construction sites and didn’t have any far-fetched ‘rags to riches’ dreams for me. I was born poor, lottery was a bitch and so the only priority was two meals per day which three of us shared with Pa getting the largest, always. My way of living was hands-raised-to-head-to-reach-the-mouth, as most of my kind do- carrying the cement around. At the end of the day, if the Bade Sahab was sober, I would get paid well. Our lives passed thus. We had never heard of any Sarva Shiksha Abhiyaan or the child labour ban. But we were still content. God bless ignorant bliss.
I never knew a day would come when I would have to knock on his door- my uncle’s, wait an endless wait, knock over and over again, get sworn at by harried neighbours until the door opened only to be stared at by a half familiar face, a feeling not reciprocated, and thus explain myself- my identity and my reason for being there.
But then, I don’t get premonitions, do I? How was I supposed to guess the death of my Ma and Pa, to foresee the fall, to guess the weakness of the protective nets? My mother dove in to save my dad. How did she expect to do that? By defying gravity?
It was all so sudden; I don’t even remember how that felt. Maybe that’s what they call numbness. The bodies were almost mashed into one with splattered blood and scattered bones. I could hear a few screams; see a couple of women swooning and had to wait mutely as Bade Sahab rushed to the spot.
I never knew he was so concerned about me- he gave me a thousand rupees and told me that he knew my uncle. I vaguely recalled staying in uncle’s chawl the day I came to Mumbai. That was about five years ago when me and my mother had arrived here from Bangla. It wasn’t surprising that the Bade Sahab knew of him- he kept the names and addresses of each of his employees’ relatives in a small black worn-out diary titled ‘2001’, lest something went fishy. I was strictly told to keep mum about the accident and never reveal myself to anyone. I had never seen so many Gandhis in my life so I readily obeyed. I was patted on the back and sent ‘home’, which, for a change, wasn’t the sloping roofed cow-dung floored one from my childhood or the tin walled one in my Mumbai life. It was made of concrete- something I helped build my whole working life but never quite enjoyed the benefits of. Now I was enjoying benefits of somebody else’s sweat.
“Sweet,” he smiled.
I ignored him.
It was around 11 pm. I knocked.
His house was on the top floor. “The first floor, at the corner,” Bade Sahab had told me when he personally dropped me in an auto-rickshaw, introducing me to a luxury I’d never before experienced. Overwhelmed, I had touched his feet. He had smiled and hugged me, repeating that I maintain a complete silence over the matter.
I knocked again. Then I spotted the doorbell. Pressing it, no expected ‘ding’ came. I took a second look at the chawl. The common ground the three sides shared had a small dais in the middle which I guess is used during the Ganesh Chaturthi and a flag post on the side. A saffron flag lay limp on it.
“Madhav uncle,” I called out softly, leaning closer to the door.
No response.
“Madhav uncle!” A bit louder this time.
“Chyamaila,” I heard an irritated voice from an adjoining house. I decided to shut up for a while. Just when I had almost given up, the door opened and he appeared.
My Uncle Madhav.
A staring Uncle Madhav.
I attempted a smile. He held the door with his left palm resting on its top. He gave no sign of recognition, no hint of wanting to inquire who the hell I was and what was I doing at that time in front of his house. I decided to fill that void. My parents had deserted me out of the blue (as instructed by Bade Sahab) and I didn’t have anywhere to go. He let me in, still staring. He asked no questions, prodded no further, just quietly made a little gap so that I could pass in. I did.
Closing the door behind me, Uncle Madhav moved near the cot. He dragged a worn out mattress out of it and spread it on the floor. His pillow with its greasy cover was kept on a side. He seemed satisfied with the courtesy he had extended.
“Sleep,” he said, in a throaty voice and lay back on his bed closing his eyes on the world.
I obeyed. In a short time, I was asleep too.
“It is a true story, isn’t it?” he asked softly.
I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to.
“Listen, I’m not here to hear the poor pathetic tale of a poor pathetic girl. It’s already been,” he glanced at his watch, “fifteen minutes and all you’ve told me is how your life is a miserable whore.”
“Joke?”
“Fuck jokes. I’m not here to pity you.”
“Can’t stop me, can you?” Retorts work. Always.
Oh yes, speaking of pity, where did I leave you off in my pitiful tale? Right, I was sleeping at my uncle’s place. Now, if this writer guy who’s relating you my whines were attempting for a Booker or Pulitzer, he would’ve told you how I woke up with the din of people waiting for the common bath-n-shit room, the Hindi film songs from the neighbour’s radio, how I got up and went to the common balcony and would’ve given you a dozen pages description of the skyline, the human buzz, the pooping dogs and cackling birds, and the thoughts running through my mind while I observed those with heavy words such as ‘surging curiosity’ and ‘relishing nakedness of simplicity’ and describe some people to be ‘effervescently charming’ while others ‘eminently forgettable’ while being Kafkaesque like now. But you see he is not aiming for that. Psst, if you ask me, he can’t get that! So here we go- jumping directly to the dark parts.
The part when my uncle first violated me.
This didn’t happen the very next day I came to stay at his place. Oh no, my uncle is better than jumping at the first conveniently available female at sight. He tried to resist me, tried to stave me off. He maintained a distance physically and I am equally sure he tried to do the same mentally. Yep, full marks for trying.
This happened the third day, night rather. I was lying on the bed watching a mosquito trapped in a spider’s web when my uncle barged in. This was unusual; usually he gets in as if he is sneaking inside a stranger’s house with intent of robbery.
He shut the door loudly and I heard at least three different voices swearing for disturbing them in the dead of the night. One of them was ‘Chyamaila’, the Marathi swear which was by now my favourite. And boy, did he reek! Usually he removes his sweaty shirt and dirty pants, hangs it on the door, slips in his pyjamas and sleeps without even glancing at me. But today as he undressed, he threw the clothes on the floor and advanced towards me.
Chyamaila!
I stood up instantly, petrified. His pace quickened. Before I could react, he had locked me in a grip. His left palm covered my mouth, lest I cried out.
“Shh,” he whispered in my ears. I could smell the stink of the tharra even more vividly. His oily hair brushed against my ear and I felt something slimy against my cheek.
“Yum, you taste good,” he said.
I panicked and started struggling, trying to scream but only a small nasal sound came out. The grip was beastly. And now his other hand was kneading my breasts.
“My God! Have you ever looked at yourself, Riya,” he said, his breath fast and excited. This was the first time he had uttered my name. I hated the timing. “You look so bloody good. And damn, you feel even better. Your long fragrant hair…” He loosened my hair. I thrashed about harder and fell down on the mattress sideways with him holding me from the back. My hair half fell on my face and I sensed him smelling it.
“Your beautiful long hair, your growing breasts, your soft skin…do you have any idea how horny they all make me?” He was feeling me all over. I tried screaming again.
He twisted my arm. “Shut up,” he growled. “Or I swear I’ll cut you up. Heard of a kukri? That lies right on the top shelf. Be nice and this will be over soon. And you’ll enjoy it too. Trust me, I’m good.”
I eased up out of no choice. His hand slid downward and stroked my thighs. Curiously, I liked it.
“You know,” he said in a sickeningly silky voice. “The night you came in, I couldn’t sleep. The whole night I was staring at you. Doesn’t that tell how much I love you? But I tried to hold myself back. She’s your niece, I told myself. But love knows no boundaries, no blood-ties. All the time I was drinking, I fantasized about you. And now, I actually have you…” he paused. “Let me make love to you.”
He let go of my mouth and started tearing off my dress from the chest.
“Let go of…” I screamed, only half-heartedly before it was muffled with his iron hold on my mouth.
Now why scream if I liked it, you would ask. I’ll tell you something- not every rape victim cries after the man is done with her. Not every rape victim fails to have an orgasm if the sex is good. Not every rape victim is a victim of circumstances. But as far as the nakhras are concerned, every rape victim will do it.
Or maybe, it’s just me.
“Shut up, bitch,” he whispered acidly. He darted towards his pants, took out a handkerchief and gagged me. I tried turning away when he slid off my panties but a strong hand slapped my butt. It stung but I once again, I liked it. I decided not to resist when I saw his fat small throbbing organ ready to dip in me.
“That’s my Riya,” he moaned in pleasure. “Oh yeah, you’re so bloody good. See, that’s the trick-…”
And then he uttered those magical words that changed my life with him since that moment.
“…enjoy, don’t resist.”
I gave in. And I’ll tell you what, it felt good. I recall the one time I saw Ma and Pa at it. I was almost asleep when I heard a low groan near me. I opened my eyes a little and saw Pa on top of Ma. I was alarmed at the first but something told me not to interrupt. They went on for a few minutes at the end of which Ma let out a louder moan and Pa lay by her side, gasping like he did when he dragged a piles of stones for a long time. I remember the big smile Ma had on her face- and that told me it wasn’t pain but pleasure. A painful pleasure. Asking around the next day, I got to know that it was what is called fucking.
And now I was fucking. And it felt good. Real good. And at a point, I moaned too.
I moaned a pleasure moan.
“That should do it.” His voice was quivering in excitement as he got up and nearly pounced on me.
***
“Six, seven and... eight. There.”
He threw eight notes of five hundred rupees on the bed. The deal was of five thousand. I picked them up without a word. I was in no state to argue.
He was buttoning up his shirt. “Was it good for you?” he asked.
Small talk?
“You know, nobody wanted to do this. I once offered six to this ugly bitch but she was being such a prude! A prostitute with morals- can you believe that?” He laughed.
I looked into his eyes. There was an inferno of disgust raging in me. “So the more money you have, the flexible morals get, is that it?”
“And you say this?” he smirked.
I clipped my blouse, opened the door and banged it shut behind me. I was the smallest person in the whole wide world to have stooped to this level. Maybe I just needed to spit this out to someone, I tried justifying to myself. As I started walking down the staircase, the encounter with the pervert in the previous hour flashed before my eyes.
“Please please, I’m willing to give you anything. All I want is a story. Give me one with any family member raping you when you were a kid and you enjoying it before we do it. Just make it up, how hard can it be? Besides, you must get customers with special needs like me all the time.”
“Get away, you disgusting freak,” I resisted and started walking away. For a few moments, there was silence. Then there was-
“Five thousand.”
I froze on my tracks. A second later, I looked back. He was smiling.
“Only for my children,” I intoned. A fat tear plopped out drenching a bit of the tar on the road. “From the worst bedtime storyteller mom.”
1 comments:
Congratulations, Omkar. Hope you are well.
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