This first person account of a prostitute depicts and unravels the onerous journey of a harlot from becoming a devdasi to reforming into a survivor, conquering the tribulation in her life in a daunting manner. This narrative portrays the life of a h...
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When I reached the room, we were being served with lunch. I sat on the matted floor eagerly as I was very hungry, but to my disappointment our lunch comprised of hard and thick chappatis, one raw onion, salt and a boiled potato. I felt very awful. I missed my amma's dhosa and sambar. My mouth became watery when I imagined her coconut chutney and the soft idlis. But when I chewed the chappatis, it felt as if I was eating cement. Though I felt like vomiting but I was taught by mother not to waste food. As we were poor, thus I respected what I got to eat.
In the dingy dark cell, which provided an obscured ambience, exposed me to a new populace. Here I came to know that my story was not unique. There were hundreds of us- from Nepal, Bangladesh, Bihar, West Bengal and Pakistan even, sold into the dingy brothels. We were different in language, caste, religion, skin colour and form but were united due to the unnerved soul deep within our hearts as we were vulnerable to a macabre. We all shared the same sentiments.
One of the girls Neeta was made devdasi because her family wanted a baby boy and another because of her father's sickness. We girls were made devdais for petty reasons, as if only we were responsible for bringing fortune to our family. Did it really bring lady luck to our home ? Was money more supreme than our purity, our virginity? I am ashamed of living in this society where girls are revered in terms of their body, where birth of girls is considered a burden while often they become serviceable to reduce burdens.
"We are the one who heal the world with our love, displacing all the grey clouds from your lives and reaching out to wipe away all the fears. We draw strength from our troubles and soothe your blemishes. We are like the rare and precious jewel which illuminates your life by sacrificing million glows from her life. We are like the pearly dewdrops which mend many fallen twigs."
Next morning I, with the other call girls was taken to the brothel owner where she informed me that I would be serving fifteen customers per day. My shifts would be from 12pm to 4am and in the morning we would be taught dance and even had to perform them in front of guests. Though I felt horrible, still I was taken to a room where all girls were being transformed into seductive prostitutes.
I was made beautiful with kajal, lipstick and other cosmetics. Further I was given a dress to wear which made me awestruck. The dress comprised of a shiny mini skirt and a top which had little to hide and more to reveal. I had never worn such a dress though had seen it in films. I knew I wasn't a film star but a call girl. So I had nothing to admire, rather I felt sordid and vulgar.
I kept pulling the skirt downwards wishing to increase its length as I felt very awkward. I was told to wait in the lobby for my first customer along with other girls. I saw the front door open and as I peeped through it, two police constables came into my notice. I slowly approached towards the gate when no one was seeing.
I thought that if my plan worked then I would succeed to save others too. But lamentably, I was trapped again. When I went up to my imaginary rescuers and narrated them the reality of the brothel, they held me tightly and again took me back to the abyss. They gleefully handed me over to the pimp and received a prescribed bribe.
I was perturbed by the reaction of the policemen. How on earth could they be so fiendish? Wearing the police uniform and swearing the protection of masses, how could they scandalize us and support this social evil. Furthermore the expression of the panderers alarmed that something terrific was going to happen.
Two men and the owner took me to a room where they undressed me and tied me up to the ceiling fan with a rope. I hanged me upside down and they switched on the fan. 'I was slapped when I was spinning around'. The account of this torture makes me recoil in revulsion. It traumatised me to such an extent that I started having night terrors and edginess. When for two days I didn't respond to any conversation, instead of consulting a doctor, they persecuted me more.
Memories still flash in my mind of my hair being pulled, of being dragged through the dirt streets by the brothel owner after the failed escape. Even though I cried, screamed for someone to help me, people just stood by watching, without even a look of sympathy. Tears stream down my face as I think back to that day. If even one man had tried to save me, my life would have been changed. But all of them stood there like mute spectators.
After that incident I had to finally surrender with lost stamina. I had lost my identity. I was no longer that Yashri who was lionhearted and immensely courageous. Now I was merely a body put on for sale in the flesh market.
Days passed. It was sarcastic how our health was ignored but the health of our flesh was cared for. We would be fed rotten food which sometimes comprised of parantha and tasteless sabzi which had more water than spices. One afternoon, as I stood at the front gate waiting for my clients, I saw a street vendor passing by who sold pani Puri (a type of Indian food). The sight was very appealing but I feared the consequences of my actions.
Though I wore clothes which made me mature, though I dressed like a woman but my heart was still like that of a kid. I still wished to ride a swing, to eat lots of pani Puri, playing with squirrels, tugging flowers in my hair, but as a disastrous verity was that I was enslaved. I was no more allowed to be a cute, innocent girl who followed her heart.
