Yes I Was A Prostitute...

Chapter-7 I WAS A PROSTITUTE NOW

Each day I was raped by about fifteen paedophile customers. Some dusky, some pallid, some bronzed, some whitish but all federated by the desire of sexual pleasure. In this mankind, people have moved quite far from the humane feelings one should treasure.Since ages women have been viewed primarily as an object of male libido. 

Men brazenly evaluate us aesthetically and thus the status of women in India has still not been able to escape the ruthless clutches of power and establishment. In the most unfair play, it is the woman which has to pay the price.Though as a sex worker we are seen with enough raised eyebrows, grimaces of disgust, and looks of pity last a lifetime, but it is the people from this society who are entertained by us. 

As days passed, we learnt a new trick. The men were douche, their lusty tongues licked us which were disliked by us. The customers would stink when they drank too much. So we would outline our red lips with black. Kohl was applied carefully to accentuate the lips and give them shape. Though they looked exaggerated and comical, but they were tragic. It was to protect our lips and keep the clients off from kissing and licking. Our body was up for sale. Business started from our bellies.

We were receptacles of all worlds shit. so we were nonchalant about our ugliness. The worst part of the day would be when men with hollow cheeks and empty eyes sniffing whitener lurk in the background, drinking toddy, pounced on us and pissed in our vagina. Once they have made enough to buy prostitutes for a few minutes, they would unleash themselves on us. They would stumble in, list out their desires, shell out the cash, haggle with us, and ask us to fulfill their fantasies.

 Those who came to the brothels thought that they owned us, but they did not. We had mastered the art of keeping the body separate from the soul. they would be very strange, all of them. But we had one rule " never let them stay on, because they will first patronize you and then eat off your earnings ."

But sometimes my friends would cry over many things. even I would. Love and loss. We drank Corex to stop thinking about so many things- customers, permanent ones and youth. But ancient wisdom of brothels said that youth isn't forever. We should use it to earn money and not use it on men who come seeking to prove their masculinity or discover themselves. In any case they eventually become leeches. 

Yet many of us had fallen into the trap. For one month, a man around twenty, was clinging on to Puja, one of my friends. He bought her bangles and clothes, but never gave any money. Our brothel madam got impatient and asked him to pay. On being requested to pay, he left Puja. Actually he just wanted a girlfriend experience. Beyond the truth of exploitation, we had become dismissive of the men who visited us.

Desire is primitive, and so is sex. and sex isn't only about entering another or intercourse. It is also about something else. These cramped quarters with their cages and berths are places where sex workers give men a chance of holding on to their sanity, before they are sent back to their world of morality with their urges are taken care of. 

The process of satisfying the sexual appetite of our customers went on. All of us were subjected to immense tribulation and spasm. The red light district is considered a place of pleasure but as a matter of fact, it is a place of pain and a source of aggravation. I didn't feel safe even during the sunlight when we danced in front of customers as they gazed at us intuitively which upset me.

Big, fat uncles sat on matted floors, smoking hookas (an oriental tobacco pipe with a long, flexible tube which draws the smoke through water contained in a bowl) and staring at us gleefully. Not only that, more often they would get excited and dance with us accompanied by several notes of money. Once we were taught the 'mujras' ( a type of dance previously done by court dancers) on the famous song of 'Umrao Jaan' ( a famous movie on the life of a prostitute). 

Though we tried to enact 'Rekha' ( famous bollywood actress), but we felt salacious instead of ethnic and beautiful. Our diurnal courses continued and one month had passed. I served sixteen customers each day. I was accustomed to the pain which I felt. Though, sometimes I would be bleeding, but now I was stronger than before. I learnt to face all circumstances and fight all battles keeping my mouth shut. Even if sometimes I felt really feeble, I tried to feel the pain of other girls who also were going through the same phase.

One morning, as I passed through the veranda I saw my father. He was sitting in front of the brothel madam. I secretly heard their conversation and came to know that the first month I had earned 2, 40,000 by the rule of rupees 500 per customer for an hour. My father would be given one-fourth of the money i.e. 60,000. I was stupefied that my body brought so much money and my father would be a rich man now. 

Seeing him, I really wished to see my beloved mother as I missed her a lot.Later I was called and given only rupees 3000 as my income and the rest would be enjoyed by them. I was scared to protest. So dumbly I accepted what was in my fate. That was the last time I saw my father. He never came again. Every month I would be given 3000 as my right. Though we earned, but the torture inflicted on us cant be denied.

All new girls were raped several times by the pimps until they succumbed to their fate. Many were beaten with leather belts and even locked in cages without food for months. Though beaten ruthlessly but it was ensured by them that we weren't whipped on our face, chest, stomach, and thighs as the customers would be disappointed.

 We were fed, given dresses for ourselves, but not the right to lead a normal life which we deserved. Sometimes, when business would be slow, most of us never slept as we were used to the nocturnal lives.We weren't allowed to socialize even. To keep us isolated the brothel owners forbid us to speak to girls in other houses. They were very afraid that we would form groups or befriend one another and escape from their clutches.

Many of us were infected from HIV and I still recollect many of my friends suffering severely. Though we all were ill treated but we were compassionate about each other. We would leave our shifts and take care of sick ones. How can I forget the day when I lost Shanti! Her immunity was totally destroyed because of AIDS and when the brothel's personal doctor suggested to get her treated, instead of that they shot her in front of us with the gun inserted into her mouth.

The room was flooded with blood and she lay dead there. Her death had spread a peaceful pallor on her face which certified the horrifying fact. The incident was simply discerning. My endeared friend was no more. How could they do so? How could they murder a young girl of 14 when she had no fault?Shanti was just a body for them easy to be molested. They never tried to feel that she was even a person with a heart pumping inside, which had feelings other than the flowing red blood.

 They never tried to realize that she was a beautiful girl from a rich home, kidnapped because she was a product for them, who looked ravishing when she smiled even without makeup. They never realized that they had snatched a daughter from the safety and warmth of her parents who craved to see her. What they conceived was that they needed money and for their vested interests they should rape young girls and make several parents ill-fated.

We couldn't accept the naked truth. We pulled her and insisted her to wake up and talk to us. But wistfully she never woke up again. I missed her smiles. I missed the moments when we cried on each other's shoulders. However when I managed myself out of the shock, I was happy for her that Shanti was out of this damnation.