The amber glow of the bulb craftily shadowed the
dilapidated dingy miniscule room and its inviting inhabitant. A distant radio
echoed a nostalgic Bollywood tune. A concoction of smoke and sweaty smell
offended my nose. A mouldy crushed bed sheet adorned the rickety bed; the
flaking paint on the wall was deceitfully covered with posters of Bollywood
actresses; a ramshackle rack of lacy negligees also precariously hung an oval
mirror; a blackened kerosene stove encircled with a few pots; a half empty
bottle of local whisky accompanied an empty glass on a chipped tray and all lay
helter-skelter on the grimy floor. Brusquely, she held onto my arm and her
sweet perfume alleviated the acridity of the ambient smell. Her face was pale
and poignant; lips pink and chapped; her eyes gleamed with eloquence while her
skin revealed the turmoil of her banalities, prematurely aged with wrinkles.
She wore a yellow sari with a red border, long enough to hide her five and a
half feet of bodily shame. She whispered to me faking a seduction; “Aao Babu.”
Come sir. She perched on the bed and drew her arms out to me. A sombre
indication, that her time is equated in rupees. While I gave her the money,my eyes pried the room; a picture frame precariously hung on the
wall next to the posters, partly covered with cloth revealed the picture of
goddess Durga; few books from elementary school; a tawny doll and some derelict
toy cars piled in one corner of the bed; the mirror reflected a small girl,
trying to pull the flimsy drapery on the door with a stick, with her eyes closed. ”Who is she?”, I asked and my eyes again fell on the
messy stack of books and toys on the corner of the bed. She kept mum, but I got
my answer. A sudden perturbation overwhelmed me and I tottered out through the
door and hurried down the shaky staircase and there stood the little girl and
in her face revealed the sordid maladies of the all Kamathipuras of the world.
