Lullabies of a Prostitute - I

Living with the simple expression of “Everything is Ok”, that’s what prompted me to search for in first place. And the darker the thoughts went by behind it, the darker got the alleys which I went. For me everything was not ok, with turbulent past and deterred present I was heading towards the future of forged deeds and manipulated fencing of aloofness. But there go the wry thoughts of aloofness with the wind, the moment I knocked on her door, and left behind with the chasm of unknown.

On seeing my inability to word my sentences, she shifted aside a bit from the door and made place for me to go in. And before I reckon my move, I was standing beside the earthen pot lying crook-sided on the floor. There was an order of things here, very unlike me. Where the cloths are supposed to be creased and folded and put, they were exactly there. Mine are as restless as my inner and as wayward set as my reveries. Where one wall has the photo calendar of lord Krishna, the other was sporting a closed window, both neat as nectar. Floor was clean and well swept. It made me abashed and I took of my leather shoes.

“No need sahib, I will wipe the floor again after you go”, a casual tone cut short my train of thoughts while bolting the door from inside.

I left my shoes there and took a step forward, there’s not much of space to go around. Single room it was, with tied sari across the room deciding one part to be kitchen and another bedroom. After she closed the door the much of the daylight got restricted from the room. Still some beams were coming inside from the creeks of window on the left wall. I was standing there noticing things with wide eyes and trying to make-up my mind.

“Who sent you?” abruptly she asked. With one raised eye-brow she pulled the reins of my wandering eyes and made me aware who’s who here.

“No one. I came on my own”, answered with beads of perspiration.

That doesn’t make her look like that she has heard it for first time. And neither had it reduced the bluntness in her tone. With both her hands on her hips, she was still burning holes with her stare in back of my head. I noticed the razor sharp stare of her from corner of my eyes and tried to ignore it but as the silence keep on adding new pulse to it, it seems silence going to be inevitable to maintain and words have to be uttered. I dismissed the thought of lying as soon as it comes to me and thought better of it. I absent mindedly shifted my weight from one to another and then to and fro and then stood still. Slowly I took my eyes which were rested on my sweaty palms and try to affix them on the thin mist wrapped perspective of mine which was currently dissolved in the air.

“Water, can I get some?” tried to avert the gaze.
She moved to the crooked face earthen pot lying on the floor and filled a quick glass of water and offered me while sitting beside the pot, “Water”.

I turned towards her side and hold the glass, and then I realized for first time that she was wearing just the blouse and the petticoat. And from where I was standing its quite visible the in depth of her cleavage. With sweat trickling down her throat towards her navel I could of thought of being nothing else but the droplet of sweat. It killed me the instance she noticed my glare of hunger. I tried my damage control and took of my eyes instead of mind from her. And that very moment I realized the very first thing of living with strangled ropes, insatiable appetite of urges. Urges which drove me on roads at night and brought me here, and urges which drove her to this place, this place called brothel, this place called home.

I was still holding the glass of water in my hand and preparing myself to say it before she perceives me different. But words where they have gone and I forgot the purpose why I still have that glass of water in my hand. Thirst drenched and words quelled.
“Sahib, how much time it takes” pointing towards my glass, “hurry up, I charge hourly”.

She put her hands on her knees and took them as support to stand tall. She was a head short than me, vertically and I was a man short than her, internally.

“No, No. I am not here for sex”, a dry-throat me replied.

She stopped her unbuttoning of blouse and took my glance from head to toe and then tore me apart by the mild whispering of her words, as her stare wasn't enough, “Sahib paisa lagega, chahe karo ya na karo..”
It took me a minute to take all that which just happened into me. Once I was done absorbing, I slowly slid fingers into my pocket and took out the money to pay.

“Won’t need to pay now, first let me take care of you”, callously talking with her back towards me while wiping bed cover with a piece of cloth.

For the first time in months I was there while the conversation was happening with my outer shell. I was there and not for a second any part of me has left that place, that place called whore house, that place called whore-mongers groove. So I just started to feel easy and never knew that when all those fears and dilemmas left me. Seemingly, the rays of light coming from creeks were burning them.

I put the glass aside and told her my name, she stopped the cleaning and looked towards me and blurted, “Don’t bother sahib, by the time I will recall your name it had been done?”

That was red hot spear-head straight into the puffed up chest of my male ego and it deflated the air which has been gone up to my head due to the rugged plans of getting rich after my masters. It wasn't easy to bear that but it definitely taken of some of the weirdness out of the emptiness between both of us. And suddenly I felt bearable to the surroundings.
“Don’t bother, won’t ask for yours”, stepped aside with the trickling blood all over me.