This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 5; the fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.
Disclaimer: Not for the young and immature.
It’s twelve in the night. I should get Aman a pack of Cerelac today. He should not starve. Fortunately, like many other ‘corporate’ employees my work shift is different. My day starts at eleven in the night and ends at eight in the morning. I’m late today, as Aman was crying a lot, poor child, the outcome of a small mistake. I don’t have the money to buy a spoon but I have to feed a mouth. Talking about the corporate employees, they are the only source of income for me. My day at work generally starts when their day ends. The money fuelled with greed has made this world short, life has become less symbiotic and more rhetoric. Days have arrived when one has to buy guests for a funeral. Friends and foes come and go over bottles of beer. Time has become scarce and so have relationships.
Until a few years ago, business meant only sex for me. Nowadays I even have men who come to talk with me, they don’t even touch me, and they pay me a thousand bucks per hour only to talk. But age has taken its toll. What used to be a beautiful body transfigured itself into a log of wood. My face repels quite a few men, the reason for Aman’s wails back at home. Not all men are good, some try to be brutal, and the bruises of such nights take a long time to heal. Every relationship has become a transaction, I seek and you hang.
I don’t know who Aman’s father is, I don’t keep a track. Aman has the privilege of naming a person of his choice as his dad. I didn’t want to know who fathered the child whom I bore with great difficulty. After all, accidents happen to everyone.
Time passed by as I made myself presentable. A few ugly stares pierce me through glossy cars, especially those of the fat arsed Seths have their fatter halves (read wives) with them, but in private they are the vilest creatures to be in bed with. A few want me to drink with them, and some make me smoke. I do as they say, as “Customer is the King”. I pity these men who come to me, as even if they were to love their mother and sisters for an hour in their entire lifetime they wouldn’t come to harass another girl. Their lack of respect only adds fuel to the fire by shattering mine. Porn influenced youth, and sexually charged henchmen, all of them in one day; they are enough to break some bones even.
Aman sleeps alone at home, for an eight month old baby he is exceptionally quiet. No one wills to baby sit him, as they think it’s a sin to enter my house. All previous earnings have been drained away into newer clothes and scents leaving no way for any savings. Pimps pull out a lot of money too, leaving me absolutely nothing. But ever since Aman’s birth the scenario changed. The pimp left me, dwindling my ‘occupancy’ rate, the police started demanding their share and it has also left me in search for some shelter. I spend time with Aman in the morning, telling him the little good I know. I sleep in the afternoons and again Aman is my preset alarm. Not a second goes without him. I see his beautiful face again and again, only to imagine him during the sporadic orgasm sessions. He is the one pain I love to suffer.
It’s two now, no customer till now. I walked down the empty roads down the seaside. The chilly winter made me cough a little. I walked all the way down to my old fort, Ammi’s brothel. I wanted to hear the calm sea from there. For every step I took towards the Ammi’s house, the wails grew louder. I remembered those starting days; those are the hardest for anyone. For once I drifted my eyes away from the epitome of harshness; maybe this was not the right time. A glance at the nearby sidewalk made me realize the presence of a familiar person. Is it Jittu Dada? I walked a few steps ahead; yes it was him, the pimp who stole my life. But today I needed him, because Aman needed Cerelac.
“”You bitch, don’t you dare to come into this area, this is my business”
“Dada, it’s me Lachmi, have you forgotten? I’ve played roles as your wife many times”
Peals of laughter erupted from the darkness behind. I couldn’t see Jittu Dada but he sure was red with anger.
“Bitch, coming and spoiling my business, get lost”
“Dada, please for once, my son is dying there, arrange one customer please”
“Fuck off, you want me to call the police? You want me to put you in jail?”
Dada was the most violent and was my most frequent ‘customer’. But he took my soul for free, raped me every other night his wife threw him out. The basterd, he has no loyalty.
“What’s the my commission?”
“Bitch, you come here for getting me a meager 20%? Fuck off”
*More peals of laughter*
“Dada, 40%, final, please”
He came forward like a rabid dog; I could smell the cheap toddy he drank every day.
“Come with me”, he pulled me with my arm and took me the adjacent alley.
Dada went into the shadows and returned moments later accompanied with two more people.
They took me to the edge of Gymkhana grounds, where there was plush green grass plus lots of privacy.
“I want Rs 800”, I said.
“Shut up bitch, we know the rate”
All of a sudden out of nowhere, someone came up from behind and pulled me down.
For the next hour I couldn’t believe what was happening. Hands held me firm from outward physical movement but in the insides I was dying. The light of pain eclipsed my orgasmic pleasure. I could hear the shouts of the men; someone punched me hard on my face. I couldn't imagine Aman, It was all over, my career, my life and finally that night. The smell of toddy began to fade, I heard the men leaving. Just then I heard Jittu Dada’s voice,
“Money bitch? Money? Here have some”
I could feel a few paper notes thrown on my body and few kicks followed. I was in pain, and I couldn’t come out of that.
I woke up to find an arm broken and clothes tattered. There was blood everywhere and I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t go to a police station; the police would just ridicule me and put me in jail. I would be termed as a prostitute everywhere then. The basterd left Rs50, which was not sufficient in any case. I walked down the street, to the Government
hospital. I couldn’t die. And I fell down again.
hospital. I couldn’t die. And I fell down again.
I don’t remember how I came into the hospital. I don’t even know who brought me here. The doctor came in after a few minutes.
“Dogs attacked me”
“I understand what type of dogs, but I have a few bad news for you”
“You have to undergo surgery for the excessive, Err dog bites in varied regions and I’m afraid to tell, you have to find yourself a blood donor, you’ve lost lots of blood”
“I don’t have any..”
“In that case get Rs10,000 ready, we’ll take care”
“I don’t have any money”
Newspaper Reports, the following day:
Mysterious woman dies with injuries, police suspect it as a rape case.
Eight month old child dead, as mother abandons him. Cause said to be malnutrition and improper care. – Police – “We’ll catch the mother and put her behind bars for negligence”
“Another day passes on, yet we are not bothered about the evils in our world”
Note: I dedicate this post to my grandfather who passed away a year ago, on 5th December, 2008. I also would like to tell you that December 5th also happens to be the 2nd birthday of the blog you are currently reading. I thank Vipul for providing me an opportunity to write on this occasion and also to fellow blogging buddy Shilpa for her constant support and thank you all other bloggers for following me so ardently! Cheers :)
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.