Knocking at the door of sin

       My younger self, in its solitude, once did something which could be considered taboo in society. I was staying in Bangalore for my job. I spent most of my weekends sleeping, procrastinating, going to movies with friends and occasionally reading a book. I had a long weekend for four days, Thursday to Sunday, owing to Rakshya Bandhan (a Hindu Festival) and some other occasion, I do not remember. My two friends with whom I used to go to the movies and my flatmate were not in Bangalore.

    By Friday night, I was sufficiently frustrated by my boredom. Rain in Bangalore circumscribes my motivation for going out. On Saturday, after lazily browsing through youtube and watching some documentaries, its suggestion algorithm led me to some videos, video-journals on the plight of sex workers in cities like Delhi and Kolkata. Disdain of the society towards them dribbles down on their children as well. Lack of health care and education enhances the gap in social inequalities, forcing the girls to the same fate as their parent(s) (often singular). There are some clans, even today, in India, who consider prostitution as their profession. After my algorithm induced research, I had my lunch and a good afternoon nap.

    After waking up, I picked up a book and started reading. I could not concentrate. I kept thinking about the videos. Silly, but I decided to have a conversation with a prostitute. I had heard of an area in Bangalore. I did not consider it wise to go there. I turned to the internet for help. I called up a number I got from one of the sites, someone picked up from the other side. I cut the call as soon as he said “Hello!”. I was afraid. I stayed in this state of mental agony for the next half an hour. After that, my curiosity clouded my judgments. This time I called this number again from my secondary sim card (which I did not use for official purposes).

    I reached the HSR shopping complex as instructed. After waiting for a quarter of an hour, a young man in his early thirties came in a scooty and stopped near the entrance. The rider called my cell and asked if I was able to see him describing the colour of his shirt and scooty. I walked up to him. He asked me to hop on the pillion seat and rode on as I did so. He stopped in a lane, behind Domino's pizza, half a kilometre from where we started. He showed me pictures of some girls and asked me to select one. I picked one. He made a call and she was unavailable. I chose another. This girl agreed to come by. She took about half an hour to come. My companion by that time had smoked two cigarettes and we had decided on the price. The price was per hour basis and I agreed for the whole night. It was six thousand rupees. I was able to strike a bargain as I was not getting my initial choice. He took two thousand rupees extra as his commission. He also let me know of their private partnership with some hotels. I was hesitant to stay in any one of the hotels.

    The guy left us as soon as the girl arrived. Her name was Rani (of course that was not real). She was about my age, sound health and complexion. Her appearance suggested she belonged to the north-eastern region of India. It was past dusk and I thought of having dinner and asked her so. She had no objection. We walked up to Mani’s Biryani, a restaurant. I liked their Biryani. The restaurant was open but there were no customers present as we were early for dinner and it was drizzling outside. We went in and I ordered a few dishes. She paid scant attention to me or the surroundings and was mostly focused on her mobile screen. It was expected out of the profession to not be emotionally intimate. I booked a room online, in a hotel, a little far from where we were currently sitting but a fifteen minutes walk from my home. After dinner, I booked a cab to the hotel and was lucky enough to get one soon. It is difficult to get a cab in Bangalore while it is raining. The cab dropped us at the location. We walked in and showed our booking and identity proofs. We were given the keys to the room.

    I opened the lock and we went in. As I was about to close the door, she came close to me, placed her palm on my privates and went on to unbutton my jeans. I stopped her and walked to the other side of the bed. She giggled and commented on my shyness. I pulled a chair on the other side of the bed and as I turned around, she had gotten rid of her shirt and gently came onto the bed. A complete turnaround of character from the one who seemed indifferent to my existence outside the room. I sat on the chair and, though tempted to sin, forbade myself and asked her to put her shirt on. She was a little startled at first but complied with my request. She cluelessly looked at me. I smiled and assured her that we would not be getting physically intimate that night and my sole purpose is to converse with her.

    The situation in the room was uncommon to the limits of both of our imaginations. How could I expect her to be honest when we both knew I would not be? Also, no one in her position would like to be interrogated. It was likely that personal questions were to be avoided. But again, even questions on her professional life would be personal to the highest extent in a socially accepted standard. I tried to gain her trust by introducing myself (of course, disguising my true identity). I was a student and a part-time writer who liked to interview people from different walks of life, I told her. My college was in Hyderabad and I came to Bangalore during the long weekend. I did not know how much I could convince her. But she mocked me by asking what I had seen in Bangalore in the last two days except for her upper bosoms (referred to in an informal Hindi word). I laughed and told her I had visited some old friends who work in this city. After a few semi-true facts about myself, I narrated one of my interviews with a rickshaw-wallah in Kolkata with the help of a Bengali friend. She knew I was lying for the most part, yet she believed the part of me interviewing people after hearing the story. Also, my young age (I was twenty-three then) and polite behaviour helped my case.

    She was twenty-two years old and had been working as an escort for more than one year. She came to Bangalore to work as a waitress. The wages she received were too little. It was hard to get a good enough waitress or receptionist job when you were not amply educated and had poor English communication skills. A friend introduced her to this line of work. “It varies. On weekdays I will be lucky to get one per day.” She answered upon being asked how many jobs she took in a day. Then she went on describing, “Often, it is married men, travelling to town for business and staying in hotels or those whose families are out of town. It is often for the whole night. Weekends are a little busy. We get two-three calls per day. Frustrated bachelors in IT jobs mostly”. She giggled. Then we talked a little bit about some other aspects of the job. I asked her if she was afraid of the police or if they have an understanding with the local police authority. “Of course, I am afraid. I do not want to be arrested and jailed. How would I provide for my family if I get arrested? This is the reason I am working this job. And police have other important things to deal with and we try to maintain a low profile. One of my friends once slept with a Havaldar. He did not pay her and took her phone number. Then he started calling her to sleep with him. My friend got rid of her sim card and went out of town for a few days. Luckily nothing happened.” She smiled. “Who is the guy that called you?” - “He is one of our agents. They (these agents) post on websites and call us once some customer contacts them. They get small commissions from both customers and us.” - “Can't you work independently?” - “I do not know how to use those websites. Also, it is difficult to find a place to stay, because the owner will soon discover what I do. So they also help us find PG(Paying Guest House). Once in a while, I give my number to some good customers.”- “Have you used Tinder?” - “Yes I have used it once. But that’s not for me. It's highly inefficient from a work perspective. It is for sophisticated English speaking girls, who seek part-time merriment with strangers.” - “You mentioned your family… what happened?” - “My father was a day labourer. In an accident three-four years back, he fell from a ladder in a construction site and hurt his backbone. Slowly, his left side got paralysed. I have two younger siblings. They are very young. My mother had also started working under a house-building contractor in our area. Women don’t get as much wage as men.” She paused for a while. “Except here (referring to her profession).” She smiled again. Soil collected from the prostitute's door is an ingredient in making idols of the goddess Durga. It is regarded that people who enter the prostitute’s house, leave their purity and virtue outside, thus turning the soil pious. But nobody talks about the ‘poison’ she (a prostitute) has to consume inside that door. “Sometimes men forget we are humans. Passion turns them into beasts. They want the value of the money they have paid.”  She paused and looked down. I looked away. I had lost the courage to look into her eyes. I was let down by my gender.

    After ten minutes of silence, which seemed rather longer, she broke the silence. We talked about some of her day-to-day activities apart from work. She spends most of her time on social media apps, mostly Facebook and Instagram. She makes tiny fun videos and shares them with her friends. She childishly showed me some of those.

    At about eleven o’clock, I told her she could leave if she wanted to. I told her I would stay in the hotel. She booked a cab and I paid her (cab fare included). As we saw the cab nearing from the mobile app, we came out. The rain had stopped and the cab had reached. She went to the cab and opened the door. As she was about to get in, she stopped. “One minute” - She said to the driver and walked back to me. “What happened?” - “Nothing”. Then she stood on her toes and kissed me on one chick and said, “At least, accept this for all you have paid.” She stepped one step back and winked at me and got into the cab. I was left blushing.

    I checked out of the hotel after the cab left and walked back home.

 

 

Postscript: This is a pure work of fiction, based on several earlier studies, movies, documentaries and a drunken friend boasting about his experience. I have not (do not have the courage yet) performed such an adventure. Readers are advised not to try this without consulting experts.