After they have eaten enough food and drunk enough whisky, the boys ask me to hop in the minivan once again.
‘Where are we going now?’ I ask.
‘You’ll see,’ they say and laugh.
The driver takes us through narrow streets and teeming bazaars towards the outskirts of Agra. He finally enters a strange-looking settlement close to the National Highway called Basai Mohalla. There is a billboard at its entry which says: ‘Enter the Red Light Area at your own risk. Always remember to use a condom. Prevent AIDS, Save Lives.’ I do not understand the reference to red light on the billboard. There are no red lights on any of the houses, as far as I can see. There are at least a dozen trucks parked along the road. Some barefoot children loiter in the streets – there is no sign of their mothers. The faint sound of music and dancers’ ankle bells floats into the night air. In the distance, I can see the dome and minarets of the Taj Mahal shimmering under the golden moonlight. The halo of the moon and the sight of the marble monument imbue even this dusty and dirty enclave of single- and double-storey shacks with a bit of gold dust.
The college students alight from their vehicle and move towards a cluster of small buildings. I hesitate, but they pull me along. I now see that the area is bustling with people. Vile-looking men in kurta pyjamas loaf in front of the houses, chewing betel leaf. I see girls of various ages sitting on the steps wearing just petticoats and blouses, with heavy make-up and jewellery. Some of them give us come-hither looks and make obscene and suggestive gestures with their fingers. I now understand what a red-light area is. It is a place where prostitutes work. I had heard about the existence of Falkland Road in Mumbai and G B Road in Delhi, but had never actually visited a red-light area. And I didn’t even know there was one in Agra. This was indeed turning out to be a night of new experiences for me.
The boys step inside a large, two-storey house, which looks less seedy than the others, making sure that I am with them. We enter a foyer, from which narrow corridors lead off to sets of small rooms.
A man meets us. He is young, with a scarred face and shifty eyes. ‘Welcome, gentlemen, you have come to the right place. We have the youngest and best girls in Agra,’ he says.
The boys go into a huddle with him, negotiating the price. A sheaf of notes exchanges hands. ‘We are paying for you as well, Raju. Go, enjoy at our expense,’ they say, before each one of them disappears into a room with a girl. I am left alone in the foyer. Presently an old woman chewing paan comes along and takes me with her. I follow her up a flight of stairs. She stops in front of a green wooden door and tells me to enter. Then, with tired steps, she troops back down the stairs.
I cannot decide whether to enter the room or go back to the minivan. One part of my brain tells me to leave immediately. But the other impels me to stay, driven by an almost manic curiosity. In the Hindi films I have seen, the prostitute heroine is inevitably a goodhearted girl who has been forced into the profession against her will. At the end of the film the prostitute almost always commits suicide by consuming poison. I wonder whether I have been brought to this whorehouse with a purpose. Whether there is a heroine waiting for me behind this door. Whether I am her hero, who is supposed to rescue her. And whether I can change the ending and prevent her death.
I push open the door and enter the chamber.
It is a small room, with a bed in the centre. Somehow the surroundings do not register on me at all. My eyes are drawn only to the girl sitting on the bed in a shocking-pink sari. She is dark and beautiful, with lovely kohl-lined eyes, luscious painted lips and long black hair plaited with fragrant white flowers. She wears excessive make-up and her arms and neck are bedecked with jewellery.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Come and sit here with me on the bed.’ The words come out of her mouth like musical notes from a piano.
I approach her reluctantly. She senses my hesitation and smiles. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t bite you.’
I sit down near her on the bed. I notice that the bed sheet is rather dirty, with strange splotches and stains on it.
‘You are new,’ she says. ‘What is your name?’
‘Ram Mohammad Thom – no, no . . . Raju Sharma,’ I reply, catching myself just in time.
‘Looks like you forgot your name for a second.’
‘No – not at all. What is your name?’
‘Nita.’
‘Nita what?’
‘Meaning?’
‘I meant what is your full name? Don’t you have a surname?’
She chuckles. ‘You have come to a brothel, Sahib, not a marriage bureau. Prostitutes don’t have surnames. Like pet cats and dogs, we are called only by our first names. Nita, Rita, Asha, Champa, Meena, Leena, take your pick.’ She says this in a matter-of-fact tone, without any rancour or regret.
‘Oh, so you are a prostitute?’
She laughs again. ‘You are a strange one. Arrey baba, when you come to Basai Mohalla you only meet prostitutes. You will definitely not meet your mother and sisters in this part of Agra!’
‘How old are you?’
‘Now that is a more relevant question. I am seventeen. Don’t tell me that you wanted someone even younger. You yourself don’t look a tad over sixteen to me.’
‘I am also seventeen. Tell me, how long have you been doing this work for?’
‘What difference does it make? All you need to know is whether I’m a virgin or not. Well, I’m not. You would have had to pay four times what you paid for me if you wanted a virgin. But try me, I am even better than a virgin. You won’t be disappointed.’
‘Aren’t you worried that you might catch some disease? There is even a billboard at the entrance warning against AIDS.’
She laughs again, a hollow, empty laugh. ‘Look, this is a profession for me, not a hobby. It gives me enough to feed me and my entire family. If I was not doing this, my family would have died from hunger long ago. We prostitutes know about AIDS. But it is better to die of disease tomorrow than hunger today, don’t you agree? Now are you just going to ask questions or are you going to do something? Don’t blame me later if your time runs out and Shyam sends in the next customer. I am much in demand.’
‘Who is Shyam?’
‘He is my pimp. You gave money to him. Now come, I am taking off my sari.’
‘No. Wait. I want to ask you some more questions.’
‘Arrey, have you come here to fuck or to talk? You are like that firang reporter who came here with his tape recorder and camera. Said he was not interested in me and was only doing some research. But the moment I opened my choli he forgot all about his research. The only sounds on his tape recorder will be his own moaning and groaning. Let me see now whether you’re the same.’
She snaps opens her blouse in one motion. She isn’t wearing a bra. Two pert breasts pop out like domes of a brown Taj Mahal. They are perfectly round and smooth and the nipples stand out like exquisite pinnacles. My mouth goes dry. My breathing becomes shallow. My heart starts hammering against my ribs. Her hand slithers down my chest and finds my hardness. She laughs. ‘You men are all the same. One look at a woman’s tits and all your morals go out of the window. Come.’ She pulls me into her and I experience a moment of pure, unadulterated rapture. An electric current darts through my body which thrills rather than shocks. I shiver with pleasure.
Afterwards, when we are lying side by side under the rickety ceiling fan and I have also contributed a stain to the dirty bed sheet, I inhale the fragrance of the flowers in her jet-black hair and kiss her clumsily.
‘Why didn’t you tell me it was your first time?’ she says. ‘I would have been more gentle. But go now, your time is over.’ She gets up from the bed abruptly and begins gathering her clothes.
Her sudden brusqueness upsets me. Five minutes ago I was her lover, but now I am just a customer whose time has expired. I realize then that the moment has indeed passed. The magic has gone, and now that I am no longer blinded by my desire, I see the room in its true colours. I see an ant
iquated cassette player on a side table, connected to the mains by an ugly black cord. I see the mouldy walls with peeling paint. I see the torn and faded red curtain at the window. I see the stains on the sheet and the tears on the mattress. I feel a slight itching sensation, probably from the mites infesting the bed. I sniff the decaying, musty smell of the room. Everything now seems sordid and sleazy. Lying in the soiled bed, I feel polluted and unclean. I, too, get up and hastily gather my clothes.
‘What about my tip?’ she asks, pulling her blouse back on.
I take out a fifty-rupee note from my wallet and hand it to her. She tucks it gratefully inside her blouse.
‘Did you enjoy that? Will you come again?’ she asks.
I don’t reply and leave hastily.
Later, sitting in the minivan going back to the city, I reflect on her questions. Did I enjoy that? Yes. Will I come again? Yes. A strange new sensation tugs at my heart and makes me giddy. Is it love? I ask myself. I don’t know the answer, but I know this – I entered the red-light district at my own risk. I met a hooker, had sex for the first time. And now I was hooked.
There is a rabies scare in the city. Many children have died after being bitten by infected dogs. The health department is advising citizens to be extra vigilant and take preventive steps. I warn Shankar, ‘Be careful when you go outside. Don’t go near any dogs. Understood?’
Shankar nods his head.
It’s the turn of Bihari the cobbler today. He is the only one who has not asked me for any money till now. ‘Raju, my child Nanhey is very sick and has been admitted to Dr Aggarwal’s private clinic. The doctor says I have to buy medicines urgently, which cost a lot of money. I have managed to scrape together four hundred so far. Can you please lend me something? I beg you.’
I give two hundred rupees to Bihari, knowing that I will never get them back. But he is still unable to buy all the medicines. Two days later, six-year-old Nanhey dies in the clinic.
That evening, Bihari comes back to the outhouse with the body of his son covered in a white shroud. He is obviously drunk and walks with unsteady steps. He places his son’s dead body in the middle of the cobbled courtyard, near the municipal tap, and calls everyone out of their rooms. Then he launches into a monologue full of slurred invective. He abuses no one in particular and yet everyone. He abuses the rich, who live in their palatial homes and do not care for the poor who serve them. He abuses the fat-cat doctors who fleece their patients. He abuses the government which makes promises only on paper. He abuses all of us for being mute spectators. He abuses his children for being born. He abuses himself for still being alive. He abuses God for creating an unjust world. He abuses the world, the Taj Mahal, Emperor Shahjahan. Not even the electric bulb hanging outside his house, that once gave a shock to Nanhey, or the municipal tap escape his ire. ‘You rotten piece of junk, when we need it, you don’t give us two drops of water, but when it came to my son, you allowed him to frolic for two hours and gave him pneumonia. May you soon be uprooted, may you rust in hell,’ he curses and kicks the tap. Then, after half an hour of non-stop ranting and raving, he collapses on the ground and begins to sob. He holds his dead son in his arms and wails till his tears run dry, till his voice fails.
In my own room, I lie on the bed and think about the iniquities of life. Images of little Nanhey frolicking in the outhouse flit through my mind. I want to cry, but tears refuse to flow from my eyes. I have seen too many dead bodies. So I pull the crisp white sheet up over my head and go off to sleep. And dream of a Taj Mahal in a special shade of brown. With two exquisitely shaped domes.
I visit Nita again after a week. This time I have to pay the full fee to Shyam, her pimp. Three hundred rupees. I lie in her soiled bed, make love to her and listen to her dirty talk.
‘So do you like being a prostitute?’ I ask her after our lovemaking.
‘Why? What’s wrong with it? It is a profession, like any other.’
‘But do you like it?’
‘Yes. I love sleeping with strangers. Like you, for instance. It gives me enough money to provide for my family. And I get to see a brand-new film at the theatre every Friday. What more could a girl possibly want?’
I look into her doe-like eyes and I know she is lying. She is an actress playing a role. Except she wouldn’t win any awards, like Neelima Kumari.
The more Nita seems a mystery, the more desperate I become to know her. She arouses a hunger in me unlike anything I have ever experienced before. I may have entered her body, but now I want to enter her mind. So I begin visiting her on Mondays, when the Taj Mahal is closed. After four or five visits I finally succeed in breaking down her defences.
She tells me that she is a Bedia tribal girl from the Bhind district in Madhya Pradesh. Both her parents are still alive and she has a brother, and a sister who is happily married. In her community, it is the tradition for one girl from each family to serve as a communal prostitute, called the Bedni. This girl earns money for her family, while the males spend their time drinking alcohol and playing cards. ‘That is why the birth of a girl is an occasion to celebrate in our community, not a cause for gloom. A boy is, in fact, a liability. You can find Bednis from my village in brothels, truck stops, hotels and roadside restaurants, all selling their bodies for money.’
‘But why did your mother choose you? She could have chosen your sister.’
Nita gives a hollow laugh. ‘Because my beauty became a bane. My mother had the right to decide which of her two daughters would marry and which one would become a prostitute. She chose me to become the Bedni. Perhaps if I had been plain looking, like my sister, I would not have been sent here. I might have gone to school, married and had children. Now I am in this brothel. This is the price I have to pay for beauty. So don’t call me beautiful.’
‘And how long have you been doing this?’
‘Ever since puberty. Once the nathni utherna ceremony for the removal of the nose ring and the sar dhakwana ritual for covering the head are over, you are deemed to have become a woman. So at the age of twelve, my virginity was auctioned to the highest bidder and I was put on sale inside this brothel.’
‘But surely if you want to you can quit this profession and get married, can’t you?’
She spreads her hands. ‘Who will marry a prostitute? We are supposed to work till our bodies start to sag or till we die of disease, whichever is sooner.’
‘I know you will find your prince one day,’ I declare, with tears in my eyes.
She doesn’t accept any tip from me that day.
I reflect later on my conversation with Nita and wonder why I had lied to her. I didn’t really want her to find any other prince. Without even realizing it, I had fallen in love with her.
Till now, my conception of love has been based entirely on what I have seen in Hindi films, where the hero and the heroine make eye contact and whoosh, some strange chemistry sets their hearts beating and their vocal chords tingling, and the next you see of them they are off singing songs in Swiss villages and American shopping malls. I thought I had experienced that blinding flash of love when I met the girl in the blue salwar kameez in that train compartment. But real love visited me only that winter in Agra. And I realized again that real life is very different from reel life. Love doesn’t happen in an instant. It creeps up on you and then it turns your life upside-down. It colours your waking moments and fills your dreams. You begin to walk on air and see life in brilliant new shades. But it also brings with it a sweet agony, a delicious torture. My life was reduced to feverish meetings with Nita and pining for her in between. She visited me in the oddest places and at the oddest moments. I visualized her beautiful face even when lecturing a haggard, eighty-year-old day-tripper. I smelt the fragrance of her hair even when sitting on my toilet seat. I got goose bumps thinking of our lovemaking even when buying potatoes and tomatoes from the vegetable market. And I knew in my heart of hearts that she was my princess. The burning ambition of my life was to marry her one day. The consuming w
orry of my life was whether she would agree.
A jeep with a flashing red light has come to the outhouse. An inspector and two constables alight from it. My heart lurches. A cold knot of fear forms in the pit of my stomach. My crimes have finally caught up with me. This is the pattern of my life. Just when I begin to feel on top of things, fate yanks the rug from under my feet. So it is to be expected that just when I have discovered true love, I should be taken away to a jail where, like Emperor Shahjahan, I will sit in solitary confinement and pine for Nita, my own Mumtaz Mahal.
The Inspector takes out a megaphone from the jeep to make an announcement. I expect him to say, ‘Will Ram Mohammad Thomas, alias Raju Sharma, come out with his hands in the air?’ But he says instead, ‘Will all the residents of the outhouse come out? There has been a robbery in the Bank of Agra and we have reason to believe that the thief is here. I have to conduct a search of the premises.’ When I hear this, I feel a heavy weight lift from my heart. I am so happy, I want to go out and hug the Inspector.
The constables enter each room in turn and conduct a thorough search. They come to my room and ask me for my name, my age, my occupation, whether I have seen any suspicious characters lurking about in the area. I don’t tell them that I am an unauthorized guide. I say I am a student at the University and am new to the outhouse. This satisfies them. They look under my bed. They peer into the kitchen, tap the pots and pans, overturn the mattress and then move on to the next room. The Inspector joins the constables.
They are now in Shankar’s room.
‘Yes, what is your name?’ the Inspector asks Shankar gruffly.
‘Hu Ixhz Qo Odxifxn,’ Shankar replies, slightly confused.
‘What? Can you repeat that?’