Hunger

This story is selected as Editor’s Choice

“I can’t come for work today”, I said over phone to my boss. “I’m down with fever”.

“Now who do you think you’re fooling?” he barked at me.

“I really can’t, boss”, I pleaded.

“Some bitc**s I have working under me!” he grumbled and disconnected.

I sighed. I was used to such kind of remarks from him, having worked for him for the last twelve years of my life. He was cruel to us; we never got to hear one kind word from him. He would even beat us sometimes, if we didn’t do our work properly, or if our customers weren’t pleased with our service. But we stayed with him for just one reason. He fed us.

My father had sold me off to a dealer when I was a thirteen-year-old, hardly two months after I got my first period. I often missed my family, and my home. I did not have many pleasant memories of my life, but there were some moments when we did share a laugh. The man’s name was Digvijay, a short man who chewed paan all the time. My mother was not allowed to meet me that day. I gathered it was probably against her wish to send me away. But Digvijay was nice to me. He fed me, and gave me proper clothes to wear. I stayed with him for a month and grew quite healthy. But in return, he took away one thing from me, something that was very close to my heart, something I considered a sacred part of me: my virginity.

Well, I never blamed my father for what he did to me. I have seen him starve. I have seen my brothers’ toil all day long and go to bed with a hungry stomach. I have seen my mother silently weep, when she had no grains to cook for the family. I have seen what hunger does to people. It drives them insane. It kills them. And my father had no property with him that he could sell. So he sold me, in exchange for two bags of rice.

“Take off your clothes dear,” Digvijay had told me that night. We had journeyed for two days by train and he had taken me inside a large building and into a small dark room that had no windows.

I felt scared. Why should I take off my clothes in front of him? I wondered if the man was supposed to be my husband now. Girls in my village often married young. But my mother had told me no such thing.

He came closer to me. I took a step back and held the edge of the table. He grabbed the hair on the back of my head strongly. It hurt.

“Now listen, bi*ch,” he growled. I didn’t like his paan stained lips near mine.

“I have bought you from your benevolent father for a very small price. Now you work for me. You shall sleep, eat and drink when I tell you to. You’ll strip whenever I order you and have sex with the person I want you to. You’re not allowed to talk, think or complain about anything!”

I shivered. His hand then went from my hair to the chain at the back of my frock. He pulled it down, slowly and menacingly. I was too scared to shout, and too weak to fight him. I had felt lost and helpless.

The next hours were a complete torture. He pushed me onto the bed and took every piece of clothing off my body. I had wept, and he had laughed. He ran his hands all over my body: touching me, biting me, and slapping me if I opposed. And then he went inside of me. I yelled out in pain and he slapped me hard. And he did it again and again and again the whole night like a hungry animal. Hunger: it does drive people insane. It hurt me and I begged him to stop. But he didn’t. When he had tortured me enough, he left me locked in the room on a bed soaked with my own tears and blood…

 

The reminiscence of it always made me shudder. I sat in front of the mirror and picked up a comb. I looked at my reflection. The room was dimly lit. Every man I had slept with had told me I was beautiful, and that I had the most curvaceous body that they had ever landed their eyes on. I believe it to be true. I loved my beauty. But whenever I looked at myself, I saw a dirty soul inside this attractive body. I felt unclean, and impure. And there was no way I could purify myself.

I was fed up of being a prostitute. I didn’t want such a life. I couldn’t, anymore, have a guest in my room every night, touching me in places which every woman has the right to guard. I couldn’t shamelessly sleep naked with different men on different nights, couldn’t let strange men savour my feminineness, leaving me feeling all the more unclean with their every touch. I wanted my voice heard. I wanted my screams pitied, and not relished.

“You ordered for a taxi, Pooja?” a voice asked. I turned around and saw Dikshita standing at the door.

“Yes, I’ll be there in a minute”.

She didn’t ask me where I was going. I was glad. Dikshita was three years older to me and she was picked up from a slum area at the age of seven. I had met her for the first time on the first morning after my arrival. I was still lying naked on the bed in the dark room when she had come in.

“You are the new girl?” she had asked.

I didn’t reply her. She was dressed in a yellow sari and a blouse that showed off her cleavage.

“How old are you?” she had asked, removing the dirty bed sheet and dumping it on the floor.

“Thirteen,” I had replied.

She stopped her work and looked at me, her eyes filled with pity. “I’m sixteen,” she had said. And we connected instantly. She cleaned me and gave me her clothes to wear. She taught me what to do and what not to do in there. And going by the rules she declared I could say that I had lost my existence in the world. I was a servant, with not the faintest dignity of my own. I had no rights, no voice. Even if I ran away, I would have no means of surviving in this world full of ‘dignified people’.

“Pooja, taxi’s waiting!” Dikshita shouted, bringing me back to the present.

It was with a great deal of courage that I managed to book tickets to Ahmadabad. Yes, I was planning to flee this place and this profession. I knew I had very less money with me. And I had absolutely no clue whatsoever as to my next course of action after reaching the place. But anything was better than being a sex worker. I would work as a maid at someone’s house, or as a labourer at any construction site. I would earn my living and feed myself. I had dreams of being independent. If I became rich, I would adopt a girl child, and bring her up, I had this dream. I would give her all the happiness that I had ever wished for myself in my life.

I boarded the taxi and made my way towards the railway station. The taxi driver eyed me scornfully. I ignored him. Maybe he was one of the many drivers who carried me to my clients, or maybe he was one of my clients, I didn’t remember. The night was cold, but it hardly mattered to me at that moment. I just paid him his fare and embarked onto my train. It was to be a very long journey for me. And for the first time, I was on my own. It felt good.

I got to my seat and waited for the train to start. I couldn’t sleep the night, apprehensive about my life’s coming events. I felt unsafe, but independent; tired, but excited. The cold January wind froze me, and yet I looked forward to the warmth of the day that was awaiting me in the new city. I watched, as the rays of the sun slowly penetrated, eliminating the gloominess of the night. For me, it was like the beginning of ‘life’ itself.

I carried no luggage with me, except a small bag with just three sets of clothes, a water bottle and some money. I realised my first concern should be to find myself a source of income. But I couldn’t decide how. I had never gone to school, so couldn’t read or write; I didn’t cook so well either. But I could sweep or scrub the floor for someone. So I went around asking at homes and restaurants if they needed a maid. I mostly met with rebuff. I was a prostitute and I dressed like one, spoke like one. Good people never liked me, at least not in public.

I roamed the streets till it was noon, my hopes thinning with every rejection. I was hungry, and tired. I fed myself a light lunch of chapatti and daal, remembering not to waste much money. And I began my search again. Some people chased me away like I was a dirty animal, some politely refused, while some others didn’t bother to listen to me. It was growing dark, and colder. And I had no place to spend the night. I shivered. I looked into my purse, and gave up the idea of booking a room in a hotel. So there I was, homeless, hungry and cold in an unknown city. I needed to eat to keep myself warm, so I had a heavy dinner. I slept on the veranda of a book store, with the cold trying to freeze me and mosquitoes mocking my fate.

I woke up before the sun had risen fully, and made my way out of the shop. I realised I had fever, probably because of the cold. I ate a proper breakfast, and went back to my search. I had almost exhausted all my money. So I resorted to begging.

Begging didn’t help me much. So I looked for scraps of food in the huge city dustbins. That worsened my health. I didn’t have a proper place to bath, or any toilets. Night fell again, and I didn’t have enough money for a heavy dinner. I went to the place where I had slept the night before. It felt colder that day. I wondered if I had grown weak enough for the cold to kill me. ‘I won’t give in!’ I told myself. But starvation and fatigue took over, and I grew quite weak.

The next day went the same. I was dirty, ill and tired. I was too weak to move much and most of the time I just sat on the footpath, with indifferent people in overcoats walking all around me. There were moments when I considered suicide. And at other times, I considered going back to become a prostitute. Finally at night, I retired to the same place to sleep again. I had high temperature I and desperately needed something to eat. I was so cold and ill; I was beginning to fear I might not survive the night, and mentally prepared myself to face whatever was come. At last, I just left everything to God.

I don’t know what had happened at night, but in the morning, I opened my eyes to a kindly looking man staring down at me. It took me by surprise, but I felt too weak to react. My clothes were on, so were his.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked. He seemed nice. I realised I was on a bed, tucked under warm blankets. Without waiting for my answer, he said, “I’ve made you some breakfast. Eat. You’ll feel better.”

“Let me work for you, sir”, I told him. “I can sweep and scrub the floor. I can cook a little too. I’ll be of some help, for sure.”

The man smiled back kindly at me. I waited for him to answer. “Eat now. We’ll see to that later,” he said.

I stayed at his house that day, and already felt better by evening. My fever had come down, and I felt stronger. When I felt strong enough to move around, I went downstairs to see my new master. He was in the backyard, lighting a fire.

“Come join me”, he said when he saw me appear. His words were warmer than the warmth of the fire.

“Let me work for you”, I told him as soon as I sat down. “I can’t take your help for nothing. It doesn’t feel right.”

The man laughed, much to my amazement. “You’re so stubborn!” he exclaimed. “Alright, you’ll work in my shop and in my house when you get better.”

“I’m better already, sir. I’ll start work tomorrow”.

He was silent for some time and simply stared at the fire, warming his hands.

“How did you reach here?” he asked me. “You eloped with someone? Did he dump you?”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to tell him the entire truth.

“I ran away alone, Sir. My master treated me very badly. So I ran away…”

His face showed pity when I said this. He probably thought I was a maid at someone’s house. He asked no more, so I said no more. And he agreed to let me work for him.

But he didn’t let me start work so soon. He checked my temperature the next morning and said it’s still high, and that I needed a few more days of rest. I insisted, but he wouldn’t let me get up. I felt he was going out of bounds to help me. And he was doing it for free.

A week later he said I was fit enough, and indeed I was. And so I started my new job. I woke up early every day and took a bath. I swept and scrubbed the floor of his house as I promised. I didn’t cook, but did the dishes after breakfast. Then he took me to his book store and I set to work there too. I learned his name was Aman, and he was in his early thirties. He was unmarried, and his parents were dead long ago. He has been alone since then. He treated me with respect, that was something new to me, and I reveled in this new found feeling of independence. He never asked me much about my past life, and I never dared tell him either. I didn’t want him to hate me for my past.

It felt good working for him. He kept me happy. I had never known happiness so close, as I did during my days with him. He would often let me watch TV with him, and even gifted me a salwar kameez once. I had a separate room in the house, along with a mattress and a pillow, two bed covers and a thick blanket. He was kind. Deep inside, I knew I was beginning to fall for him, no matter how much I ignored the fact. But I knew my limits, and made sure he never got the faintest idea of what I felt for him. He was fond of books, and read a lot. He was working on a book himself too. I often watched him write, and though I could never understand alphabets, I could say he had beautiful handwriting.

Soon, it was spring time. Almost three months had passed since I had started working for Sir Aman. Life was beautiful then, sometimes too good to be true. He was still unaware of my feelings for him, and I always avoided looking him in the eyes, lest they should give away my secret… I often wondered why he didn’t get married. I never saw him with any woman. Nor did he ever seem interested. I wouldn’t mind if he married another lady. I would still love to be their housemaid, and maybe eventually look after their children. I would love to do that!

One day, as I was dusting the shelves of the shop, I saw Sir Aman talk to a familiar looking person outside the shop. I looked closely and freaked out at the sight of him. It was my boss! I wondered how on earth he could have come to know my whereabouts. I ducked behind a shelf and observed them. Sir Aman was silent and seemed tensed, while my boss went on talking. They talked for around fifteen minutes and then he was gone.

When Sir Aman came into the shop, I fell at his feet and begged him to forgive me.

“Don’t send me back to them, sir”, I begged him. “I feared you would hate me for my past, so I never told you anything”,

I said between sobs. “Forgive me sir! I beg you!”

“Get up Pooja, don’t beg like that”, he said, gently picking me up by my shoulders. “I told him you don’t live here anymore”, he said kindly. I felt touched.

“He may come here again though, he didn’t seem so convinced. But I’m there with you, my love”, he was rubbing my shoulders as he spoke. For some reason, at that moment, his touch didn’t feel like before. For some reason, it reminded me of the many people who had touched me previously.

“You’re a beautiful lady, you know”, his voice had lost its warmth. It was cold now. “And I don’t want him to take you away from me”.

I watched silently, as his eyes moved from my face to my chest and further down my body. “I too want to save you, you know that, my love”, he said. “You’re a good girl. I can’t see you get wasted. But, I should have some profit too, right?”

He eyed me from head to toe and stared menacingly. I could see his intention plainly. Men were so easy to be read sometimes. I saw it in his eyes. I saw his lust. I saw his hunger. And yet I went with him. I had to. He was the one who fed me.

He took me to his bedroom and relished me the night. I succumbed. I was with a man I knew, and I loved. But that night, he seemed a complete stranger. Hunger does drive people insane. That night, I became a prostitute to save myself from becoming a prostitute again. I felt like a wild horse, beaten and broken, and tamed to do what the master wants.

In the morning, I was woken up by my boss, who was standing there to take me back to ‘where I belonged’.

I didn’t meet Sir Aman when I left, nor did I ask my boss about him. I realised I was ‘sold’ again. I had taken with me the pretty salwars he had bought for me, just as a memory of the only man who had ever respected me, even though it was for a short while. We travelled by train back to our place. He didn’t talk to me during the journey. But when we reached there, he gave me away to ten thugs who raped me brutally for three days. It was supposed to be my punishment for trying to run away. I felt like that helpless thirteen year old little girl again, destined to this life. I gave in to those thugs, allowing them to relish me the way they liked, just the way I had given in to Digvijay ten years ago…

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