The sight of all this opulence makes me uneasy. In Mumbai, Salim and I would gatecrash the weddings of the rich for free food, but we never grudged them their wealth. But seeing these rich college boys spending money like paper, I am gripped by a totally new sense of inadequacy. The contrast with my own imperfect life pinches me with the force of a physical hurt. Not surprisingly, my hunger just shrivels up and dies, despite the mounds of tempting dishes lying on my table. I realize then that I have changed. And I wonder what it feels like to have no desires left because you have satisfied them all, smothered them with money even before they are born.
Is an existence without desire very desirable? And is the poverty of desire better than rank poverty itself? I think about these questions, but do not arrive at any satisfactory answers.
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 good-hearted 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.'
