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 Thorn – 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 antiquated 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?
