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.'
