mogra blossoms

I don’t remember that day accurately, it was a July morning. I was walking past the drenched roads, sticky and humid odours floating in the air. Soft Bangla music was playing in the background and I could sense the fusing perspiration of people walking on the footpath after a nightlong pouring. On the streets of Kolkata, India, I looked up to see the sun that had almost disappeared for a long time, the warmth felt like homecoming as the rays struck my tanned golden skin. Now, it is only fair that I tell you who I am. I am Samhita - Samhita Bhattacharya. I sell my honour to make a living, at least that is what you might define my job to be. I am what happens to me. As I was walking on the footpath by the Baghajatin market to fetch some vegetables for myself, I saw some people giving me a side glance. Nobody would meet my eyes with a dignified gaze, never without muttering something crass amongst themselves. Yeah, you’ve guessed it right. I am a p********e. My only existence outside my house resides in whispers. You know, women are always expected to take on the silent role, the naive yet mischievous one, the one who never complains, the one who always has a pleasant smile on her face & a gajra adorned on her bun. We are coerced into taking in whatever is thrown at us, a man’s anger, lust or both. As a collective, we have a weird relationship with prostitutes. Clearly there's a massive demand for what they do, yet we tend to treat s*x workers themselves like vermin. It’s odd, considering that if there is ever a victim in the whole thing, it's the prostitutes themselves -- and that's only if they're doing it against their will. Otherwise, who are we angry at? I wore a blue salwar kameez that day, aquamarine to be precise. The fabric was fading its colours but I still adored it. I walked into the market and bought a day or two’s supplies, some fish, potatoes, onions, and beans. As I turned my feet towards home, I saw two men following me. Wiping off the sweat beads on my forehead, I ignored them. Pacing as fast as I could, my breath was erratic. I found them right behind me, one of them, dodged in the front and asked, “How much do you charge? That lovely body would be really expensive ay!" “Why won’t you say anything? We might fetch you some profit you know!” I was scared to death. Often men would misbehave with me, the ones who knew about me and the ones who thought they knew enough. I pushed them away and tried to sprint as fast as I could. After a few minutes, I looked back and realised that they were no longer following me. I reached my doorstep and noticed that the plastic bag in which I carried my vegetables was torn partially. I carried it carefully upstairs as I opened the front door. I sat down on the rugged sofa in my cosy little room. It was right above the massive place where my in-laws lived. I dare not call them my second parents, if I would, then I would have lost the sense of judging the purity of such relationships. I would have forgotten how my mother treated me, how my father protected me, only then would I have called them my second parents, they could’ve never taken the place of Maa and Baba. If only I wish they were here with me. Baba always told me, “Goodness exists in the midst of all cruelty around you. That is how one can be sure that god exists. He does, in your good and pure heart.” Yes, god sure does exist, the only hope in my miserable life, I was waiting for her. Face of an angel, with hazel eyes, the one I call my own regardless of the others surrounding me who believe themselves to be the ones taking ownership of me, my identity, and my own body. No, she wasn’t like them, she was that soft velvet curtain, beautiful to look at, who protected my tender heart from the tarnishing fumes of anger. She was my daughter Reeti. That little shadow of hers, those eyes filled with wonder, drenched in all my pain, my fears disappeared looking at her face, with that ever-smiling face, who would only cry late at nights when she woke up and would not find me beside her, because I would be there, spending my body to earn her a good future. Like many women doing this, this was not my choice. I had a dream. A dream to travel, to earn a living without any obligations to anyone. My only will to live was because of my sweet Reeti. My parents too wanted me to live a life surrounded by an equally loving family. They got me married off to Ankit Bhattacharya, supposedly my husband. Who doesn't show an ounce of care for me but he does love Reeti, and I mean, who wouldn't love her? My in-laws ran a brothel where they pushed in impoverished women like me. I came here, wishing for a man who would help me grow, give me two beautiful children and treat me kindly. Ankit married me because I didn't speak much. I was his perfect imposter wife in front of the world. The only catch is that I got pregnant before he could completely discard me into the s*x trafficking ring. Ankit treated me so well for the first few weeks; I could see that he was falling for me, at least that’s what I thought. We went out, talked about our futures and the books we’ve read. He would make me cardamom tea which I couldn’t go a day without. I anxiously waited for him to come home every night. I loved watching him sleep. The situation worsened day by day. Little by little. The calamity crept in so slowly, I did not realise I was in hot waters. It started with an outburst, to many outbursts, to silent treatment, to beatings and never looking into my eyes again. Reeti and I lived on the terrace which was equipped with a small shed-like room, without Ankit. The massive bungalow underneath, was inhabited by the people I wanted to run and hide from. The numerous girls I saw were so habituated doing what they were, that they didn't even change their facial expressions whenever I saw them. I would have to supplement them if they were in lack of women. I wouldn't be pushed to do so frequently, but yes, I did go there when my husband and my in-laws forced me to. Even when I would protest that I don't want to. Poor Reeti would stand there, holding my pallu, and hiding behind it with soft curls covering her tear puddled eyes. I would have to leave her, terrified, into my bedroom, to blind her from the deepest sorrow of my life. I would turn off the lights to calm her down and let her restless body lie there for a while peacefully, as she came home from school and witnessed this coldness from her grandparents towards me. I was helpless. I was bound. Divorce in an Indian society is considered somewhat unnatural and who would dare to go against the Bhattacharyas, the powerful ones with money floating in the air, of bodies sold and sins earned. My parents are poor, they live a hundred kilometres away. I never saw them ever since I got married. I never owned a mobile phone & could only talk to Maa and Baba via Ankit’s spare phone which he monitored like a hawk. Moreover the only reason I was bearing all this inside of me was because of Reeti. The reason why she was going to school, the reason why she would have a roof over her, a pillow under her weary head and a father's support which was in some way of no meaning to her. Talking about my friends, I had no real friends there, except Piyali. Piyali was so like me. She visited me frequently and we sat on the terrace by the wet bricks and talked for hours. She told me about how her parents approached the Bhattacharyas for help and they put her into this filthy business in hope of building a better life. When you don’t have money to eat twice a day, it makes you do the impossible. Even put yourself in danger, pull a dagger or drag cement bags for hours, clean sewers or windows. Hunger is a double-edged sword, it kills and it drives to kill.