When The Red Light Goes Out.

When the red light goes out, a parallel world gets in. The kind that is well guarded and well measured, except to the customers that pay. There exists a story of great mystery and intrigue, for this is the world that trades lust for money.

They come,
They go,
leaving behind some debris,
some pain,
some money.

Looking every bit like a desperate Indian bride, she battled her self-esteem and walked into the room. It smelt foul; like a chemical; like sex. The fear, the turmoil, the storm inside her heart that used to resurface whenever she climbed the staircase to this room had settled. The tasteless decor of red velvet was sprawled across the tainted bed. The walls were a nude yellow and the paint was fresh. She missed the old chapped landscape of the room. It recognized her and she didn't bore any shame in baring all in front of them. They seemed to absorb what was left of the excruciating pain she once felt. At first, the burns on her face seemed to repel him but still he unhooked her bra and got down to business. He knew his pocket allowed him only 200 an hour and this was the the only brothel in town that was eager to serve his needs at this price. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were vaguely visible. She wondered if he had any kids or if he was married at all. Apart from all those lustful glares, she thought she saw a glimpse of a clumsy kind man who pitied her condition, but very well knew that he couldn't do much about it. She liked the ones who pitied her, a tear or two made sure they were back within a week. He paid to spend an hour of desperation with her, and to her he would always remain a capable client who could afford her rate and whom she had to please in every possible manner so that he frequently comes back asking for more.

His hesitant polite manner told her that he was not one of those demanding customers who extracted worth out of every minute that they were paying for. As soon as he climaxed, he slid off her chest. It had only been twenty minutes but he started dressing himself. 'Naam kya hai tera ? Agle hafte fir aaunga' (What is your name ?, I'll come again next week). His voice caught her off guard and he was no more the shy stranger. She muttered her name under her breath. With an awkward demeanor he kept the two folded hundreds on the edge of the bed and turned to leave. 'Agar use pata chala ki maine tumse paisa liya hai to mujhe maar daalega' (He would tear me into pieces if word of my ever touching a cent of that money got to his ears). Now she knew, he was a novice.

He looked at her with an almost guilty expression and picked up the money. Apart from the faded moaning, this was the first of what she had ever spoken to a client, she never wanted to; she never had to. Their ignorance towards her feelings had made her strong and she intended on carrying on this strength within her forever. People had been calling her profession dirty and shameless, the irony was that the ones who paid for having sex with her had no dirt on their collar, all of it was served on her platter. She got off the bed, changed the bed sheet and prepared herself all over again looking like an Indian bride for another 200 an hour companion.

She felt sleepy and thought she would call it a night after this one. It had been six long months but still she was never able to entertain more than three men in one night. She knew this was her weakness and that it cost her a lot of money when compared to all the other ladies. Her employer called in after a couple minutes informing her that there weren't any more men asking for her that night.

She fed her baby, ate her dinner and slept a dreamless quiet night.

Government of India has listed prostitution under its list of victimless crimes. Is it really a victimless crime ? If no, who is the real victim?