The Slum.

I see their clenched stomachs, impregnated with pangs of hunger,
But it also carries great strength, the one that urges them to earn every little morsel.

I see them dancing and bathing in the pools of mud,
But my contemptuous darting glares never seem to disrupt their innocent smiles.

I hear the pain and anguish of a molested daughter,
But the tenacity of togetherness heals her wound.

I feel their bare chapped feet, running on my skin,
But they leave the essence, of the touch of a pristine baby.

I smell the fear, of their hut collapsing on a rainy day,
But their palace stays intact, blessed by the power of their prayer.

I know that fortitude, the one that controls their darkest emotions,
But it also tells me, that they are broken inside.

I support the colossal bamboo that serves as their only toy
But their empty eyes fail to hide, that longing for something more.

I wonder, how would it feel,
If only for a day, I could Soak no more.

I see them cry, I hear them laugh, I soak it in,
For I am the Slum.

A Paralled World.

Comments have been disabled, discussion might disrupt the message I'm trying to convey here.

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 soaked the pain, 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?

**

Words.

The world has been jeweled by the piercing sunlight and the shadows cast by it. It does not need Words. An uncatalogued stone speaks for itself and for the power of worship that resides inside it. The chastity of a lover discovers its path by wrapping its arms around its beloved, even calling it chastity is unfair until the knees flex and the throat dries. A kiss on the forehead is still completely cherished though no words are spoken. The emotional revelation of a tear is a confession of a sin. The poem that does not rhyme carries profound meaning. The wrinkle that has been masked by the make-up speaks the silent language of your real being. It uncovers a lie, night after night.

Words, as the world sees them, are over-rated.

Where Beauty is a Myth.

This post won the runner-up prize in the said contest.

The beaming astrologer had recommended green this time. Her mother, whom she lovingly called Ma, beseeched her to drape a green saree with a heavily embellished pallu. Its embroidery was more detailed than the last one. Ma could read through her glassy eyes, she always could, the pain, the humiliation of feeling like a rejected piece of clothing waiting to get lucky. She lifted up her chin and gave her a reassuring smile as though there was no evil left in this world for good to accomplish. She faked her faith in her smile.

Her heart was not pumping any more blood than it was supposed to today. The flutter refused to return and even after making every possible effort, she couldn't bring back the excitement she once felt. Her expectations had died a silent death several years ago. She was doing this for her parents, after all they had loved her, unconditionally. It was almost like a debt that was crushing her shoulders.

Didi put on some green eye-liner over her eyes that matched the color of the saree beyond belief, it was immaculate. A nail was tied to one end of the saree in an attempt to ensure prophetic significance. The lipstick was being applied with a lip brush this time as if this was the curse that went wrong all these years. Nonetheless, she very well knew this show had to be perfect and she was everybody's favorite puppet, she had to live up to their expectations unlike all the past failures. Mistakes weren't affordable anymore. Time was running swiftly and she had to catch up.

The delicacies were served in silver traditional thaalis, only if their beauty could overpower the truth. The sweets were prepared in pure desi ghee and their smell left no room for any other discussion. She entered with a tray and served her special cardamom tea to her audience. The saucers were left untouched. She saw their grin turn into a meek hint of a smile from the corner of her over-burdened eye, she could hardly lift it up. She wore a constant expression throughout the evening and spoke only when she was spoken to, the instructions were clear. The man who was supposed to decide whether she was beautiful enough to deserve the honor of marrying him kept nudging his mother with his elbow at regular intervals. He looked bored but his mother's stern expression kept him glued to the sofa.

An hour later, when everything from corruption to cocktail had got the privilege of becoming the center of discussion, the guests rose from their seats and began to leave. Her father joined his hands gesturing his debt to them for taking the trouble to grace them with their presence. He accompanied them to the entrance. She stood from her chair and waited in anticipation. A few minutes later, her father walked back in. Without uttering a word he left for his evening walk. She read the disappointment sprawled across his wrinkles.

It had happened. And it had happened again.

She was rejected by another family.

Not because she was illiterate,

Not because she didn't deserve it,

But because of the color that her skin reflected.

You might want to deny it but modern India is living on a land where beauty is a bubble waiting to be pricked by every other trespasser. Everybody holds an opinion but none so true. When Surf Excel Matic asked me to ponder over what occupies my mind when I hear the words 'Soak no More', I couldn't help but focus on how distorted our idea of beauty has become. This is not a preachy post asking you to reflect upon your concept of whos beautiful and whos not, its a silhouette, of a path that has led us to where we are and is constantly prompting us to overlook our conscience.

The market these days is flooded with fairness products that promise to make you more appealing to your partner. To be blunt, would you really want to be with a partner whose love is this shallow ? Crossing all lines, the latest addition to the list is a lotion that would make your private parts fairer and more attractive, as if the current happenings weren't enough to gather the level at which today's man has stooped. This massive obsession has grown beyond recognition, and all we do is soak, and then, soak some more of it.

I say, we 'Soak No More'.

Although the story depicted in this post talks about one particular stigma, the palette is filled with a riot of such stories.

It might take us a while to accept, but we're all a little fragile. A small dose of criticism can manage to do unimaginable harm to our self-esteem, and building a shield around us so that it wouldn't reach us is as hard as finding a needle in a haystack. Being considerate doesn't take much, the only requirement is purity of heart, and if you have that, you'll look at the world with a different, more subtle pair of eyes, ones that would cherish the goodness around them. I trust JK Rowling when she says, 

'It is important to remember that we all have magic inside us'.

Sometimes people are beautiful,

Not in looks,

Not in what they say,

Just in what they are.

This post is an official entry to the Surf Excel Matic 'Soak No More' Contest hosted by IndiBlogger.

My best wishes to all the participants.

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