My imagination tells lies too - Virginia Woolf
Her calves ached as she let her skirts move with a freedom she no longer possessed. Her feet taped against the yellow marble floors, a large glass chandelier lit right above her. The maroon shade of her lipstick, combined with her golden skin, enticed the crowd. Her slender hips swayed as she twirled once more. Thin hands moved with a delicate touch. Slicing through the thick air. Each of her movements were muted, lost between the elaborate floor length gowns of the lead dancers brushed against her. The group of five moved in great synchronisation, hiding as she stumbled over a few steps.
She was not used to this life. The life of showing ones body to the crowds. Of dancing and warming the beds of strange men night after night. She had been born in a respectable household, her mistake — loving the wrong man. And now as her chocolate eyes looked at the aged men, sipping local whiskey, throwing wads of cash at them, she spotted the man who was the cause behind her misery. Letting out a breathy shriek, the young woman turned around rapidly, her maroon, organza veil brushing against a man's hand.
The man tugged at it, making the veil fall from her head. Tumbled at her feet as she continued to move. You could not stop. You stopped and game over. And so she twirled with the rest. Her thick ebony hair, calling out to the many ravenous men seated at the sides. Her arched brows and sharp nose, had the men tremble. She was ethereal, there were no two ways about it. And that was what made her scared. The women at the brothel, cornered her. Her benefits were all taken away as she continued to sleep with man after man. Dance in party after party. There were moments when she was consumed with self loathing. Her heart trembled each night she had to leave her small room to enter a large posh farmhouse on the outskirts of the city.
As the beating drum silenced, she bent forward and gripped her veil, holding back tears as she noticed a man with red eyes and almost white hair, leer at her cleavage. She felt sick. This man was the age of her father. Before she could follow the rest of the girls to their mistress, her hand was gripped. Pulling her backwards, the satisfaction inside Asma Bi — the woman incharge of their brothel, told her. She had been sold for the night. And the hour had only just begun.
Gulping her fear, she turned around slowly. Coming face to face with the brute. The man who had divorced her three nights after their marriage. She had been his collateral. His way of seeking revenge from her father. Her mouth dried in an instant, her hands shaking, legs giving way. Where had life brought her? Lifeless, like a statue, she let him drag her to the guestroom. Her eyes hovered the vastness. It was largely bare, just a large bed with a full wall covering satin headboard. A beige wallpaper covered the room, plaster of paris used to make intricate detailing into the high ceilings.
Her body was thrown on the bed with a savageness. The door locked, the lights turned low as the man stalked towards her. His brown hair, with natural caramel highlights, rested on his shoulders. His black eyes were darker than the depths of the ocean. Fiddling with his gemstone green waistcoat, he dropped it onto the floor. Whilst the young twenty one year old withered like a leaf in winter. Short sobs escaped her mouth, heart beat racing, palms sweaty as she raised them up in defeat.
"Insniyat baaki hai tou Nasir chor do mujhe! Jaane do!" [If humanity still remains Nasir then leave me! Let me go!] Her soprano voice, strained with emotion, sound soothing to him.
To see her lie weak and begging. It was a delight. He marveled at her smooth skin. She flinched as the cold ruby ring he wore touched her hot cheeks. A few years ago, when she was seventeen, this touch would have given her butterflies. Now it was only a source of discomfort.
"Tch! Salma naive then, naive now. I love to see you beg. Par ab apnay is ganday mun sai mera naam mat lo. Tum apni aukat par aagai ho! Eik sasti bistar garam karnay wali randi!" [But now don't take my name from your filthy mouth. You have reached your true place! A cheap bed warming whore!] He spat at her cheek.
Salma wiped the spit off of her face, Nasir Waheed was an animal, like the man he followed blindly, Sadiq Ilyas.
Salma had met Nasir at her father's home as a young teenager. At that time, seeing a man ten years her senior give her his attention, Salma had felt on top of the world. She thought it was love. Her father had refused to marry her off. And so at seventeen, Salma had thought the best idea was to elope. Three days later, Nasir divorced her. Salma was shattered and her dreams broke. Snapped into two. He sold her into prostitution, and for all she knew, her family had disowned her.
While Salma reeled in the dreams of the past and what if's, Nasir snaked his arm around her back. Yanking the thin zip, tugging harshly until the maroon chiffon fabric tore. He ripped it off of her body, the zardosi work and snapped zip, leaving a cut on her skin. Nasir's hands were cold against her raging hot skin. Flushed still from the performance downstairs. His hand printed on her upper arm, where he had gripped her flesh so tight. Mercilessly, he ignored Salma's cries to stop.
As he continued to repeatedly torture her through his brutish ways, Salma silenced her voice. Tears dripping down her cheeks. She wished she had never ran away. She wished she had listened to her elder brother and father. Her heart felt like it had been stabbed a million times. Salma would have let a hundred men have sex with her without crying. But a night with Nasir Waheed was like being handed over a sentence to Hell.
Nasir unlocked the heavy door when the sun's first rays were already spreading out on the Earth. He fiddled with his trousers, exiting the room, sated. Not even once did he turn around to look at the woman he left behind. The woman whose breast and lips were stained red. Salma stared at his back. Not a tear leaving her tired eyes. Turning her head with great pain, she stared out of the large window.
Dawn was here. Light covered the land and everyone was out. Cheerful. The dark was gone and so were their nightmares. Yet what about her? What about her as she lay in a puddle of her ex-husband's semen? Her whose vagina felt like it had been torn in half? Light only brought the sin of the night to the front. She would have to look at the mirror, at her bruised body.
Painstakingly, Salma got off of the bed. She was no longer the daughter of a rich man. She was a prostitute. No one would come to help her. Placing her weight on her forearms, Salma dragged herself. Trudging towards the dress, tattered beyond repair, she donned it. She was hysterical as she wrapped the bedsheets around her body. She was a tawaif [dancer] and a randi [whore], to society. To herself, Salma was just a woman defeated by fate. And the cruelty of her heart.
—
Nine months. Nine months of pain and humiliation. Nine months of fear. Salma had no idea why life and time were acting with such insensitivity. Going against her at each end. She wanted to forget Nasir's existence. Yet the night he ravaged her, he had left his seed inside of her. For nine months, Salma had carried the seed, letting it blossom in her womb. Try as she might though, feelings of hatred for the child could never be fostered. It was not her baby's fault.
For three months, Salma had been confined to the bed. Six months of her pregnancy spent having sex with men who wanted her curvier body to themselves. The beginning of her third trimester had come with dizzy spells. Asma Bi had ordered her on bed rest since then. She was after all, carrying a girl. And that mean more business. More business meant a happier brothel. However, Salma could not help but cry. She had her dignity but for how long?
The women in Heera Mandi may be prostitutes but they enjoyed better positions than her. Women here married their pimps, and only then would they get pregnant. The pimps didn't mind having to share their wives. To them, they were a source of cash. This was perhaps the only place where a daughter was truly a sign of happiness and relief. A son was just an extra mouth to feed.
Salma stared out of the small window. It overlooked the tiny, crowded, broken streets of the old city of Lahore. Water accumulated in puddles. Men driving carts laden with fruits through their tiny street. Placing a hand on her stomach, she exited her tiny room. She had been here for a few years and had used the little allowance she got to decorate it tastefully. It was nothing like her room back at home.
Home, was a word foreign to Salma's world now. She had no home. She had no place to seek refuge in. And now her daughter would not have it either. Her daughter would never know a father's love, a brother's care. All of which she had basked in. Halting her sobs, she stepped out into the courtyard. The yard was surrounded with large walls and brick floors. Day beds and garden chairs were arranged haphazardly. Salma smiled at her only companion, a prostitute in her forties, Sarah.
"Kaisi ho?" [How are you?] Sarah gave her a soft smile.
"Kaisi ho sakti hun?" [How can I be?] Salma gave a bitter laugh.
"Hush!" Sarah threw a peanut at her.
Salma shielded her face. Despite the upsetting look on her face, Salma's eyes twinkled with mirth.
"Give me some," Salma forwarded her hand.
Sarah was only happy to comply. Taking this young girl under her wing had been Sarah's best decision.
"Sarah whenever I have my baby, promise to take care of her". Salma held Sarah's hands.
There had been a fear lingering inside Salma's heart. It was like something was holding her by the throat. She feared death. Salma did not want to leave her daughter alone, amongst the vultures were something to happen to her.
"Iss tarah ki baat mat karo. Par vada tumhari beti, meri beti". [Don't think like that. But I promise your daughter is my daughter.] Sarah reassured.
Oh how Sarah hoped she could have taken Salma out of the dark world that lived in the streets of Heera Mandi.
If only they had known that was the last time they would sit together. That night, as a storm tore through the city of Lahore. Tearing trees from their roots and flooding the basements across the city, Salma went into labour. It was impossible to reach the hospitals and so a midwife who lived nearby had been called. A daughter with midnight black hair and a beauty to rival that of Queen's was born. Salma kissed her forehead. Eyes rolling to the back of her head, life draining out of her. The baby of a few minutes was thrust into Sarah's arms. A maternal feeling waking inside of her. That night, the young child lost its biological mother but found a spiritual mother. No one but Sarah shed tears on Salma's cold corpse. Holding the letter she had left in her hands tightly. Tomorrow would be a new day.
LET'S TALK
DID YOU GUYS LIKE THE PROLOGUE?
I'M GOING TO GIVE NASIR A PAINFUL DEATH
ALSO.. Most information I have about prostitutes and their lives comes from the book "Dancing girls of Lahore". It was written by a woman who lived with one prostitute in Heera Mandi for years <3
THOUGHTS & COMMENTS
See you on 27 October <3