The Working Women

The working woman I.

She knows a man’s erection when she feels one; pushed and prodded against her back with frotteuristic intentions. At 30 she’s already been married, and divorced. And now, her plans for the future have already been halved, compared to women her age, whose half of the dreams comprise a caring husband and lovely children. ‘I just want to travel the world’, she tells people who care to ask. It’s Monday morning rush hour and all the metros going towards HUDA city center are packed with corporate zombies dressed in crisp and clean clothes laundered over the weekend. She’s placed herself as close to the door as possible, but this hasn’t thwarted some men in the compartment from trying to make an ‘accidental’ contact with her body. She clutched at the strap of her bag, not because she feared someone would rob her, but rather seeking succor among all the hefty men around heavily breathing down on her. Her hair was still wet at the tips and they left wet patches on her top. The strap of her bag was pulling down on her top at the shoulder revealing her bra-strap. She hastily fixed it. She’s expecting her periods anytime soon, and she’s hating the weight around her lower abdomen. These days, she does not like the way she looks when she stares at her naked body in the mirror. I look at her from a couple of feet across the compartment. Her scattered gray strands and the dark circles around her eyes are becoming more visible. And in all this, she does not feel beautiful. But she is… she is beautiful, the Monday kind of way…

The working woman II.

Her father came home to drop a pile of clothes to be laundered. After asking her to sort the white clothes from the colored, he left to collect another pile from another neighborhood. Sitting down on the floor of her six feet by ten feet shanty in the slum, she started fishing through the clothes and checking their pockets. There are some beautiful dresses which she knows for sure belonged to that beautiful ‘model-type’ lady from 43, Green Park. Among these beautiful dresses is a particular one in dark red that catches her attention. It is a backless short dress with a lace hemline. She has a couple of hours before her father returns. A sudden impulsive urge emerges in her to try this dress on herself. She is also expecting her lover to visit her anytime now. While putting on the dress she wonders what kind of bra girls wore with this kind of dresses without a back. And as for her, she never wears one as she does not have breasts good enough for a brassiere. There is only a small handheld mirror which she tries from various angles to look at herself, a foot of her body at a time. The dress hangs a little loose on her frail body and flat chest. I was keeping an eye on her shanty from afar and after I have waited for five minutes after I saw her father leave on his squeaking bicycle, I make way to her. She is startled when I suddenly enter, like someone getting caught committing some minor wrongdoing. I instantly understand what she is up to and walk close to her. The dress still smells good; like those drunk ladies with heavy makeup in HKV who buy cigarettes from me after their parties are over, clinging on to the muscular arms of their gym-going partners who they call ‘baby’. I always wanted to ram my penis into the fat behinds of these women. And like the next natural thing to do, with eyes closed, I start to wet my beak into the woman I have at hand, with the left-over perfume on the dress helping me imagine those ladies. I finish earlier than usual, but before I could completely end my act she pushes me away with a jolt. Apparently, I dropped a few on her dress. With sudden onset guilt she takes off the dress and starts putting on her own clothes. Slowly pulling my pants up, I look at her from the other end of the room. She stands in a stark variance from those women I’d just imagined. Her hair is dry and browned by the sun. Her bobbled leggings do not hug her skinny thighs and even from outside the kurti she’s put on, one can make out her shoulder bones. And in all this, she does not feel beautiful. But she is… she is beautiful, the Tuesday kind of way…

The working woman III.

Through the gaps in the leaves, her friend tries to look for any police patrol car. When she made sure, there aren’t any, she comes out of the dark onto the pavement. You have to be good at juggling three things at once in this line of work: keeping an eye out for cops, keeping an eye out of potential customers and staging yourself at the measured spot between light and darkness, correctly distanced from societal integrities. It’s her second year in India and when the Fulani herdsmen killed her parents in her south Nigerian village two years back, she had little option but to take up a ‘job’ in India: catering to the carnal appetite of Indian men. She wanted to provide for her little brother, her only family left, with all that he deserved. A few military men of her country had raped her when she was just 14, which went on to be her first sexual encounter. And in all these years after that, there wasn’t much left for her to be surprised about the intentions of man which he so well perennially masks. She runs her hand over her abdomen, sucks it in, corrects her posture to highlight the enormity of her breasts and looks towards her far left. It is ladies-night tonight at Summer House Café and girls are thronging to that place. And like dogs in mating season, men lie in wait in the vicinity with big cars and gelled hair trying to get entry. It would be a lucky day for her if she gets a customer from among them; they who usually prefer white girls. She has spotted two guys loitering around and now she’s made eye contact with them. With a nod of her head she beckons out to them. Exchanging prods and nudges they near her. They settle for two thousand rupees for a couple of hours. Sitting in my auto, I’m witnessing the whole affair from a distance. One of the men signals out to me as I approach them. To Malviya Nagar, they tell me. She is sitting in the middle of the two men and as soon as my auto enters a dark lane, the two men begin feeding their ravenous inner beasts. In between these dark and light spots of the journey, in my rearview mirror, I could see the outlines of her lipstick slowly fading into her dark skin; her wig slowly revealing her actual hairline and the kohl on her big black eyes comet-tailing on a side from the violent stroke of one of the man’s hand. Our eyes meet once in the mirror. In this brief pause we exchange an understanding; added with a certain helplessness from her side and a certain apology from mine. And in all this, she does not feel beautiful. But she is… she is beautiful, the Wednesday kind of way…

(For those women of south Delhi they don't write about)