An Educated Woman In Prostitution Read online

  None of what Harimati was saying was untrue, which was why I did not protest, but listened with downcast eyes. Confrontations are not in my nature, and particularly in this case I knew it would be futile to argue. In order to frighten me, Harimati told me that the neighbours had come to know everything about me, but I knew that if ever I earned a bad name in the neighbourhood, it would be because of her.

  Very soon my assumptions were confirmed; when Harimati saw her threats were not going to quell me, she proceeded to spread calumnies about me. Eventually it came to the attention of my father, who did not believe her. Instead, he told the bearer of the rumour, ‘As soon as women move about freely, people in our country try to sully their reputations with falsehoods. Women’s independence is not yet accepted in our land.’

  I grew even more adamant. Mukul-dada had once told me in the course of conversation, ‘The more obstacles there are in the path of love, the stronger it grows.’ I discovered proof of this in my own heart.

  As unbridled sensuality swelled in the first flush of my youth, I found myself in the close company of two young men—Mukul and Ramesh. Following the dictates of nature, the unstoppable force of desire flowed like a torrent towards them. There was no maternal affection or love and care to hold me back. Today I feel that I would not have walked on this road had my mother been alive. If my father had turned his attention to me even once, if he had been even slightly caring or if he had controlled me, my life would possibly have taken a different turn.

  Mukul-dada was a little timid by nature, while Ramesh-dada was bold and reckless. One afternoon, on a day that schools and offices were closed, he went up to my father, who was reading in the drawing room, to ask, ‘Where’s Maani, kakababu?’

  My father said, ‘Upstairs, why?’ Ramesh-dada said, ‘We’re going to the Botanical Gardens today, if Maani wants to come, we’ll take kakima too.’

  My father said, ‘Ask her.’

  Ramesh-dada walked directly into my bedroom, where I was reclining in bed, reading the Gitagovinda. Sitting down next to me, he said, ‘Shall we go to the Botanical Gardens today, Maani?’

  I said, ‘No Ramesh-dada, I’m not feeling well today.’ Placing his hand on my brow, he said, ‘You seem fine, let me see your hand.’ Drawing my left hand to himself he checked my pulse and said, ‘Nothing’s wrong with you, you’re playing games.’ Lacing his fingers in mine, he began to squeeze my hand. Ecstasy flowed through my body like an electric current.

  Lying down on my side, I chuckled. ‘You think you can diagnose all diseases just by checking the pulse and the brow?’ Interpreting my light-hearted statement correctly, Ramesh-dada said, ‘Then I have to conduct an examination without a stethoscope.’

  He left the room after a while. I was like a wild tiger who had tasted blood for the first time. There was no fear or repentance—on the contrary, my anxiety and hesitation disappeared. I realised that if there was an inclination there would always be opportunities.

  Six or seven months passed, while I kept adding fuel to the fire of nature. Ramesh-dada was still staying at his boarding house, and had not yet brought his family to live with him, using some pretext or the other every time it came up. Mukul-dada was attracted to Kamala; he had even indicated his willingness to marry her under Brahmo wedding laws. I was pleased by this—but Kamala still maintained her distance, for she had not yet forgotten her previous husband.

  One day Ramesh-dada told me, we cannot go on like this in this house. ‘Let us go somewhere where I can see you all the time, where I can have you in my heart every moment. Now that the torrent has burst out of the mountain, let it flow to the open plains.’ I put my arms around Ramesh-dada without answering, laid my head on his chest, and burst into tears.

  Our annual examination was imminent. I wanted more time to study at home; I told my father that the school bus picked me up on the first trip, at 9 am, although classes did not start till 10.30 am. This was a waste of time. My father said, ‘The car is at the garage for repairs. Take a taxi to school until it’s back. Nandalal and you can leave together, he will take you to your school and then go on to his own.’ Nanda-dada and I started taking a taxi to and from school.

  For two or three days I had been throwing up, my mouth filling with saliva every time. Ramesh-dada was silent for some time when I told him. The next day he said, ‘I have taken four months’ leave, Maani. Come, let’s go away. We must not delay; tomorrow you must contrive to drop Nandalal first and then come to my place in the taxi. I’ll pack for both of us, I have asked Mukul to buy everything we need.’ I was delirious with joy.

  Mukul-dada came at the appointed hour for my lessons. He was aware of my love affair with Ramesh-dada, and even wrote a set of poems to mark the occasion—a new book of poetry named Madhuri.

  The next day Nanda-dada and I left for school at the usual hour in a taxi. I didn’t take my books, explaining, ‘We’re revising for the exams, what do we need books for.’ Glancing at his watch, he said, ‘Oh, I’m late, Maanu.’ I said, ‘Then let’s go to your school first, Nanda-dada, I have some time before I have to be at school.’ This is how unexpected opportunities come our way. I had been wondering how to arrange to go to Nanda-dada’s school first. He who inspires the honest, also supplies the thief with all he needs.

  From Nanda-dada’s school I went directly to Ramesh-dada’s house. I found Mukul-dada there as well. Ramesh-dada got into another taxi with me, carrying a suitcase. This was where I said goodbye to Mukul-dada. I hadn’t had the time to inform Kamala, so I asked him to let her know everything that had happened. The taxi left for Howrah Station. Looking back, I saw Mukul-dada wiping away his tears.

  I had meant to stop for a moment in front of my mother’s portrait to seek her blessings before leaving home, but I was too unsettled to remember. Perhaps it was just as well, for if I had gazed upon her I would not have been able to perform an act of such repugnant desperation.

  Chapter the Fourth

  Realising My Mistake

  WHY DID I ABANDON MY home? I shall answer this question clearly. It was because I was deluded by desire and had taken leave of my senses. Society has made arrangements to control the natural physical urges that arise within us because of our bodies by using the ritual of marriage. When young girls and boys are kept engaged in appropriate education and given the company of people of virtue, they are protected from the sensual impulses of youth. But these are the very elements that our society lacks today, which is why an untamed lasciviousness erupts at an untimely juncture in young bodies and minds.

  As for me, I have received neither an appropriate education nor the company of people of virtue. Because of my school education, all I have learnt to read are books lacking in seriousness—I only read poetry and novels and stories. They excited my imagination to encourage my depraved passions. No one ever gave me books of piety that induced religious devotion in me, that taught me self-restraint. Whatever entertainment I amused myself with was of a low order. The singing and dancing of theatre and the images from films did nothing to stimulate suitable thoughts. It is dangerous for the young to attempt to learn from these. Just as an infant who is fed fish immediately on growing its first teeth is condemned to choke on fish bones and die, so too are the young women and men of this land being led towards their death by going to the theatre and reading novels. I say this from my own experience; I am certain that others in my situation will testify in my support.

  By the time I was in the Second Class, I felt I knew a great deal already. I had read much of the young novelists’ works; thanks to Mukul-dada in particular, I had also studied some Shelley, Byron, Shakespeare, Vidyapati, Bharatchandra, Vidyasagar, Bankim, Dinabandhu, Girish Chandra and Rabindranath. No wonder, therefore, that I was bloated with pride.

  Those who inhabit only a world of their imagination do not develop an understanding of the harsh realities of life. Poets and novelists belong to this category. They play only with thoughts, but do not risk action. This was the condition Mu
kul-dada’s teaching had left me in. When it came to the real world, I discovered that the way I had imagined it through the medium of novels and poetry was completely untrue.

  I was fifteen years old when I left home. Had I considered myself unintelligent and helpless at that age, had I believed that I knew nothing of the world, had I been frightened at every step, I would never have been able to do what I did. It was false arrogance that made me reckless and shortsighted. Today I feel that suitable guardianship would have done me a world of good; I have now realised the necessity of dependence even within independence.

  I had expected all obstacles to melt away as soon as I left home, allowing me to fulfil my desires to the fullest extent. But we discovered a dire situation on reaching Delhi—we would have to hide from the police. From people to places, everything was unfamiliar in a new city. We were Bengalis in an alien land—where were we to go, what were we to eat? Would I survive without worrying when Ramesh-dada went out? So many problems, so many difficulties. It was far easier at home. I had much more freedom there—why, I even had more opportunities for secret trysts with Ramesh-dada.

  Of course, the power of money can overcome any barrier, but did Ramesh-dada have so much money at his disposal? I had brought none from home, and he had two and a half thousand rupees. How long would it last us if we could not augment it? No matter which city we were in, we had to live in style in a luxury hotel. I needed clothes and some jewellery, a young servant boy too. Surely we were not going to live like hermits on frugal meals. Our lives were meant for pleasure, silver was its primary ingredient.

  A week passed in Delhi; from Mukul-dada’s letter I learnt that my father had started investigations into my whereabouts, though he had not informed the police. There was great suspicion about Ramesh-dada; enquiries were being made at his office and home. Kamala was mortified.

  We went from Delhi to Lahore. Ramesh-dada had not even been employed for an entire year. How had he secured leave of absence for four months? It had never occurred to me to ask.

  No poem or novel will reveal how much leave is available after a particular period of employment, or what the practices of different organisations are. I was under the impression clerks could get leave whenever they wanted.

  We had travelled on the second class by train. At Burdwan, Ramesh-dada had opened the suitcase and laid out five bundles of currency notes in front of me, saying, ‘This is what we have to live on, Maanu.’ I counted a hundred ₹5 notes in each bundle, and did not stop to ask where he had got these two and a half thousand rupees from. At ₹200 a month, even a year’s salary does not amount to ₹2,500. Perhaps Ramesh-dada had a rich father, whose money he was demolishing. But that was not the case either. He had, after all, had to beg my father to get him a job, and had even stayed in our house for a month because he did not have enough money.

  But none of this had occurred to me at the time, for the devil who has invented sensual desire ensures that we remember none of this. Like a couple united by marriage sans family or witnesses, or like a mythical kinnar mithun pair, we were soaring in the sky—our feet could scarcely touch the ground.

  From Lahore we travelled to Amritsar, where we spent three days before leaving for Kashmir. We stayed for nearly a month in Srinagar. As everyone knows, the natural beauty of Kashmir is divine; our newfound love flooded over.

  The next destination was Bombay. With the earlier dangers averted, my fears receded gradually. The police was no longer a threat. Ramesh-dada was an alert and cunning man; although I knew from Mukul-dada’s letter that my father had not lodged a complaint with the police, still he made it a point to strike up an acquaintance with police officers wherever he went. His intent was to sniff out news of an arrest warrant in advance so that he could disappear in time.

  Even in the lower classes in school I had become quite proficient in English. Mukul-dada’s tutoring and Ramesh-dada’s company had improved my skills.

  We used to live like westerners in hotels, where I dressed like Parsi women. The English language had become especially useful when mingling with other guests. I learnt the western ways of dining and of conducting myself quickly, although I used to be perturbed about it at first. Ramesh-dada said, ‘Look Maanu, if you Bengali girls go to Punjab and say, oh god where have I come, if people from Bombay cannot adjust to food and life in Bengal, if Madrasis consider Ayodhya a foreign land, how will we ever have nationalism in this country?’

  I said, ‘India is an immensely large country, with so much variety and so many differences in language and religion and social practices that I think it is impossible to create a single nation here.’ Ramesh-dada said with great emphasis, ‘The impossible must be made possible.’ This is a quality I have observed in him—wherever he went, he considered it his own land, not just in his thoughts but also with his actions.

  We had visited many of the historical and holy sites in Delhi and Lahore, in Srinagar and Bombay, during our stay in those cities. This helped purge my mental perversities to some extent, with my restlessness being replaced by tranquillity. Ramesh-dada breathed a sigh of relief.

  We had stopped at Dwarka and Rajputana en route to Bombay from Srinagar. Our visits to places like Pushkar, Bharatpur, Jaipur, and Chittor gave rise to a miraculous calmness in my heart. I forgot all about my home and my father. Once, I had wanted to visit these places with him, but he had preferred to travel with my stepmother instead. Today my wishes were fulfilled thanks to Ramesh-dada’s munificence. When we walked I used to hold his hand, and when we rode in a car I would sit with my arm around him. I cannot describe the waves of delight that flowed between our hearts as we bounced over the uneven roads in our vehicle with its faulty springs. I was filled with not just love but also gratitude for Ramesh-dada.

  As we passed Haldighat, Ramesh-dada told me, ‘This is India’s Thermopylae, where fifteen thousand Rajputs lay down their lives for the nation. We have forgotten their glorious courage.’ Sighing, he blew out cigar smoke. I had watched a performance of D.L. Roy’s Rana Pratap on stage. ‘Such unshakeable resolve, such extreme renunciation—who else could have made such a rare sacrifice to free their motherland of the chain of slavery? We cannot even imagine such high idealism.’

  We saw the place where Padmini did her jauhar. Everyone present had their heads bowed and the palms joined, and I did the same, my heart fluttering. My arms lost all sensation, and I was about to fall. Clutching Ramesh-dada, who was standing by my side, I said, ‘Let’s go.’

  I do not know what blessings that the purest among women showered on me from heaven, but I feel today that had the ideal of chastity that Padmini represents not existed on our land, a shining beacon for human society would have been missing. I had read of a chaste wife entering the fire in the Puranas, and now I had seen the holy spot where so many chaste women had sacrificed their lives in a blaze of glory. I realised that the flames had not incinerated Padmini’s body, they had only burnt the sinful aggressor’s obscene desire to ashes.

  One evening we were taking the breeze in Malabar Hills in Bombay. We were strolling after letting the taxi go. I was miserable that evening, for reasons I will explain later. I had taken a siesta after lunch, while Ramesh-dada was reading the newspaper. We had not spoken much. When he saw me looking downcast, he decided we should go out. The beautiful sights outside restored my cheerfulness to some extent. Saying, ‘Well Maanu, did we leave our home and families only for me to see you looking so doleful? What is the matter?’ Putting his left arm around me, he gave me a good shake. I laid my head on his chest, feeling tearful. He held my chin and looked at me, noticing my moist eyes. At once he used a handkerchief to wipe my tears away, its mild fragrance delighting my senses. We sat down on a bench nearby.

  ‘I have given up everyone for you, Maanu,’ he said, ‘I have forgotten my wife, my widowed mother, my younger brothers and sisters, all for you. Are you too going to forsake me now? Do the dangers I have defied to be with you not tell you how much I love you?’ Ramesh-dada hel
d me close to his breast. I could not savour his caresses today; I gazed at the darkness stretching out in front of us. My hands were clasped in my lap; Ramesh-dada took my right arm and placed it around his own shoulder. I was embarrassed to think I was ignoring him.

  Silence reigned, with the occasional car holding sophisticated people passing by with low sounds along the wide Malabar Hill street. Ramesh-dada said, ‘Why are you so quiet, what’s wrong?’

  I said, ‘Nothing at all. You must have seen what Kamala wrote today.’ I tightened the hold of my arm around him.

  Lighting a cigarette, he said, ‘Are you missing home? Such a little girl.’ Exhaling a mouthful of smoke, he said, ‘Can you tell me what makes you miss home? Don’t mind my saying this, but I am telling you the truth; you have no mother at home, nor brothers or sisters. Your father is enjoying himself with his sixteen-year-old second wife—he does not even spare a glance for his daughter. He has manoeuvred you out of the bedroom, he has even discarded your mother’s portrait. What joys lie in wait for you over there?’

  I would have given a different answer had Ramesh-dada told me the same thing today. But at that time I had told myself: ‘Forgive me, Ramesh-dada, I have indeed escaped the desert and discovered life-giving water. I do not need to see what you have forsaken for me, I only have eyes for the offering of love you have laid out in front of me.’

  We took a taxi that evening to the cinema. My happiness returned, I asked myself why I was adding to the burden of my anxiety—which fool was it who refused a cup of nectar?

  The letter from Kamala that I referred to earlier said that she had met my father, who was heartbroken because of me. He was neither going to inform the police nor lodge a case. My stepmother was weeping for me. Harimati was ecstatic at her predictions having come true, and was telling neighbours, ‘I knew all along.’ Nanda-dada had stopped going to school; he was saying, ‘I will find Maanu somehow or the other.’ Kamala’s mother had acquiesced to her marrying Mukul-dada. There was no news of Ramesh-dada’s family.