Don’t know why I came in front
of the mirror and started counting the remaining black hair on my
head..Haha few years back I used to count the grey ones. Time flies!
Those were the starting lines written in the chapter 65 of her diary. A diary of daily records in which she has given the account of her long experience with life. 70 years long! A record of many ups and downs of a woman’s life. Some chapters of which gave the depiction of a life of a little girl, some at the age of puberty while some others were like an experience shared by a single girl.. An auto biography of any common girl.
Her name was laali. Laali specifies the red color, basically that of vermillion or of heena in Indian tradition. And she was actually a lover of red color. When I met her for the first time she wore red colored 4 yards long cloth which is usually called saree. Heighted 5’7 with long dark cascading hair adding to her beauty. A square jawed fair face, beautiful red lips and gracefully applied kumkum on the forehead; she gave the absolute look of any Indian deity. She was only 23 but forced by circumstances stepped into this world of fraud, sex, and money. From last 12 years she is been working in the red light area of that city. I, astonished by her beauty and broad mindedness kept quite for a while. Then don’t know what was thrilling me from inside I asked her,” what forced you to enter this cheap world? When you want to earn your livelihood honestly, there are many more options. So why this?”
She gave me a light smile and asked me to come with her to her village. I did not at all like it! Unwillingly I joined her. Through the rough and tough ways I went to her place. I entered a kuccha house with filthy walls and broken roof. She offered me a glass of water. “ It was when my father died 13 years ago. I was the eldest of all my siblings. We were 5 sisters and 3 brothers. I being the eldest had the responsibility to nurture them. Maa had lost herself emotionally and eventually went into deep depression. Daddy had a good bank balance but relatives had their eagle eyes on it. I was growing young. One day a relative of mine came to me and allured for a nice job that could give me a good bank balance, ownership over dad’s property and well nourishment to my youngers. “ She was telling her story while she kept the coffee pan on fire.
“ The room was very small but smelling sweet. I felt with joy to know that I have to work in such a lovly place. After exact 7 minutes a man entered in that room, locked the door from inside. Till then I was unable to understand what the next moment has kept in for me. He raped me thrice that night. In the morning when I took hold of myself and tried to understand whatever happened; a woman came and gave me 5000 rupees in my hand. Things started changing for me from then. “
“Here’s your coffee “, said she handling me the cup. “ I was a commodity which was then transferred from city to city on the name of my mother’s treatment and my siblings’ upbringing” I was quite. Had nothing to question.
“ In last 12 years I am raped 1200 times, it was when for the first time I died mentally. We prostitutes do not have mental peace cause we die daily. No one enters here willingly. Every one is forced by circumstances. I lost my family. I lost my self. Not only me, every girl here have lost herself. But people blame us. Why? When they are not satisfied in their bedrooms they come to us. When they need pleasures they come to us. Then why to blame us? No job is cheap or gud.. we do it for our livelihood. We were never wrong not even today, it is this society which is not letting us live peacefully”
Today I am standing at her cremation. She died! Yes laali died! She died of aids. Men came to her bed and gave her the poison of unwanted love.. it was two days before she was counting her grey hair!!!
Those were the starting lines written in the chapter 65 of her diary. A diary of daily records in which she has given the account of her long experience with life. 70 years long! A record of many ups and downs of a woman’s life. Some chapters of which gave the depiction of a life of a little girl, some at the age of puberty while some others were like an experience shared by a single girl.. An auto biography of any common girl.
Her name was laali. Laali specifies the red color, basically that of vermillion or of heena in Indian tradition. And she was actually a lover of red color. When I met her for the first time she wore red colored 4 yards long cloth which is usually called saree. Heighted 5’7 with long dark cascading hair adding to her beauty. A square jawed fair face, beautiful red lips and gracefully applied kumkum on the forehead; she gave the absolute look of any Indian deity. She was only 23 but forced by circumstances stepped into this world of fraud, sex, and money. From last 12 years she is been working in the red light area of that city. I, astonished by her beauty and broad mindedness kept quite for a while. Then don’t know what was thrilling me from inside I asked her,” what forced you to enter this cheap world? When you want to earn your livelihood honestly, there are many more options. So why this?”
She gave me a light smile and asked me to come with her to her village. I did not at all like it! Unwillingly I joined her. Through the rough and tough ways I went to her place. I entered a kuccha house with filthy walls and broken roof. She offered me a glass of water. “ It was when my father died 13 years ago. I was the eldest of all my siblings. We were 5 sisters and 3 brothers. I being the eldest had the responsibility to nurture them. Maa had lost herself emotionally and eventually went into deep depression. Daddy had a good bank balance but relatives had their eagle eyes on it. I was growing young. One day a relative of mine came to me and allured for a nice job that could give me a good bank balance, ownership over dad’s property and well nourishment to my youngers. “ She was telling her story while she kept the coffee pan on fire.
“ The room was very small but smelling sweet. I felt with joy to know that I have to work in such a lovly place. After exact 7 minutes a man entered in that room, locked the door from inside. Till then I was unable to understand what the next moment has kept in for me. He raped me thrice that night. In the morning when I took hold of myself and tried to understand whatever happened; a woman came and gave me 5000 rupees in my hand. Things started changing for me from then. “
“Here’s your coffee “, said she handling me the cup. “ I was a commodity which was then transferred from city to city on the name of my mother’s treatment and my siblings’ upbringing” I was quite. Had nothing to question.
“ In last 12 years I am raped 1200 times, it was when for the first time I died mentally. We prostitutes do not have mental peace cause we die daily. No one enters here willingly. Every one is forced by circumstances. I lost my family. I lost my self. Not only me, every girl here have lost herself. But people blame us. Why? When they are not satisfied in their bedrooms they come to us. When they need pleasures they come to us. Then why to blame us? No job is cheap or gud.. we do it for our livelihood. We were never wrong not even today, it is this society which is not letting us live peacefully”
Today I am standing at her cremation. She died! Yes laali died! She died of aids. Men came to her bed and gave her the poison of unwanted love.. it was two days before she was counting her grey hair!!!
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