MAYANK AUSTEN SOOFI
Nobody Can Love You More
Life in Delhis Red Light District
Contents
PENGUIN BOOKS
NOBODY CAN LOVE YOU MORE
Author of four alternative guidebooks to Delhi, Mayank Austen Soofi spends his time in bookshops and bylanes, observing every corner of the city. Once a hotel steward, he is best known for his website and blog, The Delhi Walla, in which he details Delhis lives and loves.
Praise for the Book
Sensitive, melancholic and sharply observantWilliam Dalrymple
A marvellous writerBapsi Sidhwa
Gentle, probing, curious and tenderKhushwant Singh
A deeply moving account of the lives, sufferings and routines of a dark segment of Delhis societyAshok Vajpeyi
A true picture of the enigmatic world of Delhis red light area... he writes as his subjects friend rather than a journalist Tehelka
The question[s] of morality, religion and hypocrisy hang in the balance... one of the best non-fiction reads for this year Sentinel
Graceful yet powerful DNA
Soofis writing is gripping, observational and intimate Financial Express
A sensitive account... that reveals, among other things, how tenuous the lines can be between ostracism and social acceptance Sunday Statesman
For
Sri Kshetrapal Singh and Srimati Pushpa Singh
and
Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya
When I went to that house of pleasure
I didnt stay in the front rooms where they celebrate,
with some decorum, the accepted modes of love.
I went into the secret rooms
and lounged and lay on their beds.
Cavafy
I Had Come Too Far
T AKE S USHMA . No single cataclysmic event changed the progression of her life. One day led to another. The years rolled by. Old acquaintances were left behind, new friends made. Youth ended and middle age began. She put on weight. Disappointments came, so did a few delights. Sushma is not extraordinary. She shivers in winter and catches fevers during the change of seasons. She buys vegetables in the evening and smokes 502 Pataka Beedi while cooking. She makes love and makes money.
Sushma is forty-six or forty-seven; she isnt sure. She talks to me in Hindi, but she says she is a south Indian from Bangalore. Sushma is a Hindu name but she is a Muslim. My real name she says. We are sitting in a dimly lit room in kotha number teen sau (300). It is late November. She is wrapped in a shawl. The sky is grey. What will you do with my real name? she asks. I persist. Shireen, she says. A beautiful name but she doesnt know what it means. Shireen is of Persian origin, meaning sweet. If I try to imagine a Shireen, I see a slim Parsi woman with a fair complexion. A woman of finely embroidered gara saris, Shireen would have been educated in a private school in Ooty. She would have a summer house in London and an apartment in south Bombay. She would be somebody who had been born into an old-money family, and married into another old-money family. Shireen doesnt suit the person of Sushma. She is a sex worker. Her rate is 150 rupees. After bargaining, it can come down to 120 rupees. A smart customer can bring it down further to 100 rupees.
I never give out my real name. No woman here ever does. Nobody knows our real names except perhaps the kotha malik. If somebody asks, we give some fictitious name. You never know just in case something happens. What if word about you reaches your family they dont know what we do, you know.
Sushmas work begins a few hours after midnight. I dont like standing outside during the day. Its not nice. Of course, if a customer climbs up the stairs, say, right now, and asks for me, I wont refuse.
Otherwise, at 3 every morning Sushma walks down the twenty-seven stairs from the kotha on the second floor to the covered walkway outside and there she stays till 7 a.m., looking for men. During these early morning hours, GB Road is visited by people whose jobs entail late-night shifts. Done with their work, these menmost are immigrants working as dhaba waiters, auto drivers, daily-wage labourers and rickshaw pullerscome to find solace in the flesh of women. In the morning, once Im finished, I have chai in Shahganj, behind the kotha, and then I go up and sleep.
At night, Sushma goes to sleep by 10. Fatima didi wakes me up at 2.30 in the morning. She has chai ready for me. I wash, get ready and go down. Sushma does not dress in shining costumes. No chamak dhamak clothes. In the morning when Im getting ready to go down, I put on a simple salwar suit. I believe that if you have to get a client, you will get him. Yes, but I make sure that my dress is clean.
Sushma is wearing black-rimmed spectacles. I ask her to show me the colour of her eyes. She takes off the glasses, bends towards me and opens her eyes wide. They seem black but I cannot be sure. The overhanging bulb gives off a faint glow. I never liked bright colours. As a child, I was drawn towards lighter shades like pale green, sky blue, soft pink and navy blue. Back then I always wore a skirt and a blouse. The tailor would make middies for me. When I grew up, I started wearing salwar suits.
A thick black thread is slung around Sushmas neck. It has a key that goes deep down into her cleavage. People ask me what this is. I tell them its a magic chabhi to ward off evil. She pauses for effect. But thats a joke, she laughs. Actually its the key to my trunk. Im sure to lose it if I keep it anywhere else.
The trunk is kept on the kothas roof, under a tin shed which is Sushmas home. In a manner of speaking, the trunk is her wardrobe, packed with twenty-three salwar suits and a dozen saris. Im not used to saris. It is difficult to walk down the stairs when Im wearing one. Now when I think of it, Mummy wore only saris. In the south, you dont see married women in salwar suits. Mummy died when I was in the seventh standard. I havent forgotten her face. She looked lovely when she dressed in saris in light yellow shades. She never put on much make-up. Ive taken after her.
Early in the morning, while getting ready to attract customers, Sushma lines her eyes with kajal. Like a married woman, she puts on a red Shilpa bindi on her forehead. Her cheeks are patted down with a smidgen of Fair & Lovely cream. Since it is winter, Sushma smoothes the dryness of the skin with Ponds cold cream. The final addition is the light Coca-Cola-coloured Ponds lipstick. Look at my lips. They are dark brown, almost black. Four years ago I used a cheap lipstick. I was trying to save money and look what that did to my lips. It seems sort of okay now. My lips were swollen and discoloured thenI had to go to a doctor. He said I must use only company wali lipstick.
A T 3 A.M., THERE IS NO CERTAINTY of customers for middle-aged Sushma. Sometimes I get two. Sometimes four. Sometimes none. She makes about Rs 5000 a month. Out of the 120 rupees I make from each customer, I give 70 rupees to Bhayya. Bhayya, whom I know as Sabir Bhai, runs the kotha. That sum includes the rent, and the bill for water and electricity. I dont have to worry about these details once Ive paid my share.
