DEEPAK YADAV - Daughters Of The Brothel: Stories from Delhis Red-light District

D AUGHTERS
OF
THE B ROTHEL

D AUGHTERS
OF
THE B ROTHEL

Deepak Yadav

First published by
Bigfoot06 Publications (OPC) PVT. LTD.
211, Muzaffra, Sherpur, Pataudi,
Gurgaon, Haryana (122502)
Website: www.bigfootpublications.com
Email:

Daughters of the Brothel
Copyright Deepak Yadav, 2019

ISBN Print Book - 978-81-942021-9-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval systemexcept by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Webwithout permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book, we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistencies herein. Any slights on people, places, or organizations are unintentional.

This book does not intend to defame any caste, community, race, category or religion in any possible sense or manner. Names and some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Typeset in Adobe Caslon Pro at 11pt
by Satendra Singh for Bigfoot06 Publications

Printed in India

To Bob and Snowy,
for being the smartest guinea pigs ever.

C ONTENTS

P ROLOGUE

She caught my eye on the crowded railway platform, just as a pretty woman would. I observed her wandering pointlessly for several minutes and then boarded my compartment. I cheered up. The journey promised to be interesting.

My eyes followed her as she attentively looked around, moving towards the corner seats. A young couple, a family, and a group of girls had just settled themselves there.

She walked up to them and strangely clapped her hands to get their attention.

Bhagwan tumhare jode ko hamesha salamat rakhe aur khushi de , she said, blessing the couple with eternal companionship, and then stretched out her right hand towards them.

The boy, visibly embarrassed, withdrew his arm from around the girls shoulder, took out a ten-rupee coin from his pocket, and gave it to her. She accepted the coin without turning around and checking if it was fake or real. Eunuchs these days do not accept ten-rupee coin precisely after fake coin news spread on social media in 2016.

She then turned towards the group of girls sitting adjacent to my seat. Clapping again, she blessed them, Bhagwan tumhe khush rakhe aur tumhari saari icchayein puri kare.

One girl, dressed in pink kameez gave her a twenty-rupee note from her fancy purse and acknowledged that the amount includes the share of three of them. The eunuch shook her head, touched the currency to her head, and left grinningly. With a briefcase in hand and a golden purse hung over her shoulder, she walked to the end of the compartment. The multi-coloured bangles on both her wrists jingled as she moved.

Her forehead adorned with a big red bindi, her face was round and full compared to her petite figure. A pinch of vermillion was visible just below the parting of her hair. Her lips were coloured red, and her eyes were outlined in smoky purple kohl. Her jet black hair cascaded down to her hips. Dressed in a crimson sari with her pallu neatly pinned to the half-sleeved green blouse, she stood leaning against the door of the compartment staring outside.

In a few minutes, the engine whistled, and the wheels started to roll with a jerk.

Hijras , or eunuchs, are some of Indias most mysterious people. Their ambiguous sexuality is a source of their income, and because of it, people believed that they possess a more profound vision and immense power. Their lives are shrouded in mystery, and they remain secretive about their personal lives. At every birth or wedding in the area, the hijras go to the household. They sing, dance, and demand money in return for their blessings. They are rarely sent back empty-handed for it is considered a bad omen to receive the ill-wishes of a hijra .

A J OURNEY TO THE D ARKNESS

There is nothing more magical than a sunset.

The glowing orange sun was about to disappear behind the concrete blocks of the civilized world. Though it was early May, the day had been cloudy since morning. The big hands of the analogue clock at Varanasi junction indicated that it was quarter past five.

Located on the banks of the Ganges River, Varanasi is one of the oldest living cities in the world. As Mark Twain once said, Benaras is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legends, and looks twice as old as all of them put together. It houses thousands of shrines within it, one of the holiest shrines of the city being the Kashi Vishwanath Temple . History reveals that this temple was destroyed twice by the invaders, but it still stands tall with pride and serene grace.

There were long queues at the ticket counters where a few coolies were offering their services. A large LED screen at the entrance to the platform displayed the arrival and departure status of the scheduled trains. There was an IRCTC AC lounge at the platform which exhibited the image of a developing India, a complete contrast to the feeble wanderer lying numb outside. His patchy skin and lumps indicated that he might be suffering from leprosy in the city, which is often termed as the gateway of salvation.

On the platform, there were a few passengers squatting on the floor, small food joints selling fried savouries and sweets, and a few beggars asking for money in the name of God. Some foreign tourists were clicking pictures of the poverty and filth that characterized India. Paan spit coloured the wall corner underneath the poster of the Prime Ministers upcoming Swatch bharat abhiyan a testimony to the irony and hypocrisy of our society.

My train was already on the platform. Nearly half the coach was still empty, awaiting passengers. Among the ones already inside, some were stowing away their luggage under their berths while the others were still searching for their compartment. I boarded the train and settled on my berth, which was a side lower. Across from me, a group of three girls was settling their luggage. Meanwhile, a snack vendor entered the compartment and attracted the attention of many passengers.

I turned to look outside the window. And thats when I saw her for the first time...

I gazed at her while she stood with her eyes closed and her arms crossed loosely. As the train caught speed, the wind from the door blew the loose strands of her hair into her face. A few young boys on the verge of puberty stood near the washroom smoking cigarettes. The strong stench of urine didnt dissuade them from standing there. She, too, seemed oblivious to it.

I walked up to her.

Your brief-case looks heavy. Why dont you stow it under my seat instead of carrying it around? I will not be bothered at all, I said, pointing to her brief-case.

She slowly opened and raised her eyes but didnt say anything. Taking me to be a harasser, she averted her gaze from me. In the background, the cries of infants and the babbling of passengers were audible. Finding me standing in front of her for the next couple of seconds, she enquired disinterestedly, I dont have a reservation. Dont you have your own luggage under your seat?