Like a grotesque mole on the finger shaped island of bombay, is kamathipura. It retains all the dormant-yet-wannabe-malignant traits of a mole in context of the city.just south of nana chowk, off the bustling Grant Road,its a dingy and morbidly intricate network of alleys and by lanes that dwindle into even smaller variants of the same once the seemingly impenetrable facade gives way to an even more formidable(for a navigator or otherwise) interior where the stench emanated by open sewers casts a veil of olfactory depression and the crumbling houses, dotting the lanes obiliterate the sunlight giving the whole area, an air of pugnacious decadence. All this intermingles and you have a corossive mix which conveys the impression of an interminable bleaknesss.
Hell, i'll be damned if i were to assume on the basis of the above labelling, that it lacks in life. On the contrary, its a playground of multitudes......inspired by the figment of leadin nnormal lives, they make extra efforts on their part to counter the extenuating effects, their surroundings exert on their lives.For instance, A Pan wallah playing the music extra loud so that an urchin sitting on the other end of the street can gyrate to the music,A stunning plethora of street musicians that earn their wages by driving away the general sense of grief that one might associate with this place,mongrels frolicking in the open sewers,Dogs assaulting you in an explosion of licks and..............................
This very blot on the face of the maximum city, is also its biggest brothel, rather, the largest in all of asia. It is, in principle, illegal, the whole prostitution business, but currency notes warming suitable pockets, keep the oldest profession in the world thriving.A disgruntled polic inspector, or a newly trnsferred one or an overtly honest one..........conspire to surgically curtail the expansion of this mole by confirming to the lawbooks, with some degree of regularity.
Did I mention currency notes, warming suitable pockets......oh well...what is life without a warm bed.
A different harlot is sent to these string-pullers, every week, to 'warm' their beds. And this happens with an almost military regularity, as incurring the wrath of the clients, mentioned, would involve several wasting, starving families.It was indeed a cruel irony that the very people, designated by fate, to fulfill the carnal needs of a perpetually sex starved city,lived in such abject poverty..........
Indulging and satiating the most primal of instincts, it should'nt be a surprise, though, that these 'selfless'(i think) whores led an equally primal life,with only the most rudimentary of necessities.
Padma, was a whore, one of the many in this hellhole.
In her home, nestling in the very bowels of this place, she had very few entities, to call her own. A rotting bed with an ailing husband ornating it,a kerosene stove bereft of its daily dose of fuel, a few empty utensils and rags for clothes.This is what she owned.Forced Prostitution had taken away the only gift she could give her husband....her virginity.....the dismal dwellings had, bit by bit nibbled away her hopes from life........and now......HIV had taken away her infant son.
Only the night before, her sole joy of an year and a half had succumbed to an aggressive bout of pneumonia,which compounded by the HIV ravaged immunity of the kid, snuffed the life out of a frail body.
And she knew that the sole responsibility of his death lay with her.
About 8 moths ago, it was her turn, amongst umpteen others when she was required to pay a 'courtsey' visit to the nearby police station.A weekly draw of lots was normally employed to determine the woman that would come calling to the groins of the owners of 'warm pockets'. A night spent, 'getting spent' and no pay to imburse these labours, a wasting body with zilch in tummy, ditto for a stove with a starving womb............a collateral of such dimensions simply couldn't be obviated.
To be continued..........
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