I never feel as much at home as I do on the streets. I feel myself become stronger. More confident with the red lipstick on my lips, legs poised in nonchalant style, breasts beautiful and prominent. The life I live during the day weighs heavy on me. It sucks on my blood. I have two children. A girl of six and a boy of twelve; both bastards. The girl, she is very young, but I can see as clear as daylight what she will become. The boy, he is beautiful. Protective, even. Every night when I leave, his gaze lingers a while. The silly boy, he asked me once why I don’t find a proper job. The neighbors, he said, say things. Ugly things. I laughed. The neighbors are fools, I told him.
My mother, she was a prostitute. I don’t like that word very much.
She died when I was fifteen but not before she taught me all she knew. She was a magnificent woman. The first night I laid with a man was in a room. Stifling. The walls were dirty yellow and the rug on the floor was once beautiful. There was a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. I do not remember the man as well as I remember the room. I remember, the hall outside where the man had looked at me, said a few words, and then my mother had taken me to that room. She’d smiled at me, an uplifting smile, and closed the door. My mother gave me wings.
My second time was on a warm night. Two days after the first. I remember that man. He would come for half a year every other day asking for me. That day, mother had put me in a tight maroon sequined bra. It sparkled when car lights fell on me. I watched my mother. Her poise, her flirtatious manner. A red Zen pulled up in front of us. At first I thought the tanned man inside was beckoning her but when I felt his gaze I knew it was me. Mother nudged me forward and I felt exhilarated and frightened at the same time. I had done mother proud. The man, he had dark skin and hair as black as the night. I remember his wiry facial hair pricking me, his unnaturally soft hands tightening their grip, him tugging at my denim shorts, his water pouring into me. And the pain. Ah, the pain. The pain is lost now. I have grown accustomed to it. I have learnt to accept it. Ignore it. The next night, mother gave me a packet. She said, tell them to wear it. If they don’t, then bring your legs together and walk away. My mother was beautiful but she was getting old. She would have thick make-up on. Her flaccid, pale flesh almost glowed pink-white after she left the dresser. Her lips she always painted red. So deathly red, that no one could resist. The others used black. Mother was my role model.
She died three months after. She coughed blood, her teeth yellowed, her hair fell and she died.
I found solace in the red Zen man.
The night air is chilly. My skin is riddled with goose bumps. I am wearing an orange crop top I bought for fifty rupees at the market and a tight black skirt I’ve had from ever since I can remember. It is Ganesh Chaturthi today. I can hear the music from the main road. I can almost see the maniacal men, dancing to the beats of drums, the massive idol painted in bright colors, mounted on a large open truck and surrounded in LED lights that is sure to be there. Personally I don’t care for God, But business will soar tonight.