20.5x28.5 inches; Watercolour, pen and ink over graphite pencil on handmade paper (Click on image to enlarge)
I dress up
for the night. I have washed myself in a bucket of water. A necessity that feels
more like a luxury as water is precious. The municipal tap flows for two hours
every day. We are a home of eight. That bucket of water was the ocean to me. I
rose from it to become Mohini from Mohan.
I put on my
makeup. The face powder, I bought with my money. A gift to myself for my last
birthday. The kajal pencil, now a 2 inch stub, was generously donated by Padma.
The red lipstick I stole from a shop that has pretty ladies working as sales girls. I wish I could get a job like that. Yes, I do earn a living, being a
bride for one night to strange lovers, but the money is barely enough for rent,
clothes and food.
I look at
myself in the mirror. I admire the illusion of beauty I see there. The light
from one naked bulb bathes my form in bright light and deep shadows. Like a
solar eclipse when Raahu tries to devour the sun. I pluck a stray hair on my
upper lip and a wayward eyelash with a pair of tweezers. I place a black dot on
the left, over my upper lip, mid-way between the corner of my lip and nostril.
Perfect.
I take a
band of long soft cloth, cut from an old cotton saree and wrap it around the
lower part of my chest. A little tightly, not tight enough to cause trouble
breathing. Then I push the soft fleshy upper part of my chest from both sides
near the armpits, upwards and inwards towards the centre of my chest. I feel a
shiver as I see my cleavage take shape where my chest hair used to be. I adjust
the tightness of the band of cloth to keep the cleavage in position.
I wear a
sleeveless white blouse with a deep neckline. Deep enough to reveal the
cleavage I created but not the means holding it in place. I have a pair of
balloons filled with water, something Bobby had taught me. I insert them each
in the two empty tents in my blouse which were meant to house soft breasts. The
water filled balloons create a bounce that mimics real breasts better than
sponge pads. It has its risk too if the balloons burst, but I still prefer it. I
roll my shoulder and adjust the strap of the blouse checking the bounce.
I drape a
pearly white chiffon saree with conch shell design embroidered with sequins,
the latest fashion popularized by the actress Bhanumati, over my bleached white
petticoat. Bleach to keep the spots and germs away. I wish I could bleach away
the germs inside me too but that is another story. I look at my reflection in
the mirror again. I put on my beaded dangler earrings and a matching bead
necklace, stolen from my elder sister, many years ago. The only heirloom I possess
to remind me of the family I was born to. I begin to recognize myself now. “Me
Mohini!” I whisper.
Now, to
complete the transformation I pick up the wig Lakshmi lent me yesterday. She is
not going out to meet clients for the next few days. She is not well. High
fever with a nasty cough. So, I borrowed her wig; silky and shiny black hair
styled in waves like the dark ocean raging inside me. I put it on and flip my head
back to feel the hair cascade around my neck. I tilt my head, my eyes half
closed as if I am drunk on the nectar of life and I blow a kiss at my
reflection.
I pick up
my handbag and check if I have the condoms and sachets of lube. A social worker
keeps giving us these things for free. Keeps us safe from diseases, she says.
There are many dangers other than diseases that come with the territory in the
line of my work. I feel far from safe but at least she is trying to keep me
safe from one villain. I throw in my comb, lipstick and an antiseptic ointment.
I wear my flat slip-on sandals. No heels for me. You never know when you need
to run. I switch off the light and I shout “I am going out!” and I step out
into the night humming a song to myself.
“I am a
bride for a night, every night!
A
flickering flame for willing lovers
Who drink
from my pot of eternal life,
Turning to
dust on the bed covers
At the end of every night, every night!”
