It’s Friday, and it’s approaching seven-thirty. Will he or won’t he?

It’s been so for quite a long time now, almost since I started working at Paradise. Each Friday I wait for him. And each Friday he comes. It’s been six months now, and he hasn’t missed a single Friday.

I still remember those days in Ranigunj. My world was concentrated around Saaket. Oh! It was so romantic to hear him talk. His curly hair swayed as he pledged his undying love for me. Saaket was everything for me. As our parents came to know of it, they opposed, as he was not of our religion. But so blind was I in love that at his first mention, I eloped with him to Mumbai.

Mumbai – the city of dreams. We got married and life changed. He, who said he would bring the moon and the stars for me, did not even bring any money. Slowly our savings started dwindling and there were days when I remained hungry to give him food. But what did I get?

Little did I know that behind that sweet talk, there lay a devil – a black ugly man under the white garbs. Saaket’s promises turned into thin air as he took to drinking and gambling. Throughout the day he would be either at Sai’s gambling tables or Hafeez’s country liquor den. And all this, with my money.

Mumbai did not kill my dreams; it merely trampled them under its innumerable feet and left me to rot. Jesus stands just outside my house, crucified and calm – hearing all my laments and promising nothing.

At six-thirty sharp, Saaket comes to pick me up. And then begins my journey from Mahim to Saki Naka. It’s long and dusty in the evenings, making it more unendurable than ever.

The first day that he dropped me at Paradise, I did not know what it was all about. I was in a daze, a semi-conscious state; just listening to what Fernandes said. He promised nobody would touch me, they would just give me money and that I will have to put it in a common pool meant for all others to share it with. He said, Paradise was a family restaurant. He was nice to me; took me aside and introduced me to Bebo. Bebo told me what we were supposed to do. She asked me to observe the proceedings for a couple of days.

I had to accept that Paradise was where I was destined to be; since Saaket was hopeless. There was no escape - only death and age, perhaps could get me out of this place.

I could see the other girls dancing and singing while men kept on showering them with notes. I learnt a few songs, picked up a few dance steps from Neena and Mandira and soon my ‘education’ was complete. I was on.

I got accustomed to the lewd gestures, the various comments passed, the lecherous gazes and the notes thrown at us. I even started getting a few explicit notes. Nimmo asked me to overlook them and smile at the guys. She asked me to accept all their invitations, because most men are eunuchs. They just liked the titillation and none of them really had the guts to come and do what they wrote. After all, Bally and Sabu were enough to scare them off.

During those early days of ‘apprenticeship’, I faintly remember him being present on Fridays – though I am not sure. He used to sit at the corner table and never changed it. He had a very comfortable gaze – not a faint trace of lust in it. It almost had the ability to put me to comfort. But I can never gather courage to look into those calm eyes.

Shakira, Sahana, Leena and Minoo hold a great sway over the men present, with their gyrations and hot numbers. But not once is he ever found looking at them. He just sits - with a cigarette in hand, elbow on the table and the cigarette rising above his head - while his left hand keeps encircling the rim of the glass in front of him. There is something very attractive about that posture. He seems so calm and so confident about his self. I am always reminded of Ashok Kumar in Howrah Bridge.

Whenever I perform, he never looks at me. He never sees me when I sing my best number “man Dole meraa tan Dole”, or even when I render the soulful “har kissi ko nahin miltaa yahaan pyaar zindagi main”. It is only when I am sitting at my place, trying to find some peace that I can feel his eyes on me.

Bebo told me that he keeps looking at me, at my face and I have seen him writing down something. The way he holds his pen – ah! I just cant explain what his presence means to me. I wish that just once he looks directly into my eyes and I can catch that gaze. I wish he asked me out some evening. I am ready to give my right hand for that. Just one evening at the Nariman point sitting beside the sea, with his soothing presence near me.

But what would he say? What would I say? Will he come home? Can I cook for him? What would he like? Will he like the food I cook? As the evening wears out, perhaps he will put an arm around me and I will get into his arms and shed all these tears that I have held back. His warmth of the body would be enough a blessing for me. I might sing and sing only for him – “allaah tero naam, Ishvar tero naam”

His mere presence is so soothing. It gives me the strength to carry on for the rest of the days when he is not here, with all that goes around me.

Last Friday it was terrible. Saaket brought in Hema, right in my house. He took her into our bedroom, and right into the bed that I had bought with my hard earned money. Their naked bodies intermingled and the overpowering smell of sex filled up the room. I had to get out. I needed some fresh air. I reached Paradise. But thoughts kept of recreating the incidents. Shakira asked me what the matter was. Even Fernandes noticed it.

In that sheer agony, I tried to see him in the eye, gave him a lame smile. I needed him badly. If only he would have understood. Or did he? The moment I looked at him, he looked down. The same calm peaceful posture. He looked pained. He was watching me more intently. I did not have the courage to look towards him. Perhaps, he understood.

He left early. The second peg lying unfinished much to the delight of Johnny.

Saaket has come. Oh! Jesus, please let him come today. I wont hurt him. He is my strength. I need him to sit there – seeing everything and promising nothing.

Just as you stand here at the Mahim Church!

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No, I wont go to Paradise today. I \can’t stand it. I can’t see that purity being paraded in a hedonistic ambience. I have seen that for the past six months hoping that I could gather the courage to do something. But I have had to see that slow transformation, that trampling of innocence under the lecherous gaze of sex-starved males. I have seen her being raped visually day in day out. I have heard the lewd comments passed about her and seen money thrown at her like alms to a beggar, when she satiates the male libido by her seductive numbers. And they all do it as if they are worshipping a goddess!

I still remember the time when she was just new. In those early days, she was quite scared and terribly innocent. She hardly noticed me and I could sit and observe her peacefully. It was quite clear that she was doing it out of some constraints as she struggled to learn the ‘tricks of the trade’. The way she rendered her song, the gyrations slowly changed and the metamorphosis was interesting to watch – yet saddening. Even today, at times she throws some seductive glances, giggles haughtily and then sombres up equally fast – giving everything the façade of a drama. Indeed, it is a well-executed drama.

In those moments of silence, of retrospective meditations I see that pain in her eyes.

Aankhon main nameen haseen labon par

Kya haal hain, kya dikha rahi ho

The pain must be similar – the one that haunts innumerable such girls in Mumbai and elsewhere. Poverty, responsibility, relatives or greed - something or the else pushing then in a trade that hacks at the very roots of human dignity and equality.

I spent hours wondering why does she allure me? Why not anybody else? Is it her face? Is it that transformation? I don’t know. I am yet to find a satisfactory answer. Possibly, I don’t wish to know.

But yes, I would want to see her look at me without that visage. That day, perhaps, I might ask her out. Just for a cup of tea. Or as Kaifi Azmi says

Zindagi naam hain kuch lamhon ka

Aur unme bhi ek lamha

Jinme do bolti aankhen chai ki pyaali si

Jab uthe dil main doobe,

Doob ke dil main kahen

Aaj tum kuch na kahon

Aaj hum kuch na kahen

Buss baithe rahen haath me haat liye

Gam ki saugat liye

Garmi-e-jajbaat liye

Aur door parbat pur kahin

Baraf pighalne hi lage

I know she notices me. But she never looks towards me. Last Friday, she was visibly upset. Her face was a portrait of pain. What was it? I wish I could take her hands in mine and ask her. Or maybe hold her near to let her tears flow freely – lest they lose out their importance.

But… but how do I convince myself that she will not ridicule my intentions? How do I get out of those socially imposed moralistic ideas? I have no money that I can buy her time. I have no looks that can woo her. All that I have are these accursed words. What do I do with them?

I can’t see her pain; neither do I have the courage to approach her.

No! I wont go to Paradise again.

It’s Friday, and it’s approaching seven-thirty…

Should I, or should I not…