It’s said: ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ but it is curiosity alone that has helped mankind unravel the deepest and most mysterious secrets of life. If curiosity were to become extinct, the entire gamut of civilisation would be in serious jeopardy. My curious nature has often led me into circumstances that I have regretted afterwards, but there is definite significance to them in terms of my understanding of the world. I have had an experience in my life when I was raw and too young, and today, after many years, I thought I would share it with you.
I travelled to Delhi for the first time when I was 23. My uncle, who lived near the Ajmeri Gate in Old Delhi, was a shawl vendor at the time. I would accompany him on his daily business trips to various parts of the city. A strange hustle in the area on our way home in the evenings would immerse the neighbourhood in a mysterious hue.
Many a time, I would hear women jutting their heads out from the windows high above, shouting to my uncle: “O Khan Sahib, aa jao na.” My uncle would act as if he didn’t hear anything and paid them no heed at all. It was a riddle to me why on earth a woman would shout out to a stranger in this manner until I learned we were passing through Delhi’s infamous red-light area. It did arouse an interest in me, and since my hormones were young and tantalizing, I decided to check the area out myself.
On a Sunday evening, when my uncle was away, I quietly slipped out of the house and, after zigzagging through the narrow labyrinthine lanes of Old Delhi, emerged from the Ajmeri Gate right onto G.B. Road. Unsure of what I was up to, I walked nonchalantly along the edge of the road until I heard what I had been looking forward to: “Aay chikne, aata hai…”
A bevy of girls in the building to my left was constantly waving at me. Their hints were lewd and enticing to a young heart. I felt as though my heart would leap out of my chest. I rushed to the door, quickened my steps, and my breath came in spurts as I gingerly climbed the dark, betel-stained stairs toward their rooms.
There were plenty of them, and by the time I could fix my gaze on someone attractive, a woman pushed me into a room where a petite young girl was waiting on her charpoy. She ordered me to sit close to her. I was confused and cursed myself for having landed in this awkward situation. Trembling with fear, I asked her name. “Meenu,” she murmured softly. “How old are you?” I doubled my query. “21,” she replied. Her short nose prompted me to ask where she came from.
Her answer left me slightly confused when she said, “I’m from Nepal.” She had been smuggled into India by flesh-trade racketeers and had passed through many hands before landing in the brothel in Delhi. My hormones had subsided, and I was more interested in her story now.
She told me how poverty and affliction had wreaked havoc on her life. She was from a village in Nepal and shared her dream of becoming a teacher. She described her beautiful village, surrounded by mountains with rivers flowing through it. Kashmir was much the same, and I felt as though I were talking to someone familiar.
She probably understood my naivety and did not force me into anything. I pulled out a fifty-rupee note—the only one I had brought with me—and handed it to her. Her brilliant little eyes shone with love and respect. She was only paid by her customers after they had exploited her body. I, however, had glimpsed her soul, and it was the most profound moment of my life.
As I left the room, she said, “Brother, had it been my house, I’d have asked you for a cup of tea.” Her words moved me to tears, but my mind was too unseasoned to fully comprehend her plight.
Her body might have been devoured by many, but her soul remained untouched. To me, she was a beautiful girl rather than a prostitute, whose virginity of soul was inaccessible to those who had plundered her body. Nobody had claimed her virgin heart.
I left her room as briskly as I could, descended the stairs hastily, and ran back to my place. I never visited a brothel again.
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