'Why are you talking like this? We can chat too, can't we? Do we have to... work?' 'What do you mean? Have to? Then why have you come here, seriously? Are you going to leave and say Poly didn't give good service, wasn't nice, wasn't friendly, and get Robin Bhai to beat me up?' I asked in surprise, 'Oh my! What are you saying! Robin Bhai hits you? Raises his hand on you?' The girl spread a mocking smile across one corner of her lips, started to laugh, then stopped. I kept staring into her eyes. Something was making her stop mid-sentence. Then I asked her what her name was. The girl said with slight irritation, 'My name is Poly. I told you earlier, didn't you notice? It's my stage name. Nobody in this line uses their real name. Names have no value here, only work has value. This isn't a place for names, it's a place for work. Ha ha ha! Anyway sir, don't mind me asking, are you a virgin? I mean, have you never done it with anyone? No wife, girlfriend, nothing? Never had one? Or some 'just friends' type relationship... nothing?'
I answered sheepishly with a little laugh, 'Yes, sorry, I'm a virgin. This is my first time. I've never been to a place like this before. I had a girlfriend, we broke up. We made out with her, but we never went to the final stage. We either didn't get the chance or didn't have the courage.' Hearing my answer, Poly burst into laughter. I noticed that Poly's laugh was quite wonderful too! A tinkling laugh like stream water. It was truly a gentle, innocent laugh.
I continued, 'Listen Poly, I'll be direct. I won't do anything with you. I'll just listen to you talk. I'll talk with you. It's not that I don't like you or that your approach is bad. But I don't feel like it, my heart won't agree to it. Please, this is my request. Spend time with me like this, I promise Robin Bhai won't know anything. I'll pay double the full rate for work. No problem! And I do some writing, maybe your life story will be useful for my work.'
'Oh my! You're a writer! You'll write a story about Poly? So you want to chat with me in exchange for all that money? Wow! You'll write such an expensive story, sir... about a cheap girl like me!... But why should I take the money without working? Am I a beggar? Are you trying to pity me?' 'Please, why are you taking it like that? Look, you're giving me your time, right? You'd give the same time even if we did that. Your time has value. You'll just take payment for your time, nothing else. That's what you deserve!' ...Saying just that much, I stuffed a thousand-taka note into her hand and said, 'I'm like your brother, keep this personally. I'm giving this as extra.' Poly frowned at me, crumpled the money in her fist and threw it! 'What brother are you calling me? I don't have any brothers, everyone's my customer. I earn by working, I don't take charity. You want to chat, fine, chat. Drop all this melodrama.'
Now I was truly flustered. I couldn't figure out what to do. I was feeling nervous. At times like this I usually eat chocolate. I pulled out another Snickers from my pocket, unwrapped it, took a bite myself, then held it out to her with shaking hands, saying, 'Please, cool your head a bit and eat some chocolate, you'll feel better. I'm not as bad a person as you think I am. Please talk to me normally. I'm requesting you!' I saw that she calmed down somehow, stared at me with her mouth open for a bit, then slowly took a bite of the chocolate. I pulled the wrapper down a little more and said, 'Poly, eat, eat. I'm like your brother. Eat.'
I noticed that Poly's lips were trembling, her eyes were brimming with tears, mascara was smudging downward from her lashes. She was staring at me foolishly. It seemed like those kohl-darkened eyes held unbearable pain, unspoken words. Right at this moment, even her skillfully applied eye makeup couldn't hide the language of those pain-filled eyes.
I gently placed my hand on her head and said, 'Why did you come into this profession? Are you studying? Who do you have at home? What does your father do?' Poly hung her head and became somehow melancholy. As if a long sigh that tore at her heart sank down and touched her chest as it passed. I felt that sadness touching me too.
After a while, breaking the silence, she began to speak. 'What will you do knowing my identity, sir? We're here to be used, not to be known. Apart from my parents, this is the first time in this life anyone has given me chocolate with such love.' She continued, 'My real name is Dina. Ayesha Siddika Dina. I'm in the second year of honors at a college in our area. We are two sisters and one brother. There wasn't much want in our family. Father had a small clerical job. We managed quite well with that. Every morning when he woke up, Father would kiss the foreheads of us three siblings. Even though I had grown quite big, I never really grew up in Father's eyes. I love Father very much. I was always a bit lazy by nature. Even when everyone ate with their own hands before sleeping at night, I never ate with my own hands. I'd wait, hoping Father would feed me. All day long there was running around, commotion, laughter, and happiness filling our home. I'm the eldest in the family. I have one younger brother and one sister.
This was two years ago. I had just enrolled in college then. It was a Sunday. Like every day, after finishing breakfast, Father kissed all three of us siblings on the forehead and went to the office. At noon I called Father and told him to bring pizza for me when he came home. Father never refused my requests. Let the world turn upside down, let the sun melt, let the moon break and crumble and fall, Father would definitely return home with my favorite things. That's what I knew.
Father was returning with pizza. In a rickshaw. Evening was approaching. The rickshaw was moving. Suddenly a covered van came from the opposite direction and hit Father's rickshaw hard. Father was thrown from the rickshaw 15-20 feet ahead into the middle of the road. Right at that moment, another long-distance bus coming from behind ran over Father's legs. One leg was severed in two right there. Father cried out once in terrible pain. After that Father was unconscious. When he regained consciousness, Father discovered he was lying on a hospital bed. One leg was completely separated, the other leg was barely hanging.
Father was the only earning member of our family. The doctor said the leg that remained would also have to be amputated from below the thigh. My father, who carried the burden of a whole five-member family on his shoulders, had to have both his legs discarded. Our family's source of income was cut off. We became destitute.
Whatever savings and land we had were all sold to treat Father. After becoming completely penniless, we got Father back alive, but Father's condition became like that of the dead, or worse. Father couldn't work, Mother was unemployed, and we were three growing, hungry mouths. Though Father's legs became useless, none of our stomachs became useless. After borrowing and borrowing, no one would lend us anymore. I started tutoring, but the tutoring money wasn't enough. What kind of tutoring can a second-year girl studying Political Science at National University get, tell me? My younger brother was then in class nine, my sister would take her matriculation exam the following year. Deep darkness descended on our well-ordered household.
Mother fell ill from worrying about Father. For some time she worked as domestic help in various relatives' houses, but after falling sick she couldn't do that either. Both Father and Mother were now bedridden. My age hadn't increased that much yet, but life's reality dragged my age up to Father's age. I couldn't see any path opening before my eyes. My studies, Father's treatment, Mother's treatment, looking after my younger siblings, family expenses - everything fell on my shoulders. What was I to do then? Who would give me a job? Who would treat them? Who would look after my younger siblings? Society? This country? It was absolutely impossible to manage all this with tutoring money.
One day, through a friend, I met Robin bhai. He listened to my situation. After hearing it all, he said, "Who's going to give you a job? Even if they do, you won't get more than eight to ten thousand in salary. What good will that do you? Your parents will die without treatment right before your eyes. Your own studies will stop, your little brothers and sisters will wander the streets. What's the point? Who will look after you all?" Then, through various other conversations, he told me directly, "You'll have to sell your body, your body! Can you do it? You'll make a lot of money! Kick society in the face—at least your household will run. You can live well too. You can earn at least thirty to forty thousand a month. Look into it—many good jobs don't pay that much in salary. What do you say? Can't you do it?"
When Robin bhai was saying "you'll have to sell your body," only one thing kept spinning in my head: I have to save my family. Whether I have to sell my body or do something else—that's not the main thing. Even if I get thirty thousand a month, that's a lot of money! Our family would survive. To me then, my family was much, much bigger than this worthless body of mine, bigger than my society. I thought for a while. If I worry about society, about people's eyes, what could happen? Will anyone come and leave even two taka? Has society ever lifted the lid of the pot in my house to see whether rice was cooked today or not? No, society doesn't have enough time to give two handfuls of rice to my hungry stomach. Brother, even God doesn't stay in the house of hunger—how can society stay? The society that doesn't care about my stomach—should I keep my family starving out of concern for that society? How can that be?
That very day I decided I would enter this profession. When hunger gnaws at your belly, where's the time to worry about society? I would sell my full beauty and youth for money. Kicking society's inevitable rules in the face, I became a complete prostitute, whore, call girl—whatever you want to call it...what they call in polite language: call girl. Yes brother, I am that call girl—the one you can sleep with, but can't walk with. I am that girl who is needed in life, but can't be kept in life.
At first it was terribly painful, I felt disgusted with my own body, but when my family could survive by eating twice a day by selling this despised body of mine, when my parents got treatment, then I developed great love for this man-eating body of mine. Yes, I take great care of this body, maintain a proper diet, even go to the gym. Ha ha ha!
But then again, it's men who cause this body terrible pain and consume it, and whoever pays the money extracts it down to the last penny. Some even drink and beat me terribly, don't want to use protection, burn me with cigarette butts, pull my hair and body unnecessarily...they apparently get pleasure from this. If I resist, they say they'll give a tip, just bear it! Even if I resist after that, they threaten to complain, they grab and hit me. We girls have to accept all this quietly. Some offer marriage, make a mess with "I love you" and all that—hearing it makes me laugh. I understand they're intoxicated. When the intoxication wears off, I'll disappear too. And that's exactly what happens!
Until today I haven't found a single person who looked at Poli with a little compassion, with love. This Robin bhai you see—if I ever misbehave with a customer, he starts treating me incredibly badly right in front of the customer, sometimes even hits me. Sometimes he cuts my money, doesn't give the full amount. With customers he behaves like an angel, but with us his behavior is worse than with dogs. I can't say anything to bhai either, fearing he won't give me more customers, won't call me anymore. Robin bhai might even blackmail you somehow. He'll gain your trust and get inside your mind, then his real face will emerge, he'll deliver the fatal blow. You won't even realize when you've been trapped. So, be very careful!
And yes, my income is quite good. There are two middle-aged businessmen whose mistress I am. One of them even took me to three countries. He's actually a bit older than the other one, you could call him old. Old men are better—you can extract more money from old men with less effort in less time. Old men want a little intimate companionship, a little warm behavior, a little smiling love—even if that love is fake...! They suffer from terrible lovelessness! Many of my customers give me tips when they're happy, some regular customers send money to my mobile through bKash. You know brother, after providing service, I've learned to beg hoping for extra money beyond what I'm owed.
This society walks by feeding off our bodies. Poli has been to the bedrooms of many big shots in society, Poli has seen their faces up close. Many of them belong to civil society, you see them on TV talk shows. Yet see, we have no place anywhere in society. This society only recognizes the mask of respectability, doesn't recognize the face anymore. Perhaps it doesn't have the courage to recognize it. This society can't help Poli, but it certainly comes running to judge. A society that doesn't care about my stomach but cares about my body—I kick such a society in the face, I spit on it!
You're thinking, don't my parents know what I do? I've told them at home that I work as a sales representative for a foreign company. I have to stay outside for work. I've told several other made-up stories at home. My parents only know this much. They're satisfied with this. Perhaps none of them at home have the means or the courage to know or understand more than this."
...Saying this, Dina couldn't say anything more. She broke down crying. I saw her bury her face firmly in the pillow in front of her and continue sobbing. It's not easy for me to remain normal witnessing this scene. I went to the washroom. I turned on the tap at the basin and splashed water on my eyes until they turned red. What's the point of showing her my tears?
Coming back to the room, I saw not Poli, but a Dina still crying. The hands of the clock hanging on the wall were ticking away. The busy city's busyness announced itself through the clock. No one has time to care about anyone. What society sees as a sex worker is also a responsible head of some family. Selling her body, she puts rice in five mouths, takes care of sick parents, bears all the expenses of her siblings' and her own education. When these Polis go without food, society never feels the responsibility to put a handful of rice in their mouths, yet when Polis remove their clothes to save their families and themselves, society's eyes suddenly open and come right to the front. Even after kicking such a society in the face, the Polis continue to live.
At the time when other girls sit on park benches with boyfriends chewing peanuts, squandering their fathers' money, at that time the Polis descend onto what the world considers the most abominable path out of necessity for life and livelihood. At the time when Poli should be studying, roaming around and enjoying life, at that very time she has to take the burden of the entire family on her shoulders and pass from one hand to another, lie in bed and become the skilled lover of strangers. This too is a life! In society's eyes, the Polis are impure, untouchable, unclean. Society has given them a separate name—whores—yet those who make them 'impure,' those gentlemen, this society has given no separate name.
Dina is still crying. Tears disguised as broken dreams drip from her eyes. In those dreams there's the face of a sick father, the face of a sick mother, the faces of five hungry people. No one will ever find trace of that. I didn't stop her. Let Dina cry, let Poli cry too! The Polis have to stay very busy—perhaps they don't even get time to cry. So today let her cry with her whole heart.
Meanwhile, a lot of time passed, almost two and a quarter hours went by. I'm placing my hand on Poli's head, wiping her tears with tissue. Suddenly she surprised me by kissing the back of my palm with her wet eyes and saying, "Brother, no one has ever shown me this much respect, no one has ever bound me with this much affection. I too can be loved—not just my body, my heart can also be seen if there are eyes that can see. As long as Poli lives, she will remember you. A sex worker will remember you every day, will pray for you with both hands raised."
She climbed down from the bed and picked up the chocolate and the crumpled thousand-rupee note from the carpet. Then, looking into my eyes with her gentle gaze, she said, "Bhaiya, I will never spend this money. I'll laminate it and keep it safe. This money wasn't given to me by a customer—my brother gave it to me. A man gave it to me out of love, thinking of me as his sister. Bhaiya, someday I too will have a family. Someday I too will have children. I'll show this note to my child and say, 'Look, your uncle gave me this money out of love.' Bhaiya, and this Snickers chocolate—this will stay with me too. Someday this chocolate will expire, and later it will become unfit to eat, but I will never open its wrapper. It will remain with me for my entire life as a memory of my brother."
...Saying all this, holding the note and chocolate in her hand, Dina rested her head on my hand and began sobbing again. Some time passed in silence. Then, wiping her eyes and placing my right hand on her head, Dina said in a tone that brooked no argument, "Bhaiya, swear to your sister that you will never come to places like this again! This is my demand. A sister's demand of her brother."
I understood she had become very emotional. I gave an affirmative answer and calmed Dina by stroking her head. Bending my right index finger, I lifted her chin and raised her face, wiping her tears with the back of my left hand. I saw that Dina was looking at me with a kind of affectionate gaze. Perhaps she was thinking that not all men become customers—some become brothers too. Not all men's touches carry desire—some men's touches carry tenderness too. Not all men touch only the bodies of sex workers—some men also touch their hearts. Not all men remain merely men—some men also become human.
Dina asked for my number. I gave it to her. I told her to give me a missed call, but she didn't. She said, "Bhaiya, maybe I'll call you someday. But I won't call for any need. I'll call just to ask how you are. If we ever meet on the street, will you recognize me? If I shout 'Bhaiya!' and come stand in front of you, you won't pretend not to know me and walk away, will you? Will you remember my name?"
Poli came back from the bathroom, freshened up. Sex workers have to stay fresh. After much conversation between the two of them, I took leave from Poli and came out of the room. And yes, the two packets were still in the left back pocket of my jeans.
Coming out, I saw Robin bhai and Joyonto on one side of the room's door. They were smoking More brand cigarettes and chatting. Seeing me, Joyonto immediately said, "Mama, you totally killed it! Two and three-quarter hours! How many rounds did you play? You're going to make it big! You have a bright future ahead! Best of luck!" I said nothing, just kept a mysterious smile on my face. Robin bhai put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Congratulations! Well done, brother! The service was okay, right? No problems?" I smiled gently and said, "Bhai, everything was perfect! No problem!" Joyonto whispered in my ear, "You played two shots, didn't you? Give eight—four each. I've already paid mine." I gave Robin bhai eight thousand taka for two 'programs,' and he returned one thousand, saying, "Brother, this is a special discount for you. It's your first time here today... take my number and keep it, give me a missed call. Your name is Rokib, right? I'm saving it as Rokib Joyonto for easy remembrance. Dial the number... zero one eight one four..." Meanwhile, a question kept hammering in my head: Is this thousand taka a discount? Or an immediate refund?
Coming out of that flat, Joyonto and I walked together along the pitch-dark street. Joyonto was whistling... "Hai apna dil toh awara"... On both sides of the street, rows of dim neon lights glowed. Coming out of an alley of this 'glittering darkness,' I was returning to my familiar everyday life. My long shadow followed behind me. The neon lights weren't dazzling my eyes—what dazzled me was the light of a sex worker's life. What made me bow my head was a struggling, hardworking, courageous, self-reliant complete human being. Society calls Poli a prostitute, but I say she's the heroine of some great novel's story. Because I met her, today I understood how many known and unknown stories remain in the alleys and lanes of this world. Each person is like a great epic. While Samaresh's Dipabali had attracted me somewhat, today a sex worker attracts me a hundredfold more! This attraction isn't of desire, but of respect and love.
Friend Joyonto now interrupted my flowing thoughts with mischief in his eyes, winking his left eye and asking in a lustful voice, "Hey guru, how was the girl? Pretty wild, right? She's quite the player! How many styles did you try? Good for you! Now you bloody well can't claim to be a virgin anymore! That prostitute totally devoured you, mama!" He burst out laughing. I just kept saying things like "Absolutely!" "Exactly!" enjoying his enthusiasm. The image of a struggling woman from head to toe was still floating in my mind. My heart kept saying, "Stay well, sister!"
I took out the two 'packets' Robin saheb had given me from my pocket and handed them to Joyonto. Now my friend seemed to fall from the sky. With his mouth agape, he asked, "You did it direct? You didn't take protection? Didn't it become risky, guru?" "Hey, no problem! Direct is more fun!" "Well, that's true enough. And the prostitute is fresh, so no problem. Good thing—I can use these! It's so annoying having to ask for these things at the shop! Thanks, buddy!"
We walked on. Now I was whistling... "Chalo ek baar phir se aznabi ban jaaye hum dono"... My eyes were getting wet in the yellow rain of neon light. I felt both melancholy and wistful. It seemed as if I had left someone somewhere... someone was missing, someone was missing! I felt a kind of emptiness in my chest. I wondered, was this supposed to happen?
Many years have passed now. I never inquired about Dina again. She never called me either. Some relationships ultimately remain—beyond all contact, giving the finger to all logic. I don't know how Dina is, perhaps I'll never know; but the promise I made to her, I keep to this day... I will keep it until death. Why will I? I don't know. I truly don't know. But I will keep it—this is the truth, this is my unbreakable vow to myself!