The Missing Queen by Samhita Arni

Author:Samhita Arni [Arni, Samhita]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zubaan-Penguin
Published: 2014-10-13T00:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

Hours later, it is dark. The stars have come out in the heavens, and on earth, the prostitutes have emerged from their dark grottos, to ply their night-time trade. Winding my way back home, I see the fabled whores of Lanka, standing in their red-lit doorways – whores of different shapes and sizes and for different tastes. If the Washerman’s men know that I am here, and are on the look-out, this is one of the last places they would look for me.

I watch one woman, dressed in a tight black dress that hugs her hips. She totters onto the street, perched precariously on a pair of stilettos. A car whizzes past, and stops at the sight of her sashaying hips. A window lowers, and a pair of army epaulettes comes into sight. The bargaining commences, accompanied by fierce gesticulations, and (what I imagine to be) a few ribald jokes. A moment later, the window rolls up, and tyres screech as the car zips away, leaving her cursing.

She sits down, legs splayed, and buries her face in her hands. Her nails are bitten to the quick. Her shoulders shake for a couple of minutes, and then she gets up. There’s a wet trail of mascara leaking from her eyes. A few minutes later, she seems to give up for the night. I watch her knock at a nearby house. A little boy clad in a pair of tattered pyjamas emerges. He sucks his thumb, dully, as she herds him up a flight of stairs. As he passes me, I notice a Vanar cast to his features – a simian nose, a wide forehead.

There’s a story there.

I hear a woman scream, shrilly, behind me. ‘The beautiful women of Lanka, as described by Hanuman when he parachuted into our city to search for Sita! The beautiful women of Lanka, yours for a price!’ I turn and see a toothless old dame, crouching by the pavement, bargaining with a duo of tourists. She holds out a photograph album filled with the pictures of her ‘beautiful’ wares – young, prepubescent girls.

The men smile, and pass her by. The old woman shakes her fist at the departing tourists, her face contorted in fury.

I walk up to the pavement and squat beside a young woman. The wind whips her lank, greasy hair around her face. She’s chuckling at the old woman.

‘Slow night?’

She nods. I pull out a note, not much, but still something. She eyes me warily, wondering what I have in mind. I tell her I’m a journalist, doing a story on post-war Lanka. She laughs again.

‘When the war ended,’ she tells me, ‘Vibhishana was crowned and he asked Ram what he should do. And Ram said, “We owe our victory to the Vanars. We must be grateful. Honour them well, and give them gifts that will make them happy!”‘

She pauses, for effect, and gestures to the horde of whores lining the pavement. ‘We made them happy.’ Her lips twist into a smirk.

When I come back to the dingy boarding house, my landlady is waiting for me, plump fists planted on her hips.

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