Faukland Marg!

I have only seen fat coffee-table books and certain documentaries made on 'sex-workers', and I have always wondered, if the photographer directed those women to pose that way- leaning close to a shabby entrance of two-storied structures. It was only when we walked down Faukland Marg, I realised how that 'picture' was borrowed from the real, and with very few deformations of the truth.

The place situated somewhere between Charni Road and Grant Road, is something similiar to Kamathipura, the (in)famous Red-Light area of the city. 3 of us, planned this trip long back, with much fuss over should we click photos or not/should we dress like tourists/ who is embarassing to whom by leading this venture et ecetera. From the mood of the talk, you can reckon that we were absoultely oblivious to what lay ahead.

So, we landed at Faukland Marg on that not-so-bright Saturday morning after crossing too many roads, and jumping over a zillion potholes.

I looked at those women, too many standing on either sides of the pavement. Women wearing glazy tight clothing, suggestive in their attire, trying to lure customers. I managed to catch a glimpse of a deal between one of the prostitutes and her prospective client through the corner of my eye. She seemed ugly, with a maroon coloured lipstick rubbed unevenly on her lips, and talcum powder masking the original complexion of her skin. As we walked further down, my eyes caught the sight of a 11-12 year old girl, who stood amongst the other older prostitutes. I couldn't help notice the conical bra on her, all done to make her appealing enough to attract the right attention. It was only making her posture awkward. I was taken aback at this sight, and was highly saddened by it. The solemness after that, was over-powering all other emotions.

I made sure that I also survey the supporting environment which compelled me to glance up, to the 1st floor of those dilapidated structures on both sides of the road. There were really small rooms that I saw, and windows which were poorly covered with thin, shabby curtains. I wondered how they did 'it' with such less privacy. I recalled how I had also heard tales of cots being arranged on the road in the night-time. A shrill ran down my spine, and I immediately discarded the thought.

The lane stretched over some 10 minutes. We walked hurriedly down the lane, making sure we don't oogle too obviously. The entire 'kick' of visting a red-light area somehow fizzled off, as it wasn't exactly pleasant what we were offered to view...

You know, I believe that by allowing a particular activity to dwell in the society, we are only accepting it more. Who hasn't heard of raids that occasionally take place in these brothels and dance bars, where girls are rescued and sent to homes and Shelters? But how many police officials themselves visit these prostitutes is another story altogether! Every thing rolls into its own irony, I thought!

Towards the end, after a session of looking to the right-left-right-left, one girl prostitute caught my glimpse. I was quite suprised to see her attention meander from those road-side fellows to us. She looked back expressionlessly at my face, then my bag and then at the red wind-sheater hanging loosely between the strap of the satchel. What could she be thinking? I, in turn gazed into her eyes. They were pretty...the only thing she possessed which wasn't vandalised by 'them'!