Lives In The Shadows

I've been reading the Telugu translation of Nalini Jameela's "Autobiography of a Sex Worker" for the past two days. While reading this book, the lives similar to Jameela’s that I've witnessed in the past have been vividly coming to my mind.

When I used to live in Hyderabad, I rented a single-room apartment in a building at the end of a narrow lane across from the Venkateswara Theater near Narayanaguda Crossroads. Every morning, I would wake up, finish my daily rituals, take a bath, and with wet clothes, I would offer prayers to God with vibhuti on my forehead. By 9 AM, I'd be ready without eating breakfast (because I had no money to eat). I'd stand with an empty stomach at the bus stop in front of the theater, next to the Amma temple, waiting for the bus to Ameerpet. At that time, I was working for a writer. My monthly earnings were barely enough to support myself. Times were very hard; I spent many days starving or barely getting by with tea and biscuits from a nearby Irani cafe. When I had no work, I would spend my time reading books in the Chikkadpalli City Library until they closed at night and threw us out.

Near my room, the Venkateswara Theater revealed to me the harsh lives of people I had never known before. Sex workers would stand in front of the theater, trying hard to attract clients. They weren’t conventionally beautiful. After the movie ended, people coming out would look at these women with contempt, especially the women passing by. Men walking alone would glance furtively at the sex workers; some men would approach them to negotiate. I would stand across the road and observe all of this. During the night show, the sex workers would put on makeup and perfume and stand in front of the theater. Some would stop passersby or signal to them to negotiate prices; others would be taken inside the theater under the pretense of watching a movie, and yet others would leave with clients on bikes.

This became a daily sight for me. Among these sex workers, Sujatha and Jaya had noticed me over time and told me so themselves. One day, while I was standing and observing as usual, Sujatha came over and stood in front of me and said, "Hey Swami, do you want to talk tonight? Tell me how much you’ll give." Startled, I realized she was calling me Swami because of the vibhuti on my forehead. I stepped back and said, "I’m just observing, not looking for anything else." She laughed and said, "I see you every day standing there and watching us, I know." I was caught off guard and explained, "It’s nothing like that; I’m just observing you all."

She laughed again and said, "I haven’t eaten anything since morning. Will you give me some money for food?" I had only fifty rupees in my pocket. I immediately gave it to her. She took the money, tucked it into her jacket, and said, "If you have a heart, call me; I’ll come." Then she walked away. She was younger than me; I was 23 years old then. She went to a nearby eatery, had some food, and stood in front of the theater again looking for clients.

Seeing women who had given up their self-respect and womanhood for a meager meal filled me with pity. Watching their struggles became part of my daily routine. Over time, Sujatha would occasionally talk to me. If she needed money for food, I would give her whatever I had and tell her to go eat. The competition in their line of work grew intense. On the road, if a bike or car stopped, the other women would rush to grab the client before Sujatha could. Sujatha often ended up alone without any clients.

For some days, I got a lot of work from the writer and didn’t go that way for about ten days. One morning, on my way to the bus stop, I saw Sujatha sitting despondently near the Deepak Theater bus stop. Her face was swollen, and her hair was disheveled. Noticing this, I asked, "What happened to you? Are you not feeling well?" When I pressed her for an answer, she finally broke down in tears. I was taken aback but gathered my courage and asked her firmly what had happened. She tearfully explained, "Last night, a man agreed to pay me fifteen hundred rupees for the night, saying he was alone. He gave me seven hundred in advance and took me to his place on his bike. After he was done, he brought in six of his friends and demanded that I serve them all. They threatened to hand me over to the police on false theft charges if I didn’t comply. One of them even broke a beer bottle and threatened to kill me. I had no choice but to lay there like a corpse while they took turns with me all night."

Hearing this, tears welled up in my eyes. I gave her the three thousand rupees I had saved for rent and told her to eat something and get medical help. I had prayed and lit a lamp before leaving my room that morning. I was deeply saddened by her plight.

For several days after that, I didn’t see Sujatha. I moved to my friend’s room in Madhura Nagar, and for two years, I was so absorbed in my work that I didn’t go back to that area. Once, I had to go to VST for some work, and I passed by the Narayanaguda Crossroads in the evening around six o'clock. Suddenly, I remembered Sujatha. My bike stopped automatically in front of the Venkateswara Theater. I hadn’t seen her since that day she was in such a state. As usual, some sex workers were standing there trying to attract clients. When I asked for Sujatha, one of the women said, "Sujatha? She passed away a year ago due to ill health. But why do you want to know about her?" Her words felt like the ground had shifted under my feet. I was in shock, unable to speak, my throat dry. Today, it's Sujatha; tomorrow, it will be someone else. These women who put their lives on the line in this harsh profession disappear into oblivion. How many more deaths will I witness? My eyes filled with tears as I thought of Sujatha’s life and the lives of others like her. Without realizing it, tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn’t bring myself to continue reading the book. I turned off the light in my room. Not just my room, but my entire world was engulfed in darkness.

The short story was originally written in Telugu by Tirupati Kiran and is translated by Gayatri Mavuru.

Tirupati Kiran is a published writer in all leading Telugu magazines.

Gayatri Mavuru, an internationally renowned artist, multilingual poet, and educator, authored "Sizzling Verses" and "Drizzling Colours." She holds two world records in art, an honorary doctorate for contributions to art and culture, and a Young Author Award. Currently, she is a school principal.