10’o clock:
Polka dotted bra. Check.
Black panty. Check.
Red petticoat. Check.
Netted blouse. Check.
Pink glossy silk. Check.
Damn.
Show a bit more skin. Push a bit of your waist out. Show more cleavage.
Red lipstick. Check.
That cheap perfume, that has enough strength to
bring to you, sex-wanting men.
Check.
Flowers around your oiled hair. Check.
CHECK!
SHOW
A BIT MORE CLEAVAGE.
Now, here I am, in my light-blinded lane, scanning
for customers.
12’o clock:
My eyes hurt.
Half of my city, that I don’t have access to, is
sleeping.
And here in my lane, the halogen lights burn my
eyeballs.
A drunkyard, come from somewhere, and grope me.
I turn around to face him,’ 2ooRs.’
Straight
faced.
12:30’o clock:
My inner garments are torn down. My lipstick smudged.
My eyes teary from his inhuman grips, all over my body.
He feeds on my flesh.
Make-up
decked flesh.
1’o clock:
This unknown composition of flesh sleeps on my bed.
I, on the floor, munching pills.
Naked.
200Rs,
tight in my grip.
The floor, between my legs, is flooded with blood.
1:30’o clock:
I lie outside my room, in my blouse and petticoat.
My body, crippled.
The blinding halogen lights, shut my eyelids.
200Rs,
still tight in my grip.
Mornings don’t happen in my lane.
The sun left, long back.
And, I lie here, questioning my father, who sold me
5 years back,
