"It all started with a mango slice," I said, lying there on the cozy hotel bed. It was quite odd that someone was trying to ask me why I was doing what he paid me for. I always dreamt of having that bed one day in my own sweet home as well.
"Means?"
I don't know why that man was trying to be so sympathetic towards me, maybe trying to get over his self-guilt, I thought and smiled in my heart. He had moved out of the bed till now and was dressing himself up as his family waited for him at home. I also sat up and adjusted my too appealing for a sixteen-year-old breast brassiere. I was sitting on the left side of the bed, tying my hair and searching for my pants. I saw that half-filled whiskey glass throwing a yellowish-brown reflection on the raw mango salad lying there on the table. He was probably looking at me from behind, waiting for the story to start and his sympathy too. What could I tell him as everything revolved in my head, which I couldn't speak about? I wore my pants and the top. The combo of black pants and grey top worked magically with my curly hair on a white face with a maroon lipstick. I went to the table, picked up the platter, and went to him, who was properly dressed in his black suit by now. I took the fork, pierced a mango slice, and put it in his mouth - seductively. He just sat there looking at me seductively, and chewing the crunchy mango. I just kept looking at him seductively as well.
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I was sitting there in the corner of the room and my house. I was huddled up, and I wrapped myself up and gathered all of me under my 14-year-old arms. I was not afraid that day. I had adapted myself to the environment. Tears rolled down my eyes, but still, there was no fear. Earlier in my childhood, I used to shut my eyes for avoiding the view, but now I could easily watch it all. There was a pain but no fear. My posture was the habit that I couldn't change. I kept looking at the shadows of my mother and my father on the bedsheet hanging across the room to make partitions. The only light bulb was on their side, so it was clear and distinct. I could see my mother lying there on the floor. Her hands were probably joined in a silent prayer to her husband. He stood there, with his only leather belt, that he had not staked and lost till now. I could hear the whipping and slashing, but no sound from my mother. She was a brave lady, I thought. He kept on ranting and hurling abuses and continued beating her up. He finally stopped, he stopped beating.
He removed his pants, pulled up her saaree, and just...
I kept sitting there with my eyes down. I heard a grunt, and I knew that my mother would come out anytime now and would serve me dinner. He had gone out of the house, and she also came out, adjusting her only saaree and folding up her hair into a bun. She went to the stove and served dinner.
We both sat there and had our dinner in the common old and dented steel plate. The dents couldn't make us forget the day when my father had lost all of his day's earning in the gamble, and he tried to take the utensils from home to sell for gambling. My mother had tried to resist him, and he had hit her hard with that plate on her head. Remembering that day every time I have my food, is preceded by looking at that scar on her forehead.
After we had had our dinner, she went to the door to look for her husband. After confirming his absence, she went to the stove and took out a mango from behind the burner. She washed it and brought it to me. We both sat down, and she peeled the mango. Parts of it had rotten due to the heat from the stove. She brought a knife and started cutting the small slices which were still fresh and yellow, and gave them to me. As I started eating, I looked up to find that she was eating the rotten parts of the mango. She looked at me watching her eating that slices and smiled at me, behind the white turned yellow seed. Her eyes smiled, her lips smiled, her body smiled. She smiled as if nothing had happened.
