Virgin Virgo And Liberal Libra

“Nazar ke samne jigar ke paas..

Koi rehta hai wo ho tum..”

“Hello.. ”, said a husky female voice, abruptly ending the ringtone. With the absence of any response from the caller, the lady hung up the phone with an irritated expression. Wearing a figure-hugging and shimmery charcoal-grey maxi dress with deep fuchsia lip and loud eye make-up, this lady has a dusky skin she is proud of – or may be just forced proud of. Disconnecting the phone, she quickly went back to her room. She rummaged through the heap of multi-colored and lustrous fabrics to find something. She was looking for the colorful beads to give it to her friend who was younger to her by zodiac years. Brinda, a woman in her late twenties adored Meethi like her sister. Meethi loved her Brinda didi too. Having found a handful of beads, she ran towards Meethi's room only to find Meethi in the middle of an argument with Praver bhai and Jamuna mausi. Spotting Brinda, Jamuna mausi called her inside.

“Samjha behen ko...”

Jamuna was upset with Meethi as the bootlegger turned brothel owner aka Jamuna mausi was unable to convince Meethi to slaughter her budding womanhood – fresh like the moon flowers, which starts to bloom around late afternoon. Jamuna mausi promised a client of hers to have Meethi for him as the full flower down the south of her body has grown by night. As soon as the sunlight caresses the bloomed flower, it dies. So, how important the night was? Very much.

Why? To push the freshly bloomed flowers into this flesh market and make notes of out it.

Jamuna mausi was herself the prey of this trap and her so-called husband pushed her into this many years ago.

“Let me replace Meethi tonight...”, said Brinda in a horrified tone. She knew Praver bhai would beat both the girls black and blue – one for not doing her job and the other for trying to save Meethi. But Brinda was familiar with the zinc buckle of the leather belt – used to smelt her tired womanhood. Meethi could not understand what to say. A silence overtook with a stern look from Jamuna to the girls.

The time after midnight heard screams from Brinda's room – her desire to do this was as forced as her pride for her dusky skin. She would spend hours looking at the mirror, reflecting hard on how to look like the lead roles in Hindi movies. Brinda's initial few months over here were stressful and tough. She was brought here by a trafficker at the age of fifteen, just after she met her menstruation. Brinda continued to resist in the beginning until one day, she was forced to consume alcohol and her fate changed. Next day, she had the hangover from both the forced liquor and libido. Over time, she spent in their captivity, she gradually accepted her fate.

Meethi, a girl of fourteen, was attacked and abducted from her village and she escaped grave poverty to meet these barbaric people.

Suddenly someone said, “Samjha behen ko...”

It was the second time that Brinda heard these words. Every inch of her sandy brown skin wrinkled in fear. Precisely, the inertia of fear. Brinda turned around to look at the serene woman. Brinda gently woke up, welts on her body were making maps of freedom on the liberal Libran girl. She looked at the last bed in that room. Meethi was in deep sleep. Her moon flowers had already withered but the little Virgo had a virgin hope. Brinda looked through the window of the shabby room. Silent.

Not willing to utter a word.

The woman standing at the door was the caretaker of a lot of women like Brinda and Meethi.

Their healer.

Their motivator.

Their guide – in the hostel where rescued women from forced prostitution were given shelter, food, and care.

She came closer to Brinda, cupped her face and asked her to wear washed fabrics.

Brinda agreed with a nod.

It was a day in October and the season of letting go was knocking at the door.