Impure

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She was a busy woman. Her youth and impeccable looks made sure she never went out of business. She had been initiated into the flesh trade by her mother when she was barely twelve, when all she had wanted to do was fly kites and feast on flavoured ice. But five years into the business, she was adept at fixing rates, faking her feelings and sweet talking her clients into showering her with gifts. She had even mastered the art of lying to herself about the pain, the disgust, the helplessness and the anger that she felt.

During the initial years her mother had warned her, “Never fall in love with a client. They are not here to give us what we want but to take from us what they want.”  She had believed every word of it until she was swept away from her feet by a man who visited her every Friday. He was in his thirties, fairly good looking, with a streak of gold encircling his ring finger. They spent many nights enjoying each other’s company, talking endlessly until dawn snatched him away from her embrace. She realized that she was deeply in love with this man. She felt trapped between two worlds that could never meet and decided to confess her love to him, convinced that he too felt the same. He was different from the other men she had been with.

His words echoed within her, filling her eyes with grief. “How can an impure one like you even dream of a life with a gentleman like me?” She thought it strange that it was always the woman who was made to feel impure and not the man who was equally involved, even after having betrayed his wife.





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