Frames

Frozen frames defined her life.  The life in-between was a blur, flitting from one frame to another. I remember capturing those moments. I could see the expression on the faces of my patrons change. A smile, despair, anguish, joy…. Those expressions were like a dance of the sun rays, fleeting and ephemeral. I could hear the champagne flowing seamlessly. The room held a dignified aura. An aura of understanding yet disconnected.

It was a blazing Sunday afternoon.  I was grabbed from behind by sinuous hands. In that flash of a second I noticed those long tender fingers with a dash of blood red nail polish. A strong smell of betel juice hit me along with a swirl of attar. It was a playful hug. I turned to face a young dusky girl. A girl in her teens. I blinked as the glimmer of her nose ring caught my eyes.  I smiled at her as she darted along, being chased by another girl. Much younger to her. It seemed perfectly natural to me. Natural enough to make me forget I was standing in Kamathipura, waiting for my interlocutor.  Given my natural instincts, I quickly snapped a picture of the girl running away. She had almost turned back to look at me. A lustful glance.  This was my first frame at the exhibit. I could hear genuine admiration for her beauty. Of course, she was another dark girl who was deemed to be beautiful by few select Indians and more so by foreigners.

We developed an acquaintance over the months as I became a regular to the by lanes of pleasure and sin. Camera babu was my newly christened street name.  Few months ago I had submitted a photo of a local don in action to the annual ‘photos defining life’ contest of National geographic. A fearsome one at that. With a machete in hand and bloodshot eyes and a sense of palpable fear and bravado, Sultan’s picture went on to win the best entry. I would never know how Sultan got hold of the picture. I got a call late night after two weeks of winning the first place. A gruff voice congratulated me and wanted to meet me. The drunken stupor that I was in, I thanked the caller. I heard a knock on the door. I let that pass. The knocking got louder .Opening the door; I came face to face with Sultan and his bunch of hoodlums. For a second, the life in me urged me to run, run as fast as I could. Even before the instincts took over, I saw him smile. He hugged me and thanked me for making him famous. Immortal was the word he used. Strange are the ways of men who wield power. Before I knew, the swarm of smelly men hoisted me on their arms and took me on a procession. I was garlanded by the ladies of the night. Sultan smiled at me benevolently .He gave me the permission to take as many photos as I want in Kamathipura. His stronghold.

It was my first day as the guest of Sultan when Lakshmi had run into me. She was a chatty soul. And a Sultan favorite.  Through others I got to know Lakshmi was from Bengal. She was 12 when she was sold to Sultan. Caged in a dingy cell for months, she was held till she gave in. The lady of the whorehouse and her daughter held her hands as a portly pedophile Marwari businessman raped Lakshmi. She was hospitalized for months as the assault was brutal. She survived it. Survived it well enough to emerge without scars. And soon to become the most sought after girl in the lane.

I used to meet her at the same place, near the local liquor joint. A lovely smile defeating the garish attire she was in. She used to smile at me. A genuine smile from her plethora of fake ones which she used on her customers. The second frame was one of those days with her smiling. Looking at the frame, she looked untouched by the world. Untouched by those lecherous hands.

It was few months after her bump became too evident to not be noticed. It was rumored Sultan was the father. She was smiling when I met her with a hint of mischief in her eyes. She spoke to me softly and exclaimed I wish you were the father. To which I vaguely remember stuttering something in response. This was the third frame. The noticeable bump through the red saree. Her hand lovingly cradling her womb.

I met her couple of weeks after, she looked a ghost of herself. Eyes sunken and telltale signs of abuse written all over her. She had been forced to have sex with a man who had a fetish for pregnant woman. She was kicked, raped and brutally beaten with a belt. She broke down as she saw me. I left her crying on the door step of her friend. I stood on the side, looking at her. My heart had died many a death that night. This was the fourth frame. I could hear gasps of disbelief when the patrons moved on to this one. Broken nails, blue skin. Heavily pregnant and a bruised arm. Lips cracked and a tooth missing.



I remember confronting Sultan the next day. I had begged him to let her go. He smiled at me and moved on.

I got a call the next day from jasmine, her friend. Lakshmi had  a miscarriage. I had rushed to the government hospital. She was one amongst the many ghosts lying on the never ending row of beds. Her face a pale shadow of herself .I knew something was gone. Her spirit was missing. The spark gone. And I knew she would not survive it. She surprised me. She was back on street after few weeks. With a bad dental job. This was my fifth frame. A smile shorn of its former beauty. Beautiful yet hollow. Add to it a white decadent front tooth. It was easy to see how the sympathies of the audience changed now. Somewhere the empathy had died. Cynicism was surging forth and I almost could sense a growing disdain in my patrons. It was almost like they had suddenly begun to hate her.

Moving from one frame to another they traced her journey. From a beautiful teen to a battered young girl. A woman of the street to lady of the house. There was a growing abhorrence as they moved from one frame to the next.

Our acquaintance remained.

It was another Sunday morning when Dhanya grabbed me. She was howling at the top of her voice. She cried for help. She was grabbing anyone who could help her. She was bleeding. She had been slapped blue and blood streaked from her lips. I turned around to see Laksmhi chasing her with a sandal. Dhanya had been sold to the house owned by Lakshmi. She was 13. Lakshmi had fixed her first session with the pedophile Marwari man.



This was my last frame. A heavy set Lakshmi with a shoe in her right hand and her other hand clutching the end of her saree. Evil spewed from her face as did filth. I could not bear looking at my frames any longer. I stepped out for a walk.



I met Dhanya on the same road that night, with a client. Giggling and smiling with him.