Some memories never fade. I have not seen Sadhna in ages. But I remember her often. Fondly. I met her 12 years ago, when she was around 17. She was dusky. Her long flowing hair, just shampooed, had a sheen to it. Her dark eyebrows accentuated her large limpid eyes that had a strange light within. What was missing was a smile. I had gone to Calcutta to research a story on child prostitution. One of my contacts gave me a telephone number. Two hours after I called there, an unkempt 27-year-old man knocked on my hotel room. "Let us go," he said, spitting tobacco juice into a potted plant in the corridor. Soon we were in a crowded alley that smelled sickeningly stale. It had not rained for ages, but an overflowing sewer made up for it. Garbage was spread all over. When you are sifting facts and figures, you become clinical about work. I thought it would be just another day's work. I had not bargained for an emotionally draining experience. We walked up a shaky wooden staircase. My guide led me into a dark hall on the first floor. He called out crudely. Almost immediately, she appeared from one of the rooms. "She is very young," he said, jeering. "One hundred rupees." I pressed a Rs 100 note into his outstretched palm. As he turned to go, he winked. "Call me and I will show you great women out here," he said. Sadhna led me to a room. It had soggy patches on the wall. They looked grotesque; they mocked the only bed in the room. She bolted the door. "Thirty rupees," she said. I paid. I sat on the bed. She lit a cigarette. "Order some beer," she said. I did. She gulped it down within minutes. I looked around the room nervously, wondering how to start the conversation. As soon as she finished the beer, she said: "Take off your shoes." I told her I just wanted to talk. For the first time in 20 minutes, she smiled. Her teeth were bright and even. I took off my shoes, sat comfortably on the bed. I told her I wanted to listen to her story. "Sadhna is not my name," she began. "But no one will ever know my real name. Everyone thinks I am Sadhna." There were lapses of silence. I did not ask any questions. She asked for more beer. She was around 13, happy playing around in a village in central Bengal. She often dreamt of Shanti Niketan. A man in her village told her he would take her to Rabindranath Tagore's abode of peace. She was thrilled. It was like a pilgrimage for her. That is how she reached Calcutta. Straight from the railway station, she was brought to Sonagachi, one of India's biggest red-light districts. To break her resolve, the brothel owner had her raped repeatedly. The other sex workers there were sympathetic. They even cried with her, but told her in no uncertain terms that there was no escape. For a while, she resisted. But when the brothel owner said he would kill her if she did not entertain clients, her spirit broke. Thereafter, hers was a dark world. She said she would never go back to her parents; they would die with shame if they came to know what she was doing in Calcutta. No one would marry her anyway. She tried to find little pleasures in jewellery and clothes. She liked Hindi film music and had just invested in a tape recorder. After she downed her third beer, I got up to go. "How have you come?" "In a car." "Really? Which colour?" "Blue. It is a Maruti." "I have never sat in a Maruti car." "Would you like to sit in one and ride around Calcutta?" Sadhna could not believe the offer. The 'madam' said she could go if I paid an advance of Rs 1,000 and Sadhna left all her jewellery behind. Sadhna removed her earrings, nose ring and a slender pendant strung on a thread. "Remove your silver anklets too," ordered the gruff woman. And Sadhna tied it all neatly in a cloth bundle and gave it to her. She wore an electric blue saree, stuck plastic flowers in her hair, and put on red lipstick. She was smiling when she walked to the car. My driver was not amused. As soon as we started, Sadhna was lost in another world. She hung out of the window, staring at the skyscrapers and the people hanging on to trams. Some of them looked at her as if they had not seen a girl before. She chuckled frequently, chattered endlessly. It is strange how ordinary things you and I take for granted can bring so much joy to one who has never seen it. Sadhna watched the lavishly lit Victoria Memorial. "I have not seen anything so lovely," she said, unconsciously holding my arm. The simplicity of her joy was so touching. I felt all my problems were so petty. Some time later, I told her. "It is time to go back." Quietly, she walked back to the car. She did not say a word. As we wended our way back, she did not look out at the skyscrapers or trams, shoppers or mannequins. She just sat there gripping my hand. Back at Sonagachi, I led her back to the hell she had escaped for a few hours. She tried to sound normal. "Let me make some tea for you." The strong, hot tea burned my insides. I sipped it slowly. Was I sad? Was I angry, helpless? I just wanted to run away from the reality of it all. As I got up, she said: "It was one of the most wonderful days I ever had." There were tears glistening in her large eyes. And in mine. Ramesh Menon is roving editor, rediff.com Illustration: Dominic Xavier Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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