Saturday, July 5, 2008

Sonagachi

Kolkata sleeps in the night. This comes as a culture shock to me, a self-baptized Mumbaikar.
Almost as if not to hurt the Bengali hypocrisy, Sonagachi emerges out from the shadows after the Bhadroloks go to bed.
Cocooned in the taxi I rode past the notorious streets looking at its inhabitants. I admit I was curious, delighted to be able to see the bejeweled and decked up specimen of my species transacting, striking deals on the streets and disappearing amongst the shadows to ‘deliver the purchase’. The delight of being one of the privileged few women who can safely observe the world’s oldest profession being retailed soon gave way to a sickening epiphany. Snob, snooty, sick, cruel as adjectives felt short of describing the horrible light in which I saw myself.
My glasses replaced, I saw a different picture. Women, beautiful all of them, eager to sell because each one faces a begging bowl poised at them, back home. Someone’s hunger, someone else’s aspiration, someone’s disease, someone’s debts, someone’s irresponsibility, someone’s indulgence all gratified through the millions quenching their loins at Sonagachi.
How difficult is it to turn one’s deepest expression of love into commerce?

3 comments:

Arnav said...

Guess you start syndicationg your columns now, great insight and if i ever get into publishing i will sign you on as my first writer

Prapti Banerjee said...

Thanks,
Coming from you that's a very valuable compliment. Hope you get into publishing soon :-)

Crimson Feet said...

aha!... good one!!!