Love & Lust – A Dairy Page

1.00 am, 26 Dec 2011:

This day marks the release of my 8^th novel. I believe, this too would bag some literary accolades just as the other 7 did. The belief was interpreted as confidence by my well wishers and arrogance by the haters. I care neither. Sometimes I get caught amidst the shutter bugs and journalists. Book release is one such occasion. Volley of questions were thrown at me and I responded as maturely as I could. But one question…It still haunts me “what is the strongest motivation for your writing”. I smiled in reply and adjourned to the function. 

Memory takes me to those days of my teen age when I was inspired by Cheguvera and Lenin and I left my house in pursuit of revolutionary thoughts, rather thrown out, when I questioned my maternal uncle’s feudal attitude. To earn money I worked as a clerk in the municipal library, where I was introduced to the world of books. On the way back to my single room rented house, I used to visit her – a prostitute, at least 15 years older than me. She knew she was addictive, and hence she lured her customers first time with a meager charge and for all subsequent visit, she charged Rs.10 more.  That also meant she will not have permanent clients, as she feared being possessed.  She tried to save me from her clutches on my first visit to her “You are too small for this and me. Don’t ruin yourself. You can sleep in that corner of the room and leave tomorrow morning; if boasting about this is all your intention”. She said pointing to one corner of the dark room. Her words blew up my rage. “I did not come here to entertain you, so me being small or big does not matter. Yours being big or small is what matters. I have come with money that you need and you have what I need.” My arrogance had no limits. Her eyes widened as she listened. “Having spent a night with a whore in nothing to flaunt about. You are nothing but a chunk of meat meant to be f**ed. Know where you stand, you slut”. She did not give up, “may be, but I did not come in search of you. Its you, who walked couple of furlongs to reach here. Which means I am good at certain things at least.” she said spreading her knee folded legs apart. “What are you good at” she giggled as I kept mum thinking about a fitting reply. “Leave that, proceed with what you have come for” She spread her arms as well.  

The next day, as I started off from her hut, I kept asking myself ‘what am I good at’. Being insulted by a whore was a greatest blow to my pride. I read a lot and write a little. “Reading is never a talent, its only interest, writing definitely is” I realized. Days, weeks and months passed by and me searching for the first piece of my article. 

Greater share of my wage was spent on the nights with her. One night as I waited for my turn, outside her hut, I wrote my first short story – titled the ‘the wait’ under the lantern that swung to the tune of wind.  I was lost in the story so much that I forgot what I had been waiting for until she moved the wooden door plank and asked me to come in. Once I was done, I told her that I wrote a story. And read it out to her in the lantern light. As I completed she said, “I still remember first time, you came here, you told me that entertaining me is not your part of the job. But now you have done it. Let me fix a price for your entertainment. Rs.5 less for the night”. And we both slept half naked under a single torn blanket on the floor. As I woke up, and paid her, she gave back Rs.5 note from the small plastic box kept beneath a heap of clothes. My first payment did not come from any publisher, but from the sweat of a whore.  My first critic wasn’t any great editor, but again a whore. My frequent visits brought her closer. “We are looking for a sweeper in the library. I can push you to that post, If you want me to”. Her reply was again an insult “I earn thrice as much as your librarian.” “But who will look after you once you lose this age? Even I won’t turn up once I feel you are not worth the money I spent on you.” I cautioned. “As long as I live, I will be in my 30s” she replied. I did not understand what she said. That fateful night, she seemed un-interested in what I visited her for. For the first time I compelled her with more money. She agreed with a gloomy face.  This time, she did not lick the sweat beads from my neck as she normally does to mark the climax and refused to take any payment. She talked about the stories she liked from what I narrated to her. Her eyes welled up with tear as she did and asked me to make a book out of it. “Writing is the best thing that you can do with your fingers. The second only I know” she giggled in an attempt to hide the tears.  

The next morning after I left I got to know from the gossip mongers who came to the library that she committed suicide. I ran towards her hut and saw the hanged corpse from a near by tree in a saree she never wore. “As long as I live, I will be in my 30s” lingered in my ears. I did not publish any of those short stories as those were meant only for her – my whore – for whom I wrote my stories – whom, deep inside I love and continues to motivate me...