UTHOR'S P.O.V...
A soft chorus of birds chirped beyond the window, their gentle melody pulling her from slumber. Her lashes fluttered open, and the first thing that met her gaze was the wooden ceiling, still washed in the gray-blue hues of early dawn.
She lay still for a moment, listening to the faint rustling of the breeze against the shutters, the world not yet fully awake. Then, slowly, she sat up. Her eyes drifted toward the window. The sky was still cloaked in shadows, but a faint golden blush crept along the horizon, chasing the darkness away with soft promise.
Reflexively, her hands moved across the sheets, searching. A small wave of panic rose in her chest-she thought she might be bare beneath the blanket. That she had been used and forgotten, as always.
But her fingers met the smooth cloth of her simple dress still clinging to her frame.
Then it all came back.
The night.
The silence.
His voice.
His words.
His distance.
His respect.
He hadn't touched her. Not once. He had spoken to her-really spoken-and listened like her words mattered. He hadn't treated her like something broken to be bought or borrowed. He had offered her a bed. Given up his own.
Treated her like a person.
Her chest tightened with something she couldn't name.
With sudden need, she turned her head, eyes searching the floor beside the bed. Her gaze landed on the mat.
Empty.
He was gone.
For a second, a quiet ache bloomed in her chest. Not because he had left without a word-but because she realized she had wanted him to stay. Even just for a moment longer.
To look at her like that again. To make her feel seen again.
She sat still, the silence of the room pressing around her, warm and unfamiliar. And in that silence, one truth settled in her bones like sunlight breaking through cloud-
He was the first man who walked into her life...
And left without taking anything.
Except, perhaps, a small piece of her guarded heart.
She stepped out of the room, her fingers gently tugging at the edge of her dupatta, adjusting the creases of her dress. The hallway was quiet, lit only by the dying lanterns hanging on the chipped walls. Her eyes scanned the narrow corridor, heart tapping with a strange urgency-searching for him.
But he was nowhere.
Gone, just like the fleeting dreams she never dared to have.
The air was still heavy with the scent of last night-sweat, liquor, lust, and sorrow. It clung to the faded curtains, seeped into the stone floors. This was no palace. No sanctuary. This was a brothel. And she was one of many.
It was still dark outside, but for her, the day had already begun. It was time for the morning puja-the only few moments of stillness she allowed herself. Moments she whispered to a God who never seemed to answer. But today, the peace was missing, replaced by an unsettling quiet inside her chest. He had disturbed something. Something she didn't know she still had.
She walked to the back room to bathe. The brass bucket stood filled, water cold, steamless. No luxury. Just necessity.
She peeled off her clothes slowly-not seductively, not beautifully, just tiredly. Her skin bore the memories of too many nights, too many hands. But not his. Never his.
She poured the first mug over her head, letting the icy shock bring her back to herself. Down the corridor, she could already hear the soft sobs of a girl being pulled from her sleep too soon. The heavy steps of the madam dragging her out for an early client. The muffled curses. The slam of a door.
This was life here.
Pain on repeat.
Bodies sold.
Names forgotten.
There were girls younger than her, forced to wear smiles and kohl-lined eyes, hoping the next man wouldn't be rough. Others sat with dead stares, their spirits broken into compliance. Laughter existed too-but the kind that never reached the eyes. Loud and hollow, meant to seduce or survive.
And yet, she stood under the thin stream of water, the memory of last night holding her upright. A conversation. A kindness. A man who didn't ask. A man who didn't take.
She wanted to forget it. Because hope was dangerous. But her heart-foolish as ever-clung to it like a secret prayer.
She finished her bath quickly and dressed in silence. There were chores waiting, the temple corner to clean, trays to set, and the mirror to face. The one that always asked: Who are you today? A woman? A product? Or just a ghost in someone else's story?
And still... beneath all that, for the first time in a long time, she felt like someone worth being remembered.
Just like every day, Kumudini sat cross-legged on the cold floor before the small altar, the soft golden flame of the diya flickering in rhythm with the wind outside. The statue of Lord Krishna stood in silence, adorned with a fading garland and traces of yesterday's sandalwood paste. The scent of incense slowly curled through the air-faintly sweet, faintly bitter, like most things in her life.
She sang the aarti in a soft voice, a prayer laced not just with devotion, but exhaustion too. It was her ritual. Her escape. The only time in the entire day when she wasn't someone else's object.
At the door, Ramya stood as always-leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching quietly. She never stepped inside. She said she didn't believe in gods who watched and did nothing. But she never stopped Kumudini either.
As the aarti ended, Kumudini offered the prasad, breaking the quiet.
"Kumudini," Ramya called, as she always did. A name, soft yet strong, spoken like it meant something. Kumudini turned, smiled faintly, and placed a piece of the prasad into Ramya's waiting hand. Then, without a word, she returned to her place in front of the idol.
She folded her hands again, her eyes closed tighter this time.
But her lips didn't whisper the usual mantras.
Instead, she thanked the divine.
Thanked Him for last night.
A night when her body wasn't used. When her soul wasn't bruised.
A night when a man didn't ask for her flesh-but offered her rest.
Offered her dignity.
A stranger. A guest. A man whose name she wasn't even knew.
And yet, she prayed for him.
Prayed for his peace, his strength, his protection.
She asked the gods to keep him safe, to guide his journey, wherever it led.
Because for one night, in a house of cages, he gave her a moment of freedom.
And that was enough for her heart to remember him forever.
She opened her eyes slowly, the warmth of silent tears cooling on her cheeks. She bowed her head one last time, then stood-her body still aching, but her soul... a little lighter.
Without a word, she walked outside to begin another day in the same cruel world-this time with a quiet prayer blooming in her chest, and Ramya by her side.
The moment Kumudini stepped out of the small prayer room, the sanctity she'd wrapped around herself began to peel away, layer by layer. The hallway was dim, barely lit by the softest hint of morning, and yet the walls seemed to echo with the weight of what had happened here the night before-of muffled cries, forced laughter, and heavy footsteps of men who came and left like passing shadows.
The brothel was waking up, but not with joy. No chirping birds or warm cups of tea. Just the clinking of anklets against the floor, groans of aching bodies, and the occasional sob that someone failed to stifle.
Ramya walked beside her in silence, her face unreadable. They passed by the rooms-doors half open, revealing glimpses of bruised skin, smeared kajal, broken bangles on the floor. Girls lay in twisted sheets, some still unconscious, others staring blankly at the ceiling. Their eyes didn't shine. They were not dreaming. They had long forgotten how.
Downstairs, the chores had already begun. The kitchen smelled of frying spices and incense, an odd blend of devotion and survival. A few of the girls were cleaning the floors, humming bhajans that no longer touched their hearts. Some were chopping vegetables, others folding the laundry that still smelled of last night's sins.
Kumudini tied her dupatta around her waist and began helping in the kitchen. She stirred a pot of dal while Ramya kneaded dough beside her.
They worked quietly, the only sounds being the hiss of oil and the clink of steel plates. But Kumudini's mind wasn't in the kitchen. When no one was looking, she scooped some roti and dal into a plate, wrapped it with a cloth, and quietly slipped away.
She moved through the corridors like a shadow until she reached the far end, where the last room stood closed. She knocked gently.
Inside, Devika sat curled up, her back against the wall, arms tightly wrapped around her knees. Her eyes were red, her body trembling slightly even in stillness. When the door creaked open, she flinched-but immediately relaxed upon seeing Kumudini.
Kumudini smiled and sat beside her, placing the plate in front of her. "Eat," she said gently.
Devika looked at the food, then at Kumudini. Her lips trembled.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "You had to go because of me."
Kumudini shook her head, brushing Devika's hair back gently.
"It's okay," she said with a quiet strength. "I've been through worse. These things... they stop mattering after a while.
"Now, finish your food," Kumudini said gently, brushing a stray strand of Devika's hair behind her ear like an elder sister would.
Devika nodded, slowly picking at the roti, her hands trembling just slightly. The food was simple-dal, a small piece of vegetable curry, and a dry roti-but it was warm, and it was given with care, and that made it feel like a feast in a place where care was rare.
Kumudini sat there quietly, knees folded to her chest, watching Devika eat. Her presence was grounding, like a candle in a dark room-not bright enough to chase away all shadows, but enough to remind you light still existed.
Outside, the brothel was slowly shifting gears. The faint scent of incense from the morning puja was being replaced by the harsh notes of cheap perfume and old alcohol. Girls were beginning to stir. Some applied makeup with mechanical precision, others argued softly over turn schedules, some practiced smiles in cracked mirrors. The cycle was starting again.
But in that room, for a few more minutes, time was still.
Devika looked up mid-bite. "Do you think... we'll ever leave this place?"
Kumudini was quiet for a moment. Then she replied, her voice low but steady, "Some of us might. Some of us won't. But all of us deserve to dream about it. Even if it's just before we close our eyes at night."
Devika nodded again, and this time, the tears in her eyes didn't fall-they just glistened, quietly holding hope.
Kumudini reached out and gently tucked the corner of Devika's dupatta back over her shoulder. "Eat properly. Then rest. You don't have to return to that room until the bell rings."
For now, they had this-stillness, warmth, and each other.
Devika nodded slowly, chewing in silence for a moment before her voice broke through the stillness again, soft and heavy with the weight of her world.
"Are all men like these only?" she asked, her eyes lowered, her fingers trembling slightly as she picked at her food.
Kumudini turned to look at her. Her expression was calm, but her eyes held a depth that only those who had seen too much could understand. She shook her head gently. "No, Devika. They're not all the same."
Devika looked up at her, searching for even a sliver of truth. "Really?" she asked, a bitter edge to her voice. "Have you ever met anyone different? Someone who didn't look at you like... like a thing?"
Kumudini's gaze softened as she slowly nodded. Her voice came out like a whisper wrapped in memory. "Yes. I have."
Devika blinked. "Who?"
"There was a man," Kumudini began, her eyes drifting off to somewhere far beyond the four grimy walls of the brothel. "He came like the rest, quiet and tired. I thought he'd be like them-demanding, distant, cruel without even knowing it. But he wasn't."
Devika stopped eating. Her full attention was on Kumudini now.
"He didn't want my body," Kumudini continued, her voice almost reverent. "He didn't even look at me that way. I remember-I was about to sleep on the floor, like always, because it's what we do. But he stopped me. He said, 'Women are a form of goddess. Letting you sleep on the floor while I take the bed would be a sin I could never wash away.'"
Devika's eyes widened. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.
Kumudini smiled faintly, lost in the memory. "He let me sleep on the bed. Didn't touch me. Didn't ask for anything. He just... talked. Asked about me. Not what men usually ask-my price, my age, my body."
Devika swallowed hard, her voice shaky. "And then?"
"And then he slept on the floor. Quiet. Respectful. He didn't try to own me. He made me feel... safe. Like I wasn't just flesh. Like I was a woman. Like I was human."
Devika looked away, biting her lip to stop the tears. "And he left?"
"In the morning. Before sunrise. Without a word. But he left behind something no one else ever did." Kumudini paused. "Dignity."
Devika wiped at her cheek and murmured, "You were lucky."
Kumudini nodded, her smile turning somber. "For one night, yes. And I'll carry that night like a little lantern... in this dark place."
The two of them sat in silence again. But this time, it wasn't empty. It held something soft. Something sacred.
As Devika finished the last morsel of food, her trembling fingers still shaky from fear and hunger, the door creaked open. Tara stepped inside, her shadow falling across the room like a silent warning. Devika flinched instantly, her eyes wide with panic as she instinctively curled into herself, clutching her knees tighter.
But before fear could fully take over, Kumudini placed a gentle hand on Devika's shoulder. Her touch was firm yet soothing-an anchor. Devika stilled, glancing up at Kumudini, who gave her a reassuring nod.
"Amma ji is calling for Devika," Tara announced, her tone flat but with an edge that made it clear refusal wasn't an option.
Devika's body trembled, her lips parting as if to plead, but no sound came out. Her eyes were watery, silently begging for mercy.
Kumudini squeezed her hand gently, then stood up and faced Tara. "I'll go instead," she said calmly.
Tara's brows furrowed. "But it's not your turn. It's hers," she said, motioning towards Devika, who now sat frozen, her chest rising and falling in short breaths.
"She's scared," Kumudini replied, her voice soft, but the steel beneath it unmistakable.
"There's no room for fear in this place," Tara retorted, though even her voice carried a hint of hesitation.
Kumudini stepped forward and placed her hand lightly on Tara's shoulder, making her pause. Their eyes met-no words were needed. Tara studied Kumudini's face, saw the determination there, the unspoken plea. And without saying another word, she stepped aside.
Together, they walked out of the room, the silence between them heavy with understanding.
Ammaji sat in the center of the angan, draped in her signature deep blue saree, the heavy gold border glinting faintly in the first rays of sunlight that pierced through the dusty windows. Her silver hair was neatly tied in a bun, her eyes sharp and calculating as always. In her hand, a silver glass of chai trembled slightly-not from age, but from the power it held.
Around her, a few girls sat silently, heads lowered. The place smelled of sandalwood and old perfume, but beneath it all lingered the stench of blood, sweat, and secrets.
Kumudini stepped into the courtyard, her feet bare, her expression calm but firm. Her posture was straight-strong-but there was a quiet grace in the way she walked, a resilience only years of survival could teach.
Ammaji's eyes narrowed when she saw her. "You?" she asked, a note of irritation already threading through her tone. "Where is Devika?"
Kumudini folded her hands in front of her, head slightly bowed in respect, but her eyes didn't flinch away. "She isn't ready yet, Ammaji. I will take her place."
Ammaji's eyes turned cold. She took a slow sip of her chai before speaking, her voice low and biting. "You think this place works on your will, Kumudini? You think you can decide who goes and who stays?"
"No, Ammaji," Kumudini replied softly. "But I do know she is shaking like a leaf. Her soul will break before she can even walk. Let her be a girl a little longer. I can take it."
Ammaji studied her. The silence stretched long enough for the other girls to stop breathing.
"She's new," Ammaji said finally. "She must learn. The world outside will not be kind. If we don't teach her, who will?"
"She will learn," Kumudini replied. "But not like this. Not today. Let me go."
For a long moment, Ammaji didn't speak. The only sound was the distant clang of metal in the kitchen and the soft thud of anklets in another hallway.
Then Ammaji waved her hand dismissively. "Fine. But only today. Next time, I won't hear another word."
Kumudini bowed again. "Thank you, Ammaji."
She turned and walked away, her heart heavy but steady. Behind her, Ammaji took another sip of her chai, her eyes already shifting to the next girl sitting quietly beside her.
---
Kumudini stopped outside the room she was sent to. The door stood there like a gate to something she never chose. She took a deep breath, pressed her fingers into her palm until it hurt-her only reminder that she still had control over at least one part of herself-and pushed the door open.
The smell hit her first.
Alcohol. Cheap perfume. Sweat. Lust.
The air inside was thick, oppressive. The man sat on the bed, legs apart, his body slouched like a king waiting to be entertained. His kurta was open, revealing a belly that jiggled slightly as he moved. He wasn't like the man from last night. This one had dead eyes and a hungry mouth.
Kumudini closed the door behind her slowly, pressing it shut like it might protect her from what waited inside.
She didn't speak. There was no need to.
She lowered her eyes, reached behind her neck, and slowly pulled the ends of her dupatta over her head, letting it fall away. She stood there-just her choli and skirt now, bare shoulders catching the dim light.
The man let out a grunt.
"Come here," he ordered, his voice thick, slurred.
Kumudini took a single step forward, her expression unreadable. Her heart was a storm, but her face-her face was a mask of calm.
This wasn't about desire. This wasn't about choice. This was about survival.
And once again, Kumudini stepped into the fire, not because she wanted to-but because someone else couldn't.
Kumudini moved closer, each step feeling like it echoed across lifetimes. The floorboards creaked under her weight-not from her body, but from everything she carried inside. Memories. Scars. Silence.
The man patted the bed beside him. His eyes roamed, greedy and unashamed.
She sat, but with just enough distance between them to make him lean forward.
"You girls act like queens," he muttered, his breath reeking of liquor. "But in the end, you're all here for the same thing. Bought and paid for."
Kumudini didn't respond. She had learned long ago that silence was sometimes her sharpest weapon. Words were too sacred to be wasted here.
He reached out, brushing a hand over her arm. She didn't flinch. Not anymore.
But inside, she was screaming.
Her mind drifted-far away from that room. From that smell. From the weight of a stranger's touch. She found refuge in the memory of last night-the quiet voice that had called her a goddess, the hands that never forced, the eyes that actually saw her.
She closed her eyes.
Not in surrender.
But to escape.
To find peace in the only way she could.
And then, the man pushed her back gently, his hand cold against her skin. Her body moved as it was expected to, like a puppet. But her soul floated high above, untouched.
It wasn't her lying there.
It was what was left of her.
The ceiling above her spun slightly, blurred by the haze of shame and detachment. The man grunted, satisfied, oblivious to the silence that screamed from her every breath. When he was done, he simply turned away-like she was a used cloth, discarded after wiping a spill.
She quietly sat up, reaching for her dupatta. Her hands trembled slightly as she covered herself, not from modesty but from the instinct of reclaiming what little dignity she could gather in the aftermath. The scent of alcohol clung to her skin, a harsh reminder of where she had been, and what she had endured.
The man was already snoring.
She stood slowly, feet aching, soul heavier than ever, and walked out without a sound.
The corridor was empty.
No girls peeking out. No Tara waiting. No Devika hiding.
Just silence-and that was a blessing.
Kumudini walked straight to the small corner where an old metal tap dripped water into a cracked bucket. She knelt and splashed her face again and again, rubbing as if to scrub away something far deeper than dirt.
She didn't speak.
Didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
She just... breathed.
Each inhale a protest.
Each exhale, survival.
After a long moment, she sat back on her heels, water still clinging to her chin, and looked up at the faint stars barely visible through the grill of the barred window above.
Her voice didn't echo.
But it lingered.
Inside her.
Strong. Quiet. Unbroken.
She had been through so much in her life-days filled with pain, nights tainted with humiliation, and countless moments where she had forced herself to forget. She had learned the art of detachment, how to bury her emotions beneath layers of survival. It was supposed to be easy, this life she led. Her body, numb to the touch of others, had become a weapon in its own right-one she wielded to survive, to keep herself safe.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, there was him in her mind.
The stranger who hadn't touched her the way the others did. He hadn't claimed her in the brutal, dehumanizing way they always did. Instead, he had shown something she hadn't felt in years-concern. Care. A soft hand, an attempt at kindness that cracked through the walls she had built so carefully around her heart. And in doing so, he had shaken her to her very core.
She had been able to handle so much before. Five, sometimes more, men a day. She had learned to smile and keep her eyes empty. But today, she couldn't. Today, she felt broken, a piece of her slipping away, unraveling in the face of someone who saw her, truly saw her, and didn't look away.
Her mind kept replaying the way he had looked at her, his eyes full of something foreign to her-tenderness, maybe? Or pity? It didn't matter. She didn't want to feel. She couldn't afford to feel. But the warmth he had shown her lingered, unwanted and sharp.
The sound of soft anklets jingling broke her out of her reverie. Kumudini didn't look up; she couldn't. Her heart felt too heavy, her thoughts too scattered to focus on anything beyond the storm inside her.
Ramya's presence was a comfort, a steady, familiar presence that always knew how to bring her back from the brink. She knelt in front of Kumudini, her hands gentle as they touched her shoulders, urging her to stand. There was no judgment in Ramya's touch, only concern, but Kumudini couldn't meet her gaze. She let Ramya help her up, feeling the weight of her exhaustion in every step.
Ramya didn't ask any questions as she led Kumudini to their shared room. She didn't need to. She knew Kumudini too well. She could see the silent pain, the quiet turmoil in her eyes, the way her shoulders were slumped, defeated.
Once inside the room, Ramya guided Kumudini to the bed, where she sat her down gently. Ramya didn't waste any time, reaching for the small bottle of oil they kept for massages. Her hands moved with practiced ease, massaging Kumudini's tired legs, the gentle pressure helping to ease the tension in her muscles. It was a routine they had shared many times before, but tonight, it felt different. Kumudini's silence was louder than ever, and Ramya could feel the heaviness in the air.
After a few moments of working the oil into Kumudini's skin, Ramya stopped, her fingers stilling as she looked up at her friend. Her voice, soft and tender, broke the silence.
"What happened, Kumudini?" she asked, her concern evident in her tone.
Kumudini didn't answer immediately. She just stared ahead, her gaze distant, lost in thoughts she wasn't ready to share. Her chest tightened, and she swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. It wasn't the first time Ramya had asked her about her pain, but tonight, Kumudini felt vulnerable in a way she hadn't in years.
Her heart felt raw, too exposed, and she didn't know how to put into words the whirlwind of emotions she was trying to suppress. She didn't want to speak, didn't want to admit that she was broken, that the man who had shown her kindness had somehow shattered the walls she had built to protect herself.
Ramya's hands were warm on her legs, comforting in their steadiness, and Kumudini closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry. But the emotions were bubbling inside her, threatening to spill over, and she knew that if she spoke now, it would all come tumbling out.
Still, she didn't answer. She couldn't. Instead, she just sat there, feeling the weight of Ramya's touch, her silence echoing louder than any words could.
Ramya, ever patient, didn't press. She simply continued to massage Kumudini's legs, letting the quiet comfort of their shared routine speak for itself. There were no demands, no expectations. Just the steady rhythm of Ramya's hands and the unspoken understanding between them.
For now, Kumudini didn't have to say anything. She could just be, and Ramya would be there, as always, holding space for her brokenness, knowing that one day, when Kumudini was ready, she would speak.
And for now, that was enough.