Flexing my head towards right and left, I tried to stay away from his gestures. It was quarter to twelve when I sneaked a look into my half-broken watch at random.

“Will you come with me?” he asked.

This question may materialize well to any girl on this planet if asked with the right amount of love and fondness. But not to a woman who sacrifices her body for the sake of money. Not to a woman who is standing desolate at midnight waiting for the man she was allotted the night with. Definitely not to a sex worker who has been already reserved for that night.

Yes, I am Amala, a 35-year-old prostitute living amidst many sanctified people in this universe. Not that I am happy to call myself a prostitute, though that’s the kind of reverence society throws at me.

Some men incline to be generous enough to at least pick us up from common points. Irony is in the fact that both of them, the man I was waiting for and the man who was harassing me, are casual strangers and I had to avoid one and have sex with the other.

“Would you mind if I hit you with my slipper,” I retaliated back in rage.

“Don’t act as if all this is new to you.”

I didn’t want to get into any sort of argument with fussy bastards. It was a night that mattered to me, to my years of battle among many men who smelt really dreadful at heart. The pain that I had to morally face that night could transform my life immensely. I could have slept with anyone that night.

Chennai, though unthreatened unlike other cities always had its hatred towards women like me at midnight. I sometimes doubt if I would come under the category of womanhood. We are just price-tagged pleasurable objects.

“Leave me alone,” I pleaded. Moving towards the shops, I gazed at the pillar that majestically poised at the center of the four-way road. Ashok Pillar mostly crowded, had very minimal movement at that time.

The bike moved towards me. He used a helmet which averted me from seeing his face. No matter who she is, be it a married woman, be it a school going girl, and be it a new born girl child, certain men always strive to exert their might on women sexually. Victims, though a general term, is now habitually used to represent women who are raped. Surprising is the fact that they don’t find an excuse for prostitutes too.

He ran his fingers on my skin. I pushed him. Most probably these kinds of morons exist because they assume that we have no right to protest and would succumb to their acts of sexual exploitation.

Like a condom, if something was devised to block such untoward sexual thoughts in the mind itself, women could have handled the society more comfortably. However, like condoms, absurd men wouldn’t have wearing that too.

“Leave the hell out of this place.”

“Do you think you have the ability to getaway?” he said stubbornly.

A black Honda Civic was approaching at a distance and I knew that the man, who had officially paid for the night, was finally there.

“You deserve much more than this,” I said as I kicked his groin and thrashed his face with one of my slippers. Before he could counter attack, I started running towards the car. I knew that I had hurt him badly.

 I had to move very fast towards the car. As a courtesy, the man in the car could have at least opened his windows to affirm his presence. “He is not my husband,” I thought

I was pleased that he was here finally.  As I opened the door, a proficient and energetic man who could be in mid forties was sitting taut. From his attitude I could guess that he was drunk. I sat inside without any further interrogations.

“Where are we going?”

“Why should it bother, keep shut,” he replied harshly.

“What time you will leave me in the morning?” I had to know this for sure. The next morning was very important to me.

“I already paid the amount to Mani. So stop asking questions.”

I had agreed upon a deal with Mani, my agent. He offered me two lakhs on a condition that I had to sleep with any man he booked me with, without any resentment hereafter. I would get no percent of the share in hand. I had no other choice but to yield to his deal.

“I can see that your wife is so beautiful,” I said to him as the car sharply turned. The lights of the board which said Mount Paradise welcomed us. It was a star hotel.

As I kept staring at the portrait in his car, he was busy finding a spot in the parking lot. His family was so lovely. I felt apologetic for them. Unless men mend their attitude, women like me would always become victims to prostitution.

“Would you get down?” he raged at me. It was no shock that he was cruel at me. He was not going to make love. He was going to have sex. Keeping that in mind, I remained shut.

His cell phone gave a gentle ring. Someone by name Aradhana called him. He cut the call abruptly. I guessed it to be his wife.

“What was she doing at this time?”I thought.

Though many of the people weren't really bothered, some gave us a devious stare.

“Room No 224,” he said to the receptionist and she handed him the key. Everything was happening so swiftly. It seemed like he was a regular visitor to that place.

As we entered the room in silence, he went inside the washroom instantly. A flower vase caught my attention and I was submerged seeing its exquisiteness and its coherent beauty. The flowers were very fresh and they made the room refreshing.

A waiter came in with two bottles of wine. So far the all the men that I have slept with, counted on me to pour wine for them. He was no different.

“You’re Amala right?” he asked as he scrubbed his face with a towel.

“Do you have a problem with that?” I answered.

Gulping down the glass of wine, he laughed wildly.

“Uhh? We are not here for a discussion. I am not your wife either,” I said again.

He began to show his command over me. “Amala symbolizes purity. How conflicting life is,” he said.

As the alcohol was slowly numbing his senses, he started to instigate an egoistic talk.

“All men are impotent,” I said in a whispering voice. He has chosen to sleep with a prostitute and he was talking about purity.

“You would get to see that today.”

“Potent is when men could get their minds erect and not...” I stopped halfway through the sentence.

When you deliberately touch upon a man’s ego, even though he would be on the wrong side, he would start behaving unconventionally.

He started using me. I had no right to stop him. Things proceeded. 

Prostitutes are not marriage material. So men’s craziest ideologies could be implemented with such women. And the worst part is you have no right to open your mouth to show your pain.

A sudden loud sound interrupted his acts. He face was becoming red. The phone was ringing inside my shoulder bag. He didn’t allow me to attend the call for the first time. He held on to me tightly.

As the calls kept lining up, he started to withdraw his force and began to focus on the alcohol that remained in the bottle. He was high.

I seized my cell phone from the handbag. The call was from an anonymous number.

“Hello. Who is this?” I asked.

As the person from the other side continued talking, I could not hold back my tears. I didn't know who it was, but a person who was good at heart definitely.

As I was half naked, I had to dress up. He didn't observe me even while I was doing so. He was busy consuming alcohol.

“I must go now,” I said with tears in my eyes.

He pushed me hard and forced himself on me. I was regretting the fact I had accepted that night’s offer. But I did not work in an office; I slept with men who completely lost their senses. So I had no option to choose what I had to do.

“Stop please. I need to go,” I said this and touched his foot in utter pain. I couldn't even bend properly. He smacked me on to the floor.

He took my handbag and began to see who called me. That was the instant I decided that I should hit back. The two lakh that Mani obliged was in my bag.

I was in no position to clarify to him and he was in no mood to hear any explanation. He took the money and started blackmailing me.

I whipped his face with the flower vase that I was admiring some time back. All beautiful things in this world cannot remain beautiful. I was not an exception too.

He fell down on the floor.

It has been an awful day for me. For a woman who has her daughter hospitalized for having a hole in her heart and her mother choosing to have sex the night she is going to be operated is really contradictory. Though she was stable yesterday I shouldn't have left her unaided. I could hold responsible only one person for my situation, because he has never been kind enough. Heartless men are excused in this world. And people who are really weak are being punished. I didn’t mean to hurt you. She has lost her consciousness and has to be operated right away. The caller, who has been kind enough to find my number to inform, said the doctors would do the operation only if I sign the document and pay the advance. After all everyone is behind money. Some operate and some sleep with random men.

Weeping in pain, I finished writing this note as quickly as possible. I had no alternative that night. He was unconscious. I left the place hoping that note would calm him the next morning.

It was two in the morning. No girl would fancy walking alone at this hour, but I had to. I was concerned about my daughter. When you’re in prostitution, sacrificing your body seems simple, but you are liable to lose close relationships and that seems so complicated. I left her alone for the morals I had towards my profession. I thought everything was going to be fine. Cursed, it wasn't.

I started to sprint all of a sudden. There were very little few cars on the streets. But not even one bothered to stop. I was too low on energy and sweating profusely. All that kept me moving was the face of my daughter flashing in my mind’s eye.

There was a sudden flicker of light that was following me. A bike overtook me and obstructed my way.

“Hit me now,” he said in anger. The guy who abused me in the bus stand managed to block my way. Why was this happening to me? I shouldn't have kicked him.

“How many men have I got to face in a single night?” I bent down on my knees and pleaded to him to leave me.

“You lowlife.”

He kicked me like a football. I had no pain though; all that was worrying me was that I had to reach the hospital soon.  

“Don’t dare touch that,” I said as he was trying to reach out for my shoulder bag.

“You are a whore and have so much gut to hit a man’s groin?”

He picked my handbag and zipped it to open. I tried to resist. Be it a fight or sex, women always are underrated and men try to get over them. I lost all my vigour when he knocked me hard with a wooden stick. Though still conscious, I had no strength to fight back.

“Don’t kill my child,” I said in frustration.

He wasn't ready to hear my words. He snatched the money from the handbag. If a man feels humiliated by a woman, he would go to any extent to hurt back. Adding fuel to this was the fact that he considered me a slut and couldn't take what I had done to him.

He vanished into the dark with the money that I had for operating my child. She is already half dead. Aggravating to it, life was turning out to be gloomy and dark. Darker than it was that night.

When I regained some amount of energy, I managed to get up and rushed to the hospital an hour later.

My eyes were exhausted. It was glaring and found it difficult to figure out things. The blow of the wooden stick still injected pain into my being. I moved towards the ward she was admitted to. Visitors were waiting with much hope outside the wards.

“Where is my daughter?” I asked to one of the nurses there.

“I do not know,” she replied half asleep.

“How could you be so clueless?”

“A girl was taken in the stretcher an hour back,” another nurse said as I was crying in frustration.

I began to search for my daughter.

“Your name is Amala right?” again the same question. However, this voice was laced with tenderness.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I am the one who called you sometime back.”

“Where is my child? Is she alright?”

“She is being treated in the operation theatre. Don’t worry. Everything would be fine.”

Though I was relieved I couldn't judge what was happening. I was firmly told that only after I compensate the entire amount, they would do the operation.

“Am I living a dream?”

I looked through the door of the operation theatre. The doctors were busy.

“Finally I get to see some hope,” I said again.

“Where were you all this time?” the kind gentle man asked.

 Silence was the only thing I could offer him back.

One of the doctors came out of the OT. Her face was very familiar.

The coat she was wearing had her name impinged. Only when she came too near, I could read the words.

“Dr. Aradhana,” I read. I came across this name a few hours back.

I started sobbing.

She was so charming. Her face beamed positivity just like her smile in the photograph in the car. I had hit her husband with a vase a few hours back. He behaved so badly with me and she on the contrary had been my saviour. I couldn’t control my tears. There is a force above that works so strangely, I thought.

“Life has been so dark to me,” I cried as I held her hands.

“Your daughter is perfectly alright,” she said.

I didn’t think about how I was going to going to pay the hospital. All that mattered to me was my daughter's life. When you’re a mother, there is so much of fulfilment and happiness that makes you pure at heart, whatever occupation you choose.

There is always little light beyond darkness. For the first time in my life, I had tears of happiness.