She sat on a bed covered with faded linen with huge blues roses printed on it. Uncertain of himself, he sat on a chair. The walls had the look of used white ceramic plates. A popular film tune played almost inaudibly, monotonously.
“But, I don”t know whether I have a story. My life just follows the basic rules of demand and supply.”
“You don”t understand. Each one of us has a story of life.”
“Don”t be silly. How can my life have a story? I live the same life everyday. Stories begin and end. But my life had a beginning and I can”t think that it will ever end. End means starvation, don”t you see that?”
The glass bangles clinked as she smoothed her kameez.
“What do you mean?”
“You are here because you gave me money. There will be many more after you, provided they also pay to get in here. It was the same yesterday. Hope, it will be the same tomorrow.”
“How many did you have yesterday?”
Laughter waved through the room and bounced back from the walls.
“Now, aren”t you being naughty? Dushtu chele.”
“Yes, your charges are quite high.”
“Isn”t it our duty to try to be at the top? But then you aren”t a first-timer either. You shopped around.”
“Not really! I just wanted to meet the most highly priced one. The one at the top.”
Brows knitted.
“Why?”
“It”s simple. I want to know the story of one who is in hot pursuit. That might help me to crack the mystery of your life.”
“But, there is no mystery here. It”s just the law of demand and supply.”
“How so?”
“Are you sure it”s only talk that you want? You can be here only for an hour and part of your time is gone. You aren”t frigid, are you?”
A giggle sounded.
“What is a frigid?”
“You don”t know that. Silly young man! Lots of people visit us to test their abilities. They want to be sure of their powers before they launch themselves into the trials of manhood. Human beings are strange and the fear that grips some of them is even stranger. Are you planning to get married?”
“No, not yet. I have come to know the story of your life.”
“But I have told you that I don”t have a story.”
The cawing of a crow invaded the room, disturbing its pale balance.
“What did you say about drinking? I don”t keep drinks. That often causes extra problem. If you want some, you have to go to a different place. I don”t allow smoking in my room either.”
“What an unimaginative girl you are! Let”s switch on to something else.”
“Have you checked how much time you have left?”
“Why do you keep reminding me of the time?”
“There will be no extension of the time. Even if you beg for it, there will be no concession. I don”t like you and even if you increase your money I”ll not let you stay in my room. I wish I could throw you out my room right now.”
“Why? What have I done?”
“You talk too much.”
“In that case, why don”t you give me what I am asking for? I will leave as soon as I have your story.”
“Haven”t I already told you that I don”t have any story of my life? It”s just eating, drinking and living.”
“You are a clever woman.”
“I have to survive.”
“But shouldn”t I get my money”s worth?”
An arch look.
“Well, you have a strange understanding of the value of money.”
“That”s my business. Why don”t you give me what I want?”
“But I”m not a story teller and no one comes here to listen to stories. We have our share of the miseries of life like the threat of eviction, attack of incurable disease, beating by customers or severe handling by our keepers. But they do not make stories; they are the facts of life here.”
“You keep dodging the question. Let me be straight. How did you get into your business?”
“I wish I remembered that. You don”t think I keep a record of all the events of my life. I just live from day to day. The future has meaning for me as I would like to live tomorrow, day after tomorrow, even after that. But the past? That”s dead and buried, for sure.”
A sigh breathed out of her light lips.
“Where were you born?”
Looked at the faded walls and then out through the curtained window.
“I want to know where you were born exactly.”
“I am no country girl. Once, after eviction from one of my dens I hid in a village. I hated every second of it. No electricity, no running water.”
“So you are a city girl?”
“Call me what you want. You must know that we are city born, city bred.”
“What city?”
“Names do not matter for cities. They are all the same. What I remember is we were always moving from house to house. We lived like permanent flotsam surrounded by flotsam. What”s there to remember about it?”
“Which city?”
“I remember one thing, though; the flotsam that we lived in was either beside huge drains or stood on waters that kept depositing city waste. Even weeds didn”t grow in that water thick with excreta of the city. But that”s not what I remember most.”
“What is it that you remember most?”
“Hunger?”
“Hunger!”
“I remember hunger from my childhood.”
“Hunger!”
“Yes, hunger. Hunger for chocolate, hunger for food, hunger for a toy, hunger for a new dress, hunger for what not. My mother used to shout saying that I was born with a furnace in my stomach. Whatever went in there would burn out instantly. Satisfaction of one hunger drove me to quench a quickly succeeding one. I often chuckle remembering that ever-flaming hunger. Were you ever hungry as a child?”
“Well, children have their share of unusual hunger, but I don”t remember anything special about it.”
“I think my hunger was a special one.”
“Now you are talking like a story teller.”
“Yes, I love to talk about hunger and its fulfillment. But it”s not a story. The hunger I am talking of has always lived with me. It”s all that I remember about my childhood.”
“Go on. You may eventually get to the story.”
“You see the hunger would not let me stay quietly at home. Even as a toddler I would follow the badamwala or the chanachur-man or whoever would be around. Not that I had money always to buy nuts or ice cream from them. Where would I get money? It was easy to get love from my parents, but money was the hardest stuff to slip through their hands. Once in a while they would throw a coin or a taka at me, but such windfalls didn”t happen everyday. I did buy whatever I could, but otherwise I had to depend on my luck. Sometimes out of swagger or pure pity the badamwala or the ice cream man would throw a nut or a chunk of ice cream at me. But my hunger would not be quenched; so I followed them like a hungry dog.”
“Like a dog?”
“Why, haven”t you ever seen a hungry dog sniffing garbage or running after people for food?”
“Yes, a pitiful sight.”
“As I grew up, it became even harder to get the extra bite of chanachur or ice cream or achar. One might pity a child, but one won”t be generous to grown ups. One day, it was very hot and my insides were burning. I had nothing to drink since morning. The roadside tap had dried up. Then I saw the ice cream man. Now and then he would place chunks of ice cream in my palms. I don”t know whether he did it because it gave him a chance to touch me. I knew it was the time when he went by our shack on his third round. My eyes brightened, thinking he would scoop something out of his ice- box for me. The ice cream man looked at me intently. He came close and told me to follow him. He took me beside a tree around a point where the lane turned sharply. He asked me whether I was thirsty. With a finger inside my mouth, I said that my lips were burning dry. He touched them with his fingers and said that he could moisten them. When I asked him how, he suddenly lowered his face and kissed me hard. A kind of shiver ran down my body. I asked him why he did that but he said nothing. He looked around and was pleased to see that no one had seen us. With a full smile on his face, he gave me a whole ice cream with nuts on it.”
“Your first kiss in life was in exchange for an ice cream!”
“Don”t be funny. I was too young to understand this kissing fissing.”
“But suddenly my world began to broaden. There was a busy junction not far from where we lived. In the evenings, it looked like a fairyland. On one side of the street a television with a huge screen had been mounted, which kept on showing pictures of models looking like fairy princesses. We devoured the pictures hungrily as rickshaws, buses, cars passed through the junction, as people moved in or out of the city. But what we really waited for were for traffic lights to blink red, when the stream of vehicles halted in the junction and we began our operation.”
“Operation?”
“Yes, our begging sorties. We would usually move mainly from car to car to beg.”
“Go ahead.”
“As we ran from car to car, we varied our techniques. After all we had to soften the hearts of people to milk them. It required talent. There were a few known techniques, such as carrying infants to evoke pity of the passengers. Every evening a few of us showed up there. Getting something from begging was our way of harvesting. It was fun. A spirit of competition worked in us. As soon as the lights went green and the traffic began moving, we would rush back to the pavements and check what we made. Some made a little, while others made almost nothing. The streets liberated me. Once evening came I had to get back there.”
“The street liberated you?”
“Yes, I knew that there was no going back. But in the meantime I had made another discovery. I told you about the ice cream man.”
“Yes, you did.”
“After the first kiss there were many more and our mutual demands matched. He wanted to kiss me and I wanted ice creams.”
“A simple math.”
“Call it whatever you want, but very soon I discovered that there were many more things I could give and charge more for it. I realized that I was put advantageously on the supply side.”
“You began your present trade.”
“Don”t be a simpleton. I told you about the love for the street. One day, I had a serious fight with my mother. I had been fortunate on a particular evening. A woman riding a car had been very generous. Every evening I had to give an account of how much I made by begging in the street. I would hide bits of what I made to satisfy my hunger for this and that. But this time I needed more money than just to satisfy this or that. There was a dress that had caught my fancy and I wanted to buy it. I knew that I couldn”t have that money at one go so I began saving, hiding money in a little tin can. But my mother found out my treasure and not only took whatever I had saved, but thrashed me for hiding things from her. In the meantime, the ice cream man had become more demanding.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don”t act stupid. You should understand. When he saw that I wasn”t going to yield so easily, he proposed to marry me. He told me what a gorgeous life he could give me. He kept on pouring sweet dreams into my ears and I accepted his proposal after the beating.”
“You began a sweet life.”
“Yes, what a sweet life! After two miscarriages and regular beating for hundreds of inabilities I embraced the freedom of the street. Maybe, there”s nothing here, but I have my freedom and I know there is demand for me.”
“So you got on the supply side?”
“Mister, your time is up. However, you may come again. I liked chatting with you. But the trip will not be gratis. If you need a fresh supply you should be ready. You know in the big world it”s all supply and demand.”
By Quazi Mostain Billah is professor of English at Chittagong University.