carpet resembled Scotchguard; the visitors to this house, it seemed, certainly weren’t desirous of leaving any prints behind. The crimson curtains drawn, as if to cut out any daylight from the windows, contrasted with glossy ivory walls. Despite the room being lit with numerous lights, it was designed to be dim. Sparsely furnished with a large tan leather sofa, a few chairs, a coffee — or alcohol — table that had a few opened bottles and glasses scattered around. There were four people in the hall: three men and a woman, all of them blowing smoke from lit cigarettes in their hands. The two ashtrays on the coffee table were overflowing with stubs, which explained the stench of stale tobacco.
'Is this where we'll stay?' asked Deborah, who was standing behind the other two, her tone revealing her displeasure.
'You expected to go to the Taj?' Patel retorted sarcastically.
'Welcome, m’dear girls.' The lady in the room got up from the sofa. She must have been in her early forties. A large woman, she wore a black sleeveless gown-like dress that ended slightly above her ankles, patent leather open-toe high-heeled shoes and enough make- up to challenge a panther chameleon. She came closer and hugged the three girls, one by one, in her huge arms. ‘'Tis so nice to see ya.’
Margaret smiled back. She could sense that the environment daunted her two friends, thus it was important she stayed calm.
‘How was the journey?’
‘Good. We are very tired Miss—’ ‘I am Hina.’
'I’m Margaret. And this is Deborah, and Viviane,' she introduced the other two. 'How pretty!'
'As I mentioned, we are really exhausted, so if you could show us our room, we could chat in the morning.'
The six pairs of eyes, in the room, scoured the girls from top to bottom, taking their time to lecherously pause at their breasts, their bodies. They looked at each other; their eyes exchanged some unspoken conversation amongst them before an infectious grin travelled from one to another.
The girls couldn't comprehend why.
'Take them to the room and ask them to get ready for the evening,’ barked the biggest man in the room and took a large sip from his glass. Pathak, dressed in jeans and black T- shirt, seemed to be the top gun of this shebang. Mr lamb-chop sideburns wore a sleeveless T, his elephant-trunk sized bare arms tattooed from wrists till shoulders. He appeared to be drunk, already, and in a surly mood. Before the girls could grasp anything, he turned to them and roared again. ‘Passports?’ he stretched his hand.
Vishnu Pathak — not his real name surely, but it was so long ago that he had himself forgotten what he was originally christened as — was in his mid-forties. Exactly 45 the weekend just gone by. He had been in the business of luring young girls from all over India - it didn't really matter where they came from, and some had come from Nepal too — into prostitution, pushed into the oldest profession by circumstances or trickery or both. His resume, in the last two decades, could claim over two hundred girls — some even under-aged - bought from panderers and peddled into his club to be exploited. Sex was his business. If a few self-righteous people found him a heretic, it was their problem; lots, who mattered and who paid, loved him. There was a need for hookers, and if he didn't do it, someone else would peddle ass to the recession-proof market of tricks who sought these pleasures. He had one of the most elite clientele in Bombay — rich men, old men, young men, even some B or C grade celebrities who could afford a ten grand a night or a couple of grand for a “shot” as they called it. And his biggest talent was discretion. These three fresh girls — young half-wits — would be worth lots more. Young flock always had many takers, nubile ones got even more cash. But what transcended that was their skin colour. Pale colour outsold everything. And, these were not just any other Indian fair-skinned girls, they were
'Is this where we'll stay?' asked Deborah, who was standing behind the other two, her tone revealing her displeasure.
'You expected to go to the Taj?' Patel retorted sarcastically.
'Welcome, m’dear girls.' The lady in the room got up from the sofa. She must have been in her early forties. A large woman, she wore a black sleeveless gown-like dress that ended slightly above her ankles, patent leather open-toe high-heeled shoes and enough make- up to challenge a panther chameleon. She came closer and hugged the three girls, one by one, in her huge arms. ‘'Tis so nice to see ya.’
Margaret smiled back. She could sense that the environment daunted her two friends, thus it was important she stayed calm.
‘How was the journey?’
‘Good. We are very tired Miss—’ ‘I am Hina.’
'I’m Margaret. And this is Deborah, and Viviane,' she introduced the other two. 'How pretty!'
'As I mentioned, we are really exhausted, so if you could show us our room, we could chat in the morning.'
The six pairs of eyes, in the room, scoured the girls from top to bottom, taking their time to lecherously pause at their breasts, their bodies. They looked at each other; their eyes exchanged some unspoken conversation amongst them before an infectious grin travelled from one to another.
The girls couldn't comprehend why.
'Take them to the room and ask them to get ready for the evening,’ barked the biggest man in the room and took a large sip from his glass. Pathak, dressed in jeans and black T- shirt, seemed to be the top gun of this shebang. Mr lamb-chop sideburns wore a sleeveless T, his elephant-trunk sized bare arms tattooed from wrists till shoulders. He appeared to be drunk, already, and in a surly mood. Before the girls could grasp anything, he turned to them and roared again. ‘Passports?’ he stretched his hand.
Vishnu Pathak — not his real name surely, but it was so long ago that he had himself forgotten what he was originally christened as — was in his mid-forties. Exactly 45 the weekend just gone by. He had been in the business of luring young girls from all over India - it didn't really matter where they came from, and some had come from Nepal too — into prostitution, pushed into the oldest profession by circumstances or trickery or both. His resume, in the last two decades, could claim over two hundred girls — some even under-aged - bought from panderers and peddled into his club to be exploited. Sex was his business. If a few self-righteous people found him a heretic, it was their problem; lots, who mattered and who paid, loved him. There was a need for hookers, and if he didn't do it, someone else would peddle ass to the recession-proof market of tricks who sought these pleasures. He had one of the most elite clientele in Bombay — rich men, old men, young men, even some B or C grade celebrities who could afford a ten grand a night or a couple of grand for a “shot” as they called it. And his biggest talent was discretion. These three fresh girls — young half-wits — would be worth lots more. Young flock always had many takers, nubile ones got even more cash. But what transcended that was their skin colour. Pale colour outsold everything. And, these were not just any other Indian fair-skinned girls, they were
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