When a thing is used, it doesn’t make a difference as to how you use it.
You buy and use.
Consumer Protection Act differentiates the use.
You are not a consumer if the goods you buy are not for your own consumption.
So, if you are a Vendor selling grapes, you must not complain of your own grapes if they are sour.
This was a commercial transaction.
Law, has no other option but to legalize and devise such definitions.
I had never realized that ‘sex’ was a commercial transaction too.
Where your own body, doesn’t belong to you, but, to those who pay you for its use.
It is not that I have come from Mars and I don’t know what prostitution is.
I have seen in movies and read in newspapers and magazines; even got involved in girly gossip team about conjecturing a particular ill famous girl as a whore, and staring at a skimpily dressed non attractive girl on the road at night, but had never seen a ‘confessing and admitting wench’.
As they say, knowing is knowing, and doing is doing. I did.
The Pill House experience was not as light as had expected it to be.
The lady on All India radio at 100.7 MHz updated, that after the fresh downpour, the air carried 100% humidity.
Later, I realized that certain things, which the air carried along, she was not informed of.
The air carried the filthy demand for lust, the cruddy business of petty money and the foul smell of flesh, and yes, the economics of impuissance.
Not just the women displaying what the eyes of the hungry men wanted, the brokers of the ‘commodities in demand’ were on patrol to give you the best material at the best negotiated price.
The moment a taxi slowed, a swarm of the agents would gather to ask your taste and budget.
My curious eyes turned woeful to see the inexpensive gestures of ‘fuck me for money’.
The road was the market, the hovels were the showrooms, and the commodities available for ‘rent’ displayed on either side of the road, for innumerable gazing customers.
Ladies below thirty, were dressed in tight fitted figure hugging western, single piece, off shoulder attire with plunging cleavage, with a hell of non-professional make up- darkened eyes, glossy lips and untied hair.
The forty plus class was exceptionally non presentable with shabbily powder dabbed faces, black maroon lips, bloated tummies, artificially mended arch brows. Draped in saris with its palloo not on the bosom, but held in the hand, just like the highly paid sophisticated women on Fashion Channels, exhibiting branded creations, they stood in with an unmatchable confidence on the face.
I caught one thing in common. Amongst all those women. It was, the faces. The expression that every face carried was absolutely ‘expressionless’ but highly ‘professional’.
They comfortably and convincingly knew what they were selling. To be in, you must be out.
You can not afford to take a break in the peak business time.
As a customer, you have a choice.
You ask for it, they have it.
You can go for modern or traditionally clad woman, you can hire black or white as per your skin taste, you can buy either north or south Indian; you can take either a young or an old one, you can enjoy a married virgin or a non-virgin spinster.
You can order as per your budget and requirement. Confidentiality is non questionable.
Need reference and quality check? Ask the old customers, I mean, the existing ‘consumers’.
My friend asked the Cab driver, “To Bhaiya, ye sab to paanch sau rupaye mein milti hongi?”
To which, he replied, “Array ye hazaar rupaye se kam wali nahi hai..”
For a moment, I took a pause from the scene and asked myself, when the rate of inflation in India is 13.91 percent for last month, the integrity of the woman was still available at a cheap rate of a thousand bucks.
While the taxi moved towards Congress House that was once a political congregation hall, the degrees of obscenity became coarsely sophisticated. The mall culture, you know.
There, only the brokers are out. Ranging between 35-65 years of age dressed like 9-5 government servants, they sell sisters, wives, daughters and mothers.
As the streets were going narrower, the business was getting serious and severe.
This is Mumbai, where you can order Dhokla, Dosa, Dal Makhani and Dolma in one restaurant.
Rent a cab, or rent a lady, it is all, available, at your disposal.
And, you have the option to select the model that you want to drive.
There is no difference in a cab and a woman. Isn’t it?
Fuel it in and drive as much as you want.
Use it day and night, get bored and then dispose off.
Enjoy till you want, and then sell off.
Thrash it and throw compensation.
Broke? No problem. Buy a second hand model at throw away price, and feed your hunger.
My mind didn’t take a u-turn with the taxi.
At the end of the road to ‘heaven’, the taxi stood at the red signal.
There are red signals in the red light areas too!!!
From a distance, I saw a college girl, in purple top and black jeans, as if carrying her coaching classes’ books. Seeing the head light of taxi, instead of giving a way, to my surprise, she turned towards it. With her forefingers she sensuously moved the flicks of her hair falling on her face to see the face of the passenger.
Her probing eyes became apathetic to see a non eligible customer (me, a girl) in the taxi, and she moved on the other side of the road.
What a cheap glimpse it was!!
I just felt the clinch in my heart. How unsafe it was, walking on those roads, where you were not a girl, not a passenger, not a student, not a lady shopping groceries, but a prostitute.
A chill passed by my spine and in seconds, I felt my soul was stripped off my body.
A couple of moments in the taxi in that area had ripped off my belief in the … and there were those girls, with dead heart, professional female organs, with saleable bodies that dwelled so confidently on those graveyards of crushed morality.
The taxi driver stopped the cab at Saifee Hospital at Churney Road Station on the eastern side.
The meter of the taxi said I had to pay thirty eight rupees for the flimsy experience, for which I was so curious about.
I just calculated… what a difference.
The west side of the station is soaked in the salinity of sea and the eastern part was mysteriously overflowing with the bitter uncovered truth of life….
You buy and use.
Consumer Protection Act differentiates the use.
You are not a consumer if the goods you buy are not for your own consumption.
So, if you are a Vendor selling grapes, you must not complain of your own grapes if they are sour.
This was a commercial transaction.
Law, has no other option but to legalize and devise such definitions.
I had never realized that ‘sex’ was a commercial transaction too.
Where your own body, doesn’t belong to you, but, to those who pay you for its use.
It is not that I have come from Mars and I don’t know what prostitution is.
I have seen in movies and read in newspapers and magazines; even got involved in girly gossip team about conjecturing a particular ill famous girl as a whore, and staring at a skimpily dressed non attractive girl on the road at night, but had never seen a ‘confessing and admitting wench’.
As they say, knowing is knowing, and doing is doing. I did.
The Pill House experience was not as light as had expected it to be.
The lady on All India radio at 100.7 MHz updated, that after the fresh downpour, the air carried 100% humidity.
Later, I realized that certain things, which the air carried along, she was not informed of.
The air carried the filthy demand for lust, the cruddy business of petty money and the foul smell of flesh, and yes, the economics of impuissance.
Not just the women displaying what the eyes of the hungry men wanted, the brokers of the ‘commodities in demand’ were on patrol to give you the best material at the best negotiated price.
The moment a taxi slowed, a swarm of the agents would gather to ask your taste and budget.
My curious eyes turned woeful to see the inexpensive gestures of ‘fuck me for money’.
The road was the market, the hovels were the showrooms, and the commodities available for ‘rent’ displayed on either side of the road, for innumerable gazing customers.
Ladies below thirty, were dressed in tight fitted figure hugging western, single piece, off shoulder attire with plunging cleavage, with a hell of non-professional make up- darkened eyes, glossy lips and untied hair.
The forty plus class was exceptionally non presentable with shabbily powder dabbed faces, black maroon lips, bloated tummies, artificially mended arch brows. Draped in saris with its palloo not on the bosom, but held in the hand, just like the highly paid sophisticated women on Fashion Channels, exhibiting branded creations, they stood in with an unmatchable confidence on the face.
I caught one thing in common. Amongst all those women. It was, the faces. The expression that every face carried was absolutely ‘expressionless’ but highly ‘professional’.
They comfortably and convincingly knew what they were selling. To be in, you must be out.
You can not afford to take a break in the peak business time.
As a customer, you have a choice.
You ask for it, they have it.
You can go for modern or traditionally clad woman, you can hire black or white as per your skin taste, you can buy either north or south Indian; you can take either a young or an old one, you can enjoy a married virgin or a non-virgin spinster.
You can order as per your budget and requirement. Confidentiality is non questionable.
Need reference and quality check? Ask the old customers, I mean, the existing ‘consumers’.
My friend asked the Cab driver, “To Bhaiya, ye sab to paanch sau rupaye mein milti hongi?”
To which, he replied, “Array ye hazaar rupaye se kam wali nahi hai..”
For a moment, I took a pause from the scene and asked myself, when the rate of inflation in India is 13.91 percent for last month, the integrity of the woman was still available at a cheap rate of a thousand bucks.
While the taxi moved towards Congress House that was once a political congregation hall, the degrees of obscenity became coarsely sophisticated. The mall culture, you know.
There, only the brokers are out. Ranging between 35-65 years of age dressed like 9-5 government servants, they sell sisters, wives, daughters and mothers.
As the streets were going narrower, the business was getting serious and severe.
This is Mumbai, where you can order Dhokla, Dosa, Dal Makhani and Dolma in one restaurant.
Rent a cab, or rent a lady, it is all, available, at your disposal.
And, you have the option to select the model that you want to drive.
There is no difference in a cab and a woman. Isn’t it?
Fuel it in and drive as much as you want.
Use it day and night, get bored and then dispose off.
Enjoy till you want, and then sell off.
Thrash it and throw compensation.
Broke? No problem. Buy a second hand model at throw away price, and feed your hunger.
My mind didn’t take a u-turn with the taxi.
At the end of the road to ‘heaven’, the taxi stood at the red signal.
There are red signals in the red light areas too!!!
From a distance, I saw a college girl, in purple top and black jeans, as if carrying her coaching classes’ books. Seeing the head light of taxi, instead of giving a way, to my surprise, she turned towards it. With her forefingers she sensuously moved the flicks of her hair falling on her face to see the face of the passenger.
Her probing eyes became apathetic to see a non eligible customer (me, a girl) in the taxi, and she moved on the other side of the road.
What a cheap glimpse it was!!
I just felt the clinch in my heart. How unsafe it was, walking on those roads, where you were not a girl, not a passenger, not a student, not a lady shopping groceries, but a prostitute.
A chill passed by my spine and in seconds, I felt my soul was stripped off my body.
A couple of moments in the taxi in that area had ripped off my belief in the … and there were those girls, with dead heart, professional female organs, with saleable bodies that dwelled so confidently on those graveyards of crushed morality.
The taxi driver stopped the cab at Saifee Hospital at Churney Road Station on the eastern side.
The meter of the taxi said I had to pay thirty eight rupees for the flimsy experience, for which I was so curious about.
I just calculated… what a difference.
The west side of the station is soaked in the salinity of sea and the eastern part was mysteriously overflowing with the bitter uncovered truth of life….
