Lilavati's life laid in ruins like the crushed clay pot in the corner of her dingy hut, sorrow splashed all over the floor. Her husband had been brought at her doorstep with his head missing. Someone heard from the ambulance medics that the head was probably plastered on the tyres of the blueline bus that had chopped him up like a meat grinder. They had tried their best to scrape it off but the remains jelled too well with the hot rubber like melted butter on toast. He, an unskilled labourer, was apparently standing on the busy Shankar Chowk to get some clients who could take him for odd painting jobs when that speeding monstrosity painted his matchstick thin figure instead on its wheels.
A month later, all that Lilavati remembered of that day was the body shrouded in blood splattered whites and a liquid mashed up feeling in her head, her beating of her chests which gave her bruises that lasted for a week, the running noses and the numbing cries of her three little children and a deep sense of loss that her grumbling stomach now constantly reminded her of. The bread dies with the bread-winner and if sheer melancholy could fill her children's stomach then she would have wept herself dry. But hunger's raging fire takes a lot more to douse.
They had gone without food for the last three days. Hunger is a slow poison; before it kills you, it maims you and shatters your spirit before digesting you from inside out. Lilavati shuddered at the idea of having to see her children die, in front of her helplessly desperate eyes, sucking mud from the broken cowdung floor, searching for that elusive juice of nutrition. She had spent nights tying her stomach up with a jute rope, so that the pangs should not pain her and the children could have more to eat.
Who would take care of Bunty if I go for washing dishes and cleaning floors?, she worried aloud. She tried begging on the traffic signals, her three children in tow, but couldn't induce enough pity on account of her shapely limbs and somewhat pretty face, to earn enough to feed all of her children. Maybe I can cut off an arm, she thought one day and brought the black rusty wood chopper to have a go at her left hand, but as soon as the sharp edge touched her skin, she realized she would probably bleed to death with nobody being there to bandage the stump or to take her to the nearby rat infested government hospital.
I have to find food.
Lilavati dragged her blistered feet to the locality's famous Raaj Chicken Corner and put her hand inside the garbage drum, placed in front of the eatery swarming with drunkards craving for their fix of cheap fried meat. She took out half chewed pieces of Seekh kebabs which she carefully started placing inside a dirty polythene bag. A pair of eyes keenly watched her every move, relishing her quandary.
"You want food?", a croaky voice called her to attention. Lilavati looked up as she wiped the sweat off her forehead. A middle aged truck driver kind of a man stood before her, chomping away at the paan in his mouth, his lips oozing out red beetle juice. His thick moustache appeared to be protecting his wide bulbous nose from crashing into his lips.
"Err.. yes", said Lilavati, eyeing his palm. Always watch the hands when you beg, they say.
"Well, I will give you 200 rupees. Buy lots of food with it", he said as he walked closer to her, his hand touching hers faintly. Lilavati eyed him with a pained look on her face. No words were forthcoming from her thin dirty lips.
"Let's spend an hour together and you can have the money", he whispered in her tiny ear and then broke into a smile, showing off his rotting tobacco stained teeth as she smelled a waft of cheap desi hooch from his reeking mouth.
His words were a knife through her heart. Her blood curdled as she pulled the corner of her mossy green saree to her lips in a feeble gesture of protecting her modesty. Her mind revolted on the illicit proposal, an on-rushing shame consuming her, as she prepared herself to flee the scene.
"No.." she muttered as she turned to leave, her eyes following the pebbles on the ground. She took a few steps as a war of words engulfed her head.
200 rupees. Six kg of wheat, 2 liters of kerosene, three kilos of potatoes, perhaps some capsicum too. A weeks ration with a little help from the rope. Stop. What are you thinking?
She stopped and turned around. Her face had turned deathly pale as she watched him twirl his facial hair greedily. The thought of his body over her induced a bout of convulsion and she tasted vomit. She swallowed as sickly scenes danced before her eyes.
Munnu wailing, lying on the floor, his eyes empty. Flies on Bablu's forehead, buzzing, as he lay dead. Little Bunty in his makeshit straw crib, clucking, his tongue out searching for water, his tiny hands reaching out. Maa...
"Okay, one hour", Lilavati's voice barely registered a squeak as she started walking to her hut while the man followed her. She trudged along the dusty road, her stomach tied up in knots, her throat parched dry, fighting back the tears welling up in her eyes. Don't think about it. She steeled herself up as her knees buckled now and then under the sheer weight of her decision. Each step she took seemed like a painful drag through quicksand. Upon reaching the hut, she opened the latch and pushed the makeshift tin door ajar. Munnu and Bablu were not inside. She ambled in, took the straw mat from the corner and rolled it up on the floor.
She removed her saree with her quivering hands and sat down on the mat, as the man removed his soiled checked shirt and muddy brown trousers.
"Keep the money on the side, first", she said, avoiding his stare and hiding her guilt wrenched face.
The man took out two crumpled 100 rupee notes and threw it besides the mat. She closed her eyes. It will be over soon.
His coarse hands explored her body as she squirmed on his violating touch. She shifted her gaze towards Bunty's cot as he removed her blouse and untied her petticot. She imagined his pretty face, serene in his sleep. She gagged herself on happy thoughts as he climbed over her vulnerable body.
Hot chapattis fresh from the tawa..Bablu burning his tongue and running for water while Munna laughs..the lovely sound of their teeth munching tasty morsels of jeera aloo. Maa I want more...
Her mind warmed up to the faint flicker of hope that this picture gave her. She felt his hand slide between her legs.
Bunty smiling, showing his two front teeth, the only ones he has and sipping warm milk from a steel tumbler.
He entered her as her body jerked upwards in response.
Bablu, Munna, Bunty. My sweet children. Come eat from my loving hands. Sit down while I feed my love to you. Let me kiss your angelic faces and soft cheeks..
Her hands went taut and grabbed the notes lying on the floor as her body heaved with his punishing rhythm. A fleeting smile crossed her lips.
Hunger, you are no more.
She dug her nails in his sweaty back as each thrust now brought her a wave of sweet pleasure. She began to moan.
