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Evenings on Sale... contd

by Rituparna Mitra
(Guwahati, India)

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Malvika lost her sense of the self after that rejection. That ultimate rejection. She often referred to herself as the modern day Surpanakha in her head. Probably, that was what she’d morphed into when her Prince Charming refused to kiss her. It induced a kind of slumber from which there was no waking up. At least, not for that goofy, childlike and carefree Malvika Ratul had managed to take into his confidence only to deprive her, deny her and finally discard her. Just like her father.

Malvika had only taken the kind of love men gave freely. The kind of love that came to them as naturally as innocence in a child. The kind of love that didn’t discriminate between wives, girlfriends or any random woman catching their fleeting fancies on weekends spent away from demanding and exhausting families. But, perhaps she’d taken a little too much of that without realizing it’d had run its course long back.

The dashing gentleman she’d allowed to guide her inside his uber-luxurious suite had been kind enough to remind her of that. Throwing wads of cash at her, he’d rightfully demanded “more.” Malvika couldn’t muster the courage to ask him more of what. Passion. Vigor. Enthusiasm. Eagerness. But, none had cared before him. She’d so much to offer. None willing to take.

“And why not? Perhaps, I’m so good they feel like they owe me. Money is given in the form of reward too. At times. What a shame though! You’d never get to know how good I am.” Malvika looked too close for the slightest indication of a dent in an armor she wanted nothing more than to tear away half of her life. The other half she’d been too busy pretending she didn’t care.

“A movie on you would be so refreshing. Such a deviation from all those repetitive plots where one or other kind of sob story is used to draw sympathy towards the prostitute’s character. You like the title “Evenings on Sale”? ”

Ratul succeeded in reminding her some wounds never heal. And also despite the infiltrating urges, one must never attempt to strike back. Because in doing so, one is reminded of how raw the wound still is and, probably, always will be.


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