1987

Balari stepped in front of the mirror that she had in the room that they called hers and tore all the skanky, neon colored clothes off her body. She wiped off the outrageous red lipstick from her kwai¹ stained lips and gazed with disgust at her eyeliner stained tear-streaked face. She had no underwear on, the pimp never allowed any and under her skimpy clothes was nothing but the battered and badly abused body of a girl she barely recognized. She stood in front of the mirror, naked, and painfully observed the bruises that covered her body like graffiti proclaiming her status as a whore. Her breasts were covered with burnt marks of cigarettes and her shoulders bore marks made by men’s nails. Her neck was covered with ‘love’ bites, though it would be more appropriate to just stress on the ‘bites’, because for women in her position, there was no love. Just sex. Sex for money, money that never even paid for antiseptic to soothe the bruises.

Her entire backside had welts made by the belt that the pimp sometimes used on her when he raped her. Her arms and wrists had the deep purple cuts made by a rough rope bound too tight. They bore scars of previous suicide attempts as well, but she did not see them as scars. She saw them as marks that reminded her of her failure to even leave the pitiful existence she was leading. Her thighs and legs bore bite marks again, as well as the bluish purplish marks created each time she was pushed roughly against furniture, and taken against her will. She parted her legs to see her womanhood, flinching with repulsion at the sight of her modesty, whose innocence had been stolen from her and ever since, had been trampled on by men, hundreds of times, that it was misshapen and ugly to even her own eyes.  Every single orifice of hers was tormented countless times. And she had to bear it all, without any chance of escape. Somewhere along the line, her will power had died and she stopped fighting, choosing instead to become the prostitute that the men pay her to be. She lost the power to even be disgusted at herself.

There was no way out. No way out of the hell hole she was trapped in

.

No way out but one.

The noose was the only passage was that would free her from that miserable, pointless existence. Killing oneself was a sin as appalling as adultery, and more, but if there was a God in heaven to judge her, she justified to herself, she was sure he would understand.

Balari lost her faith in God, and that was to her the biggest thing they ever took away from her.

Meda said the noose was the only foolproof way. She reasoned with herself. Slashing of wrists was too safe a plan. He locked her in a dark room for two days without food or water, the last time she tried to kill herself. This time, though, she was sure she would not fail. This time, he would not catch her alive again. The noose was how Meda managed to leave and she decided that it was the way she would leave as well.

She stared at the fan and simply decided that it would have to work. She opened her small cupboard and took out the noose that she had carefully prepared the night before, climbing on the tiny bed to tie the noose around the fan. Balari took out a long decent dress from the ones her mother made for her before she left Nongrimai and put it on. She pulled out a red and white jainkyrshah², knotted the ends neatly and slung it across her shoulder. Then she took out her grandmother’s green and yellow tapmohkhlieh³ and tied it around her head and neck, taking care to cover her head evenly. She then pulled down the part that covered her head, arranging it so that it fell around her neck like a hood. She turned to survey herself in the mirror and saw a face that she at least was familiar with. She saw the girl she was ten months ago staring back at her from the mirror, with the same lost look in her eyes, though now her eyes gleamed with a regretful knowledge of the world, which she wish she had never acquired. Her body, which previously slumped with her embarrassment to show her beautiful shape to the world, stood proud and erect, shoulders back, yet her stance was one of a woman defeated. But defeated though she was, she did not want to die with their music playing the tune of her exit. She wanted to die knowing that she left before they could rob her of her life. She wanted to leave with some semblance of victory.

It seemed wrong to claim that victory, dressed as the slut they turned her into. That was the reason why she changed into the clothes that were who she was before they raped her soul. Having seen the girl that she used to be, ten months ago, in her reflection on the mirror, she thought briefly of her mother. It broke her heart to have to kill herself, but this dishonor and torment was something she could not tolerate anymore. She wanted her freedom. She wanted freedom from pain. For a second, she said a quick, faithless prayer for her mother, hoping that God would forgive and take care of her old mother for her. They might not even be decent enough to tell her I died.  She thought to herself. This was alright she supposed. She did not want her mother to go through the trauma of finding out her only daughter had killed herself. But if her mother knew, she would understand how death would be better than living a harlot’s life.

She looked at the small, dingy room that she was made to live in for the past ten months and for a while, she began to see herself as a caged animal in a circus, owned by men who took money from people so that they could be entertained by her antics. She hated the smell of the room; it smelt of damp clothes and the stale musk of exhausted men. She could smell their breath on her tiny body. She shivered in revulsion as she thought of their spit dripping down her chest when they spat on her. No matter how many times she washed herself after the sex, she could never wash their smell off her body. It stayed on her like a brand mark, so it became apparent to the people around her, just how much of a prostitute she was. She looked up at the moldy ceiling and remembered the times she had to lie under clients, pretending that every cruel, emotionless touch imposed upon her was a dream gone horribly wrong.

Her surroundings had such an impact on her that she began to cry, sobbing weakly as she mourned her own helplessness. It felt wrong to be reduced to such a state of hopelessness that the only way out of a situation was to kill oneself. She was brave that way, for she never feared death. She never feared the bright lights or the land she was to end up in after she left the land she was in at the moment. She did not really care about all that. All she wanted was to escape the life she was living in now, and she was ready to face pain. She was ready to go through the trauma of having her life choked out of her with a rope, to leave the world she was existed in. She pushed the bed to the corner with a heavy heart and pulled a stool to right below the fan where the noose dangled, some six feet above the ground. She was glad, at the moment, that the brothel had a high ceiling. It made the hanging process a lot easier.

Looking at the mirror one last time, she wiped off the tears from her face like a scared warrior princess bracing herself for battle. She looked at herself in the eye for that last time and discarding all thoughts and possible regrets at not being able to do all the things people usually do with their lives, in front of the mirror; she walked ceremoniously to the stool and climbed up, gracefully. She slipped the noose around her neck like she would a coronation necklace, peaceful and joyous for the first time in weeks. She tightened it expertly, as if she had been an executioner all her life. She then took a deep breath, feeling her heart palpitate with the rising fear and adrenaline that she was desperately trying to control. She had to be calm when she kicked the stool. She had to do it at a moment when she would be relaxed and ready because there was really no way out when the stool was kicked. She had to do it at a moment when there would be least discomfort. She cannot afford to kick the stool and then realize that she was not ready for the fall.

Balari closed her eyes and refused to think of reasons why she would miss her life. She kept her mind empty, focusing on calming herself down and bringing down her heart rate to normal. After five minutes of deep breathing, she decided that it was time; it was now or never.

She looked around her one last time, feeling a sense of calm wash over her. She felt disconnected already, like she was ebbing away and all she had to do was sever the last tie that connected her to this miserable world. She took one final breath of oxygen and exhaled all her tensions away.

Then she kicked the stool and wordlessly succumbed to the passageway that let her escape this world where all she knew was torture. She did not cry out, she did not struggle. She accepted the strangulation like she was already dead before the rope squeezed the last of her breath out of her battered body.

On her face was the smile of woman who had just come out of a battle- worn out, yet victorious and finally, happy.

1. Kwai- Betel nut and betel leaf commonly eaten with a little bit of lime
2. Jainkyrshah- A checkered cotton cloth which Khasi women use as an apron by tying it across their bodies and over one shoulder
3. Tapmohkhlieh- A tartan shawl which people usually wear over their heads and bodies, tied around the neck