Who(E)re Do We Draw The Line?

~ Arundhati

From philosophical arguments about how they are a necessary part of the society to judgments about their freedom of choice to be a whore or not, there are many things I could write about whores. But all around me as whores intermingle with "other" women, and the "customers" intermingle with other men, I wonder, how do we decide if someone is a whore? Where is it that we draw the line between whores and other women?

After all, whore is someone who uses her body, her sexuality to earn her living. Isn't it the same for the so called actresses of this day? A Kareena Kapoor or a Mallika Sherawat thrusting their backsides and bosoms to an equally obscene number are, after all, giving the viewers a vicarious sexual pleasure at a much cheaper rate than a streetside whore!

Incidentally, I have never been able to understand why is it that Kareena Kapoor is just "sexy" and Mallika Sherawat is "slutty" when both of them seem to be wearing the same kind of clothes and doing the same kind of gyrations! Just how many inches of cleavage has to pop out of your clothes to be classified as a slut?

In the corporate world there are many examples of women using their sexuality to rise up the ladder. Once in a heart to heart talk, a friend admitted to doing this to a certain extent. She went on to justify it by asking, 'Why is it that being a woman has to always be your handicap? What is wrong with using all of your assets to get to where you want to go?'

Another friend argued, 'Most of the people in the decision making positions are men in their forties who seem to have enormous appreciation of the talents of younger and attractive women. You are more likely to thrive in the corporate world if you were attractive than if you were not!'

As a woman working in a field dominated by men, I have found that it is very important to maintain a balance between being attractive and still preserving your dignity. You have to dress and behave appropriately as to not being classified either as a "fast" woman or a retro. Both are detrimental to your career and the way in which you are treated. I have observed several times that men are often eager to write you off by putting you into mental classifications. It is easier for them to deal with you once they think they have figured you out! Once you get past that phase, then they would consider you for the classification of a worthy coworker.

So, if a woman uses her talent in her job as well as her physical attractiveness to further her career, would she be just a professional or a professional and something else? Does she have to sleep with her boss to qualify as whore or just flirting would do?

On a different note, if there are whores amongst women, there are women amongst whores. As a child, I have experienced the human side of a prostitute and will never forget that day.

Years ago, while volunteering for a school event in the commercial area of the city, I had lost my way into the "forbidden" zone. The bus I had boarded to reach the venue had taken a detour to avoid the festival traffic and dropped me on a parallel road instead. I had wandered into the bylanes of the old city trying to reach the the school event and after taking a wrong turn, had come face to face with the teeming redlight area at it's peak business time in the evening.

One look around me and I knew where I was and was frozen in terror. In every doorway and balcony overhead stood women with garish makeup and cheap flashy clothes. Several men loitered the bylanes leering and gesticulating and the women responded either with obscene gestures or by launching a bitter invective.

I had never seen this sight before, except in the movies,and I had never heard such a language before either. That's when I remembered what I had seen in the movies and was even more petrified. I knew I was in a vulnerable position. I knew I could be just sucked into one of these houses and no one would know my whereabouts. But my feet just refused to move. I found myself unable to even scream or cry and stood there in my school uniform, shaking like a leaf.

I don't know how long I had been standing there like that when someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around and came face to face with a woman in her thirties. She was, like others, wearing a cheap, shimmering saree, tied low at the waist and bright, gaudy makeup. She reeked of a mixture of sweat and a strong perfume. The fake jewelry that she was wearing shone against her dark skin. Her mouth looked like it was bleeding from the gaudy lipstick and beetlenut juice coming out of one side.

I looked at her and was shaken out of my stupefaction. I thought this was it! That this woman would now drag me to the dungeons and I would have no way to escape. I began to cry and scream as loudly as I could.

She held my arm tight and screamed "SHUT UP!!"

I shut up in terror but kept shaking.

"What is your name?" She asked
"Arundhati" I mumbled
"Do you go to school?"
"Yes, I am in seventh grade"
"Which school?"
"Apte School"
"What are you doing here by yourself? Where is your mother?"
"I...I was going to Mandai, to represent our school to distribute food to the devotees gathered for the festival. And I...I lost my way! I just want to go!" I said whimpering.
"Shut up!! Stop crying now. I will take you there." She said and almost dragged me brusquely behind her. I followed her reluctantly like a sacrificial lamb, praying all along that she meant what she said.

She took me through a dark alley and then another one and in no time we were out of the maze of alleys and on the main road. Far away, I could hear the din of music played for the festival and, finally, began to feel some relief. She continued to drag me and we crossed the stretch of the main road briskly to where the festival crowd was gathered. In front of me, I could see the huge billboards and the pandal erected by our school. I pointed to the pandal and she turned towards it, pulling me behind her.

Finally we reached the pandal and she let go of my arm. I stood in the doorway and called for the teacher. The teacher noticed me and hurried towards the doorway, her face showing enormous relief.

"Where were you? We were so worried!" She said.

I told her how I had got lost and how I had finally reached the venue and turned around to introduce my savior. But, she was gone. I went out to look for her but could not see her in the crowd.

I have never seen her since then. I never even got a chance to ask her name. And even if I did, it probably would not have been her real name anyway.

My nameless angel has been in my prayers ever since the day she came to my life. I just hope my prayers for her have worked.

whores and other women

~ poonam

on this international women’s day, many bloggers wrote on street harassment in cities of india. i read a few of those posts - were well-written, thoughtful, angry and overall truthful, all derived from experience. in fact, this blog – polioman came into being because i, during one such event lost my cool and lashed out at the wrong guy completely. it was a mistake, but that’s the past now.

being groped and touched or even looked at by a complete stranger and most often the dirtiest of the lot, can make one feel all kinds of unpleasant feelings. raped, even. i know, i know, this may sound rhetoric, and frankly, it is. but only if you negate what one feels at that precise moment when a hand emerges from nowhere and touches you. *you*, you know.
this is important.

now let’s look at it this way. so a hand touched you, without you expecting the touch or permitting it. big deal! so that hand used you to derive pleasure for its person. so what? can you not tolerate an extremely short-lived touch? you felt humiliated for like couple of seconds before you made a dash for the train which was already stopping at the platform? or didn’t you go back to talking on the phone? or resumed shopping with the same fervour as before the event? so what the hell are we talking about? where does this pain and humiliation come from and more importantly where does it vanish?

now i for one, don’t know. but i do know that women have bigger issues than worry about high-on-libido jerk offs prying the streets. and this post is not about those women at all. this post is about women who deal with something similar, only the issue is greater, amplified like a thousand times. worse still, not only does it not come unexpected but it is packaged and presented as life. take it, unwrap it, feel happy about it, live with it or die. and it certainly is not just a hand anymore.

i don’t know what fascinates me about sex workers but something does. i suspect it’s the question: what goes on in their minds when men –all types, all sizes, climb over them and vent their frustrations while inside them. what goes on in their minds when at the end of this, they receive a measly sum, a fee for pleasure? what goes on in their minds when they give birth to a child without really knowing who the father might be? what goes on in their minds when their pimps undersell them, when their lovers ditch them, when their families live off them? what goes on their minds when there is dread all around? aids, and then there are the police. the illegal status to the profession, lack of basic facilities, unhygienic conditions, more competition. more unfortunate minors trafficked and made to lure customers who pay more for fresh, inexperienced maal. more stories of deceitful lovers, greedy families, poverty and squalor. and then their own stories which only know how to get drearier and darker.

now i read stories of some of these women who have faced it all with remarkable tenacity, they are averse to self-pity, they value self-respect, claim to have entered the profession by choice. they look at it as a job someone’s got to do. someone’s got to keep those friggin’ street harassers from going beyond groping and touching on the sly. think about it, these women might be doing a service to other women. to women like us, who can raise hell upon, dare i say, a mere touch. these may be the women who are keeping the men at bay. if you think this idea is crazy then maybe it is. but it doesn’t harm to think of it in absolute terms. 40-50-60 bucks for a fuck is as good a deal as it can get. and there is no real compulsion to wear a condom too. groping and touching on the sly can land a man in trouble, if the woman decides to hang up her call or stop shopping and come after him. but in a red light area, he can haggle and pay less to be loved in the way he likes, might be lucky enough to get away without paying at all. he is the customer and he is the king. in our world, he’s a parasite who has no right to live, let alone move freely on the streets doing as he wishes. really how can one stranger mean two diversely different things to two women for the same act?

an american author camille pagila has said, “the prostitute is not, as feminists claim, the victim of men but rather their conqueror, an outlaw who controls the sexual channel between nature and culture.” this is the crazy idea, spoken earlier, but the quote may not be completely true. the prostitute here is victimized every day and not necessarily by her customer alone. the law is a great contributor too. the illegal status to such a thriving industry really makes things worse than they ought to be. rough them, arrest them, file complaint, take bribe and release - this is possibly a weekly agenda for the local police.

physical abuse aside, the verbal insults are a way of life. on my recent fleeting visit to kamathipura, the cabbie who doubled up as our guide, pointed out to many ‘60 rupees’ women. i have come to believe that’s how they are slotted. reminds me of that song by john lennon: woman, she is the nigger of the world.

having said all this, i don’t know where am i going with this post or what am i trying to achieve. i don’t have ideas or solutions to offer. i just know that not acknowledging commercial sex workers as an important part of our society may not be a great idea. they are there for a purpose.