Renuka (name changed), a sex worker in her mid-20s, held her dupatta firmly over her mouth, her eyes quivering, as a drop of sweat ran down her forehead. Her room was the size of a bed, with clothes hung on damp pink walls battling cobwebs. She looked a bit intimidated as the silence of the room contrasted with the sounds of the Sonagachi streets outside. Just around the corner of the kotha was one of the perennially-loud corners of Kolkata’s red-light district, with the hush-hush of the pimps and sex workers seated on stools outside the brothels engaging in cacophonous banter.

Renuka had never been asked about love. On being asked about the first time that she fell in love, she starts laughing. The expression on her face seemed like an amusing cocktail—of coyness and surprise. She adjusts herself among the pile of clothes and mumbles after a couple of minutes, “Yes, I have fallen for love.”

Renuka’s surprise on being asked about love mirrored the reaction of Bijli Begum, a notoriously foul-mouthed sex worker, passing by. The sixty-something woman, clad in black with a fashionable orange handbag, has not taken clients for a long time now. She keeps coming to Sonagachi to help young girls with numerous issues. Surprised at how obnoxious the question sounded, Begum responded with a trail of expletives and a derisive smile on her face.

They have always been recognised as a “different species”, Begum points out. The questions that the media has asked them over the years have always been doused in pity. “Are you insane or what?” she yells, as if mocking the sheer pointlessness of it. “Love? Us whores and love? I piss on the face of love and men,” she says, as she gets back to her phone.

Renuka’s face was powdered, and a coquettish smile was pinned to her face. One could see her obsession with make-up as she skittishly corrected her scarlet lips. “The first time I fell in love was in high school. We were four friends and there were four boys interested in us. On Rose Day, we got roses from them. That is how it all started,” she says, as she bursts into peals of laughter. Ten years ago, although having planned to elope after getting married at a local temple, Renuka felt if she were to honour the vermillion on her forehead, she needed to be welcomed as a wife in her husband’s household. There was an assertive quality about the way she spoke.

“It was difficult, but I knew I had to. Nothing about love is easy,” she adds.

Renuka belongs to a Brahmin family, but her husband did not, which they knew was going to be the primary hurdle to their dream. “Caste cannot come in between love. I knew my family would be furious, but these segregations are nonsense,” Renuka exclaims, as her voice becomes firmer. “And that person in whom I trusted all my love and hope, betrayed me,” she says, the firmness in her voice immediately fades away. Renuka’s husband had cheated on her multiple times. When she tried to confront him, she was met with abuse. “I tried to run, but somehow always went back—the curse of habit and society’s pressure,” she says. Renuka eventually managed to leave her husband. “I did not know what to do next. I had no money. Trust felt like a fool’s game.”

For Renuka, her ability to confide in somebody again is a testament to her growth. “Why not give ourselves a chance? At the end of the day, we all need someone who will hold us and take care of us,” says Renuka.

It has been two years since Renuka arrived at Sonagachi. She is reminded of the abuse at the hands of her husband and feels the trauma suffocating her every time a client touches her and yet she wears the vermillion with conviction.

“I am still someone’s wife. Or maybe I will be, again,” she chuckles as she stretches on her bed. “I did love him with all I had. I respect that. Now, I have found someone here. His touch is different.”

It was a haphazard chain of thoughts, like a character straight out of Eliot’s prose, trying to grasp at them in bits and pieces. Her eyes sparkle at the thought of the lover.

“He’s a Muslim,” she smirks.

On being asked if that bothers her, she says, “Absolutely not. He’s a lot like Shah Rukh Khan.” One could feel the sense of thrill in her voice—the thrill of giving love, rather condemned love, another chance. Renuka’s lover visits her every night and calls to check up on her throughout the day. “He gives me hope. I work all day waiting for the clock to strike nine at night. It’s a different universe for me.”

Like Renuka’s room and the street, Begum and Renuka’s personal negotiations with desire fell on opposite sides of the spectrum. Renuka, riding on the innocence of youth, keeps smiling as she talks about her new lover. Fiddling with a basket which had numerous lipsticks, combs and condom packs, she coyly says, “I never thought I could find love again, but I have, and it is the most beautiful feeling. He pampers me with new clothes, lipsticks, lingerie, and I get him a new shirt at times as well. I have painted my nails for him too.”

Renuka’s escape from her routine begins when her lover arrives for dinner. Songs from Shah Rukh’s films and role-play usually define their nights. For her, the element of surprise spices it up. “He often calls me from outside the kotha saying that he won’t be able to come. The moment I ask for proof, he barges in and I jump to hug him. As the speaker plays, we drink and smoke while role-playing,” she adds. She feels role-play makes them deal with hope better.

“On some days, he wants me to be his wife, cooking for him. He returns from work and hugs me from behind as he undresses me, while on other days he wants me to be an office secretary, where our eyes talk with the urge to jump on each other. The rest of the days, we just try on different clothes, laugh, and record ourselves,” she says.

Is it easy to shed the past? Renuka says no. “At times, when someone touches me, I am reminded of my first love, my husband. It never goes away. It makes me think of all the sensations he could have given me, besides the slaps,” she says. Her lover was married as well, but his wife died recently. Renuka believes their love can conquer the world if the world conspires to give them a chance. “My body craves for him every night, even when my body is tired after a day’s business. I hope to marry him someday,” she says.

Renuka heaves when asked if she feels scared to trust again. Taking out her lipstick and holding the plastic mirror close to her face, she whispers, “We would be fools to not give love a chance. There is someone waiting for everyone out there. His son talks to me over the phone and calls me ‘maa’. There is no greater desire in my heart. That’s the reason why I have sindoor on my forehead. I can still be someone’s wife, someone’s mother and someone’s love, besides being a whore.”

“Maybe love is just an institution based on resource scarcity. But what I fail to see is what that’s gotta do with you and me.”

—Father John Misty, Holy Shit

(This appeared in the print as 'Bargaining For Love')