and movements of her eyes and hands.
Prakash burst out laughing. “That’s it? I thought you would ask me about the dead bodies that I have buried in my backyard.”
“Very funny. Come on, tell me. I take two smalls and I am wasted for the entire next week. You had so much alcohol and here you are. Fresh as a daisy. It’s not even three hours. Did you even sleep?”
“Slowly, Rujuta. You might choke on your food. And it’s no big deal. You just need to get used to it. I have been drinking since I was twelve. Or maybe thirteen.” Prakash had polished his Dosa. He ordered for a filter coffee.
“Yeah, I think that’s the advantage of staying alone. You can do whatever you want to. You are not answerable to anyone. Not to your parents, not to your family, not to anyone.” Rujuta realized her mistake moment she said it. Prakash has always been touchy about his family.
“I think so. I have been alone since I was thirteen. Guess being alone has its advantages,” Prakash replied without any trace of emotion.
“Yeah, look at me. I have never known my father and my mother left me with my aunt. Even though my aunt was very strict and she made sure I was imbibed with the best Indian values, look at what I have turned into,” she pointed at herself with an animated expression.
Rujuta worked as an investigative reporter onceupon a time. She knew that shared misery often softens up the subject and creates an emotional bond. The good cop, bad cop that most other interviewers play is a milder version of shared misery. It probably is the oldest trick in the bag of interrogators. Recent advances in behavioral sciences validated what most seasoned investigators knew intuitively.
Prakash loosened up and laughed. “You look OK to me.”
Rujuta winked. “Mr. Mohile, give me an opportunity and I would show you everything that is wrong with me.”
This was the first time when a woman was openly flirting with Prakash. But he was a policeman and he knew how to get out of tough situations. He turned into an interrogator and said, “Your aunt sounds like an interesting person. Tell me more about her.”
Rujuta fumbled. “Oh, my aunt. She’s all I have in this world. She is my mother, father, best friend, worst enemy and everything in between. If not for her, I would be a bar dancer or a whore someplace. Like her.”
Till late 2005, Mumbai housed these bars where women would dance suggestively for male patrons and earn generous tips in return. Often after the dancing shifts were over, these women would double up as sex workers. Of course, the women received only a fraction of money for their services. Pimps and other people higher in the hierarchy squandered the rest. As per an estimate, just before these dance bars were shut, some 75000 women were working as bar dancers in Mumbai. Tarana, Rujuta’s aunt, was one of these 75000 women back then.
Rujuta continued, “My aunt is my favorite person. She never had any formal education but made sure I went to school and college. She gave me all the freedom and let me do choose what I wanted to. I don’t think even my real parents would have done so much for me.”
Prakash looked at Rujuta, nodded and got busy with his coffee.
Rujuta started talking involuntarily. “I have never known my father or my mother. So it’s just me and her.”
Prakash tried to be civil. “I am sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Why sorry? I am not sorry. It’s totally my parents’ loss that they are missing on claiming rights to such an awesome young woman,” Rujuta laughed. She decided to push her luck, “Your folks, on the other hand, would be so proud of you. No?”
Prakash had started to smile but at the mention of his parents, the smile disappeared. He took out his wallet, left a hundred rupee note on the table and said abruptly, “Let’s go. I need to meet the commissioner and brief him on the case.”
Rujuta was surprised at the hasty retreat. “Yep… Even I need to speak to my editor
Prakash burst out laughing. “That’s it? I thought you would ask me about the dead bodies that I have buried in my backyard.”
“Very funny. Come on, tell me. I take two smalls and I am wasted for the entire next week. You had so much alcohol and here you are. Fresh as a daisy. It’s not even three hours. Did you even sleep?”
“Slowly, Rujuta. You might choke on your food. And it’s no big deal. You just need to get used to it. I have been drinking since I was twelve. Or maybe thirteen.” Prakash had polished his Dosa. He ordered for a filter coffee.
“Yeah, I think that’s the advantage of staying alone. You can do whatever you want to. You are not answerable to anyone. Not to your parents, not to your family, not to anyone.” Rujuta realized her mistake moment she said it. Prakash has always been touchy about his family.
“I think so. I have been alone since I was thirteen. Guess being alone has its advantages,” Prakash replied without any trace of emotion.
“Yeah, look at me. I have never known my father and my mother left me with my aunt. Even though my aunt was very strict and she made sure I was imbibed with the best Indian values, look at what I have turned into,” she pointed at herself with an animated expression.
Rujuta worked as an investigative reporter onceupon a time. She knew that shared misery often softens up the subject and creates an emotional bond. The good cop, bad cop that most other interviewers play is a milder version of shared misery. It probably is the oldest trick in the bag of interrogators. Recent advances in behavioral sciences validated what most seasoned investigators knew intuitively.
Prakash loosened up and laughed. “You look OK to me.”
Rujuta winked. “Mr. Mohile, give me an opportunity and I would show you everything that is wrong with me.”
This was the first time when a woman was openly flirting with Prakash. But he was a policeman and he knew how to get out of tough situations. He turned into an interrogator and said, “Your aunt sounds like an interesting person. Tell me more about her.”
Rujuta fumbled. “Oh, my aunt. She’s all I have in this world. She is my mother, father, best friend, worst enemy and everything in between. If not for her, I would be a bar dancer or a whore someplace. Like her.”
Till late 2005, Mumbai housed these bars where women would dance suggestively for male patrons and earn generous tips in return. Often after the dancing shifts were over, these women would double up as sex workers. Of course, the women received only a fraction of money for their services. Pimps and other people higher in the hierarchy squandered the rest. As per an estimate, just before these dance bars were shut, some 75000 women were working as bar dancers in Mumbai. Tarana, Rujuta’s aunt, was one of these 75000 women back then.
Rujuta continued, “My aunt is my favorite person. She never had any formal education but made sure I went to school and college. She gave me all the freedom and let me do choose what I wanted to. I don’t think even my real parents would have done so much for me.”
Prakash looked at Rujuta, nodded and got busy with his coffee.
Rujuta started talking involuntarily. “I have never known my father or my mother. So it’s just me and her.”
Prakash tried to be civil. “I am sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Why sorry? I am not sorry. It’s totally my parents’ loss that they are missing on claiming rights to such an awesome young woman,” Rujuta laughed. She decided to push her luck, “Your folks, on the other hand, would be so proud of you. No?”
Prakash had started to smile but at the mention of his parents, the smile disappeared. He took out his wallet, left a hundred rupee note on the table and said abruptly, “Let’s go. I need to meet the commissioner and brief him on the case.”
Rujuta was surprised at the hasty retreat. “Yep… Even I need to speak to my editor
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