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She might have kept the boy clutched to her chest the whole night, but he woke up and moved away from Naz's lap. The room had grown pitch dark. The boy took out a match from his pocket, lit the lantern, looked at Naz for a moment, and then quickly went out without saying anything.
Naz got up and began pacing the room. After a while, the boy returned with food. Naz sat down to eat. The boy did not sit. Naz asked him to join her, but he refused.
"We all eat at the hotel," the boy said. "Ustad pays the bill every month."
But Naz insisted until he finally sat with her.
It was eleven at night. Naz lay on the cot, weaving threads of thought. Her eyes were caught in the cobwebs on the ceiling. The boy had gone to sleep in some unknown room of the same house. The door to Naz's room opened. She sat up, thinking it must be Jaida. But it was Tipu.
Tipu was a man of twenty-six. A clean-shaven face, healthy, with a full and sturdy build. From his appearance and gait, he looked like a football player. His small eyes glittered with mischief and chaos. He wore a gaudy floral shirt and pajama-like trousers. He even slept in those clothes. Naz knew him well. She had first seen him in the same room where Jaida had left her. That round-bodied savage had done unspeakable things to her. Naz had only seen him in the form of a brute and a beast.
That night, when he entered the room, Naz's first shock was that it was not Jaida. The second was that it was Tipu. The moment she saw him, pangs of pain shot through her body. Her heart sank. Tipu looked at Naz's freshly washed, glowing hair and her face, and smiled faintly. His eyes slid over her silky dress, then wandered down to her feet, where the nail polish had completely worn off. The natural rosy color of her nails had emerged.
"Your Ustad has said that no one will trouble you now," Naz said in a fearful but commanding tone. "If you touch me, I'll tell your Ustad. He told me to report it."
"Naz!" Tipu said with a smile. "There's no need to use Ustad's name as a threat. No one will touch you. That time has passed when I troubled you."
"Ustad must have told you that you will not be freed," Tipu said in a questioning tone. Then he continued, "I have sympathy for your beautiful body and such a delicate, innocent face. These silky locks of yours! Do you even know their worth? We are traders of pearls, but you are a diamond. Accept it, Naz! We will keep you like a flower, spread carpets at your feet, you will remain like a queen. Only one small thing is required—that every night, you make just one man happy. Our old woman will teach you tricks that will cause you no trouble at all. Clients will bow their heads at your feet. They will present you with cars, gift you golden necklaces, and pour wealth at your feet."
They will tolerate all your whims, and you will only play with the clients under the guise of love. Take advantage of this youth, Naz! For a few days, live freely. Money? Gather as much as you want." Tipu kept speaking in a dramatic tone while Naz stared at him with wide, astonished eyes.
Tonight Tipu's tone was not harsh. His words did not carry the cruelty and torment they once did. In his voice, Naz could sense a distinct touch of familiarity. Yet, what he was saying only made her feel more repulsed.
"By God, these little strands of hair scattered across your rosy forehead could drag the biggest leaders and officers to your feet," Tipu said. "I have seen their wives. They are not even the dust of your feet. They spend their time amusing themselves with one another's women… Naz, you will rule over all of them. We will use your beauty for blackmail. For the sake of your youth, we will earn millions. Who says we will make you a prostitute and seat you in a brothel? We will not let your youth be wasted. With just one look of yours, chains will shatter. The law will be helpless. Gallows will break apart. Ustad Jaida will hold you above his head and eyes."
Naz drifted away in thought. Was it into the vision of cars? Or the glitter of wealth? Into the praise of her beauty and youth—or into the thought of her helplessness? Into the fantasy of being placed above all by Jaida—or who knows where! She did not even realize that Tipu had already left. Only the echo of his words remained, buzzing within the cobwebs on the ceiling. Naz did not realize either when she lay down and when sleep overtook her.
The next day, another suit and a chiffon dupatta arrived for her. The cobwebs on the ceiling were cleared away. Dust was wiped off the walls. For the first time in ages, the floor was swept. On the table, next to the lantern, another timepiece was placed—ticking away moments in that suffocating wilderness, just like Naz's imprisoned heart. Naz's weary nerves slowly began to settle.
It was late afternoon. She was pacing the room. The thought of opening the window that looked outside occurred to her. Slowly, she walked up to it. Sounds drifted in from the other side of the window: the whooshing of passing cars, the clatter of Victoria horses, the clamorous noise of buses, and the jarring rattles of motor-rickshaws. Between this free world and the prison she was trapped in, only two steps stood. The bustling, lively world outside seemed to beckon her. The loneliness and torment of her captivity pushed her toward it.
Cautiously, she stretched out her hand. Her fingers brushed against the cobwebs clinging to the iron bars, then they clutched the bars. And then—it was as if a faint voice whispered: Don't open it, Nar!
She started as though a father had scolded a child caught secretly eating mud. She turned quickly—and saw "Muna" standing at the door.
Muna was Jaida's right-hand man, aged between thirty-five and forty, who shaved his beard only once a month.
His eyes were bloodshot, inflamed by the intoxication of hashish and opium, with veins of drowsy redness threading through them. His teeth had a deep brownish tint, his face carried the lifeless heaviness of a corpse, and his shoulders hunched slightly forward. His hair was disheveled, as though it hadn't been cut in ages. In the pallor of his features there was a grim, dreadful maturity.
Naz's hand froze, then withdrew from the bars with a snap. She turned to look at Muna and quickly said, "In a closed room, I start to feel suffocated. Did Ustad also forbid us to open this window? What lies on the other side?"
"That side is the world you can no longer go to," Muna said. "Accept our word, Naz. We will seat you by a window draped with beautiful curtains, and you will sit like a queen. A master like Jaida—you won't find him anywhere. He is the god of his world… If you walk his path, you'll live in luxury."
"Become a prostitute?" Naz asked with sarcasm.
"Not a prostitute—private," Muna replied. "There's no hurry. Take your time, think it over. Think with peace of mind."
"I've already thought."
"What?"
"I will not sell my body."
"You have endured a lot of suffering, Naz. Think again. We are in no hurry. If you like, the boy can bring you some book or magazine to read."
"I don't want anything," she said.
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To be continue...