Maliha

Mallika Tripura, a sex-worker from the brothels of Daulatdia, was originally born in Siliguri. Her mother had sold her to an uncle who ferried her across the border to Bangladesh.

From a tender age, Mallika was forced to entertain men three times her age. The repeated invasions of her innocence bred in her a deep revulsion, an innate disgust for touch. None had ever caressed her with kindness, and she no longer believed anyone ever would. Her life was a relentless cycle of witnessing the depravity of men and enduring their insatiable hunger for lust.

Even so, she embraced it, clinging to the hope that one day she could buy her way out of this bondage. The thought of putting herself out there scared her; alone, in a world of men, she wouldn't know how to be normal. All she ever longed for was a single day of her own—a moment of solitude, far from the touch of men. A day where she could breathe freely, lie down to sleep, and know with certainty that no one would wake her with an unwanted touch. For now, she remained chained to the brothel, a prisoner of servitude and prostitution.

"Sooner or later, the curse of this beauty will fade," she told herself. "And then, perhaps, men will finally leave me alone."

They called her Maliha. Her charm and exotic beauty drew the boys to her like moths to a flame. She was the prettiest whore in town, the one they all clamored for. The men craved her and the women despised her. 

Rudro returned to his hometown, seeking solace after the quiet devastation of a love lost. That evening, after getting drunk on fermented wine with his cousins, the lines between camaraderie and recklessness began to blur. As the night unraveled, he found himself standing at the entrance of a brothel, his cousins goading him into getting over one girl by getting on top of another, insisting that nothing heals a broken heart quite like bad decisions.

The air was thick with the lecherous sounds of humping, shouting, and moaning with music blasting from a radio: বাপুরাম সাপুড়ে, কোথায় যাস বাপুরে?

আয় বাবা, দেখে যা, একটু পলক ফেলে যা. " Someone must have bought a boom box to the brothel," chuckled one of his cousins. 

Rudro had just come out of a long-distance relationship, and it felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him. His friends, tired of watching him mope around, decided to take drastic measures.

He'd never been with a woman before—not because he was shy, but because he was saving himself for the one. He was a hopeless romantic, though not the type to fall in love easily. But when he did, it hit him like a train. He didn't just fall—he crashed, headfirst and all in.. And when he loved, he gave everything. He would take a chisel to the chambers of his heart, sculpting it into the perfect shape to fit his lover's soul, naively believing it would last forever.

Rudro had lied to his friends about being a "man," and now his masculinity was being tested. He was intoxicated, melancholy, and hesitant. The whole situation felt wrong. He didn't want any part of this ridiculous charade.The scene around him was chaotic and absurd. One guy stumbled into the room while another staggered out, howling like fools. Most of them were drunk, loud, and pitiful. Then, from behind a set of tattered curtains, a man burst out, grinning like he'd just won the lottery.

"Record, mama, record!" he bellowed. "Thirty minutes with Mallu Bai!"

The crowd erupted into drunken cheers, whistling and jeering as if it were a sporting event.

The brothel keeper, a stout woman with sharp eyes, stood by the door, managing the flow of clients. Suddenly, she spotted a young boy at the end of the corridor and rushed toward him, gripping the corner of his shirt. Rudro, waiting nearby, couldn't help but overhear their conversation.

"Where is Isha? Why isn't she with you?" she demanded, her voice low but firm.

"I don't know, madame," the boy mumbled. "Last time I saw her, an old man was buying her cotton candy. I thought she was with him."

A shadow passed over the brothel keeper's face, her expression tightening with unease. Rudro took note of it but didn't dwell on the matter.

When his turn came, he lingered by the door, letting the moment stretch. Maybe this wasn't such a bad decision after all. He needed to get over his past love. The way it had ended left no room for hope—she was gone, lost to the arms of another.

Now, it was time for his old self to fade away, to die a quiet death in the shadows of his heartbreak, and for something new to emerge—from the bosoms of another.

Upon entering the room, his gaze fell upon Maliha and his chest tightened. The dim light caught the sheen of sweat on her skin, casting her in a warm, almost ethereal glow. She sat on the bed with her thigh pressed to her chest, adjusting a delicate ankle bracelet, completely unbothered by his presence.

His heart thudded, an unsettlingly familiar rhythm. Not lust, not quite—something deeper, something dangerous.

"Great," he thought bitterly. "I'm falling in love with a prostitute."

He found himself lingering on her, drawn to her, ashamed of the desire building within him. The sight of her stirred a longing in his loin.

His gaze drifted along her neck, following the line of her collarbone disappearing beneath her blouse. A fantasy, darker than he expected, crept into his mind. He imagined his brutish hands on her throat, and salivated at the idea of pulling off her blouse and planting a wet kiss on her bare shoulder.

 When suddenly she looked up and their eyes met. He looked away immediately, shut his eyes and clenched his fists. 

Guilt and shame flooded his mind as he tried to gather his composure without much success.

 "Don't just stand there—come over," she said, her voice soft but alluring.

Rudro wobbled over to the bed. He perched awkwardly on the edge, leaving a cautious distance between them.

Maliha tilted her head, studying him. He looked a little rugged, but he's just a kid, she thought.

"I'm sorry," Rudro mumbled, his words slurring under the weight of intoxication and shame. "I don't think I want to do this. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Maliha said, her voice calm and reassuring, like a mother soothing a restless child. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to." She shifted slightly, patting her lap. "Come, lay your head here."

When he laid his messy hair on her thighs, she began to stroke his ear gently, her fingers twisting playfully through his curls. Her touch was light but deliberate, carrying an intimacy he hadn't expected.

In his drunken haze, it felt divine—like the touch of an angel. The room swayed like the deck of a ship in a storm, due to the booze, but her hands steadied him. For a moment, he imagined himself a shipwrecked sailor, battered and lost, now cradled by a siren who had risen from the depths to tend to him.

"What's it like?" Rudro asked timidly

"Sex work?" she replied, her tone even, unreadable.

"Yeah…"

Maliha paused for a moment, her fingers still weaving through his hair. "It's weird at first," she said finally. "But then you get used to it."

"Do you enjoy it?" His question hung in the air, fragile and uncertain.

She didn't hesitate this time. "No." She did not feel the necessity to paint a red image onto a blossoming mind. 

"What's a boy like you doing in a brothel?" she asked, her tone curious but not unkind.

"It's silly," Rudro replied, hesitating.

"Of course it is," she said, a faint smile playing on her lips. "But I still want to hear it."

He sighed, the words tumbling out like a confession. "Basically, I loved this girl. But… she got married. I couldn't bear staying in the city alone, so I came back to town. My cousin told his friends about it, and they decided I was some sort of prude. So, they dragged me here. We were really drunk, and I just… went along with this folly."

Maliha nodded, letting the silence stretch for a moment before asking, "Why couldn't you marry her?"

"I wanted to," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "She lives hundreds of miles away… and I'm struggling with college and work myself. I'm tied to my life in the city. I barely make enough to fend for myself."

"Don't worry," she said softly. "Your time will come. Things will work out."

"You don't understand," Rudro replied, his tone heavy with frustration and despair. "I wanted to be with her. More than anything. She was the one. She completed me."

He paused, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Now I'm just an empty shell of a man. I carved a room in my heart in the shape of her… and now it's empty. It could never fit anyone else." he said, almost breaking into tears.

"The heart isn't made of sticks or stones," she said. "And love… love is ambiguous. Life deals us a hand, and we have to play it. Not everyone gets the person they want. Sometimes, the person you want isn't even the right one. But if you're wise—and lucky enough—you'll find someone again. Someone kind, someone willing to build a life with you. And when that happens, you'll see—love doesn't just appear. It blossoms over time."

She paused, her gaze steady. "We have to tear down the rooms we've built in our hearts to make room for stronger, more stable houses. You can't lay a solid foundation without breaking a few walls first. And with time—and maybe with some more 'love'—you'll come to realize that the heart isn't a room at all. It's a whorehouse."

Rudro's eyes widened. She made a lot of sense, even though most of her allegories slid right over his head. But this one stuck. It gnawed at him. He frowned slightly, tilting his head as if trying to grasp something just beyond his reach.

"What do you mean, the heart is a whorehouse?" he asked, his curiosity outweighing his hesitation.

Maliha leaned back slightly, absently tracing patterns on the sheets, as if the answer was something she'd already told a thousand times before.

"We let so many people into our lives," she said. "Let them see us, touch us. Love them as they claim to love us. But none of it is real. None of them are here to stay." She paused, her gaze drifting somewhere distant. "By the end of the hour, it's just someone else's turn."

Her words settled between them, sharp and unshakable.

Rudro realized then—she wasn't really talking about him. Or love.

She was talking about herself.

That brief, unguarded glimpse into her life made Rudro feel special in a way he couldn't quite articulate. It was nothing grand, just a fleeting moment, yet it felt like she'd let him into a corner of her world that others weren't privy to. And that was enough to stir something within him.

He began to see her as a tragic figure in need of salvation and was already crafting a fantasy where he could be the hero, the one to rescue her from a life he didn't quite understand.

"You've thought about this a lot," he said softly.

She gave a faint smile, one that felt more like a sigh. "You could say that."

"You have a beautiful mind," he said sincerely

"Thanks," she replied, with a playful smile. "Most men just call me a pretty face."

"I'm not like most men," he said, his eyes locking with hers.

"That's what most men would say," she giggled with mischief.

"Maybe. Doesn't make it any less true," he said solemnly.

" Hmm..". Her expression shifted, becoming more neutral, almost unreadable.

"You have a way with words," he said, genuinely curious. "Where did you learn to speak like that?"

She tilted her head, her gaze steady. "Do you think someone like me isn't capable of such thoughts?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant," he stammered, his cheeks flushing. "You're obviously capable. I just… wondered where you draw your inspiration from."

She paused for a moment, her expression softening. "There was a man. He'd come early, light a cigarette, and talk about the rules of love."

"Sounds like a nice man," he said , half-joking and tilting his head playfully.

She shrugged nonchalantly, her voice taking on a bitter edge. "He has a wife and two kids."

"Oh…" Rudro felt his words catch in his throat.

The conversation faded into an abrupt silence, neither of them knowing what to say. Rudro didn't want to have sex, and Maliha had nothing else to offer. So they sat there, waiting for time to run out.

The silence stretched between them, thick and unmoving. Rudro sat still, staring at his hands, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him. He had spent so much time lost in himself, lost in heartbreak, that he hadn't realized how desperately he craved conversation. Real conversation. Not pleasantries, not obligations—just two people talking, seeing each other.

And yet, the night was ending. This moment would be gone soon, and he would be alone again.

He swallowed, trying to push the thought away, but it clung to him like damp air. He had returned home, surrounded by the people he'd known all his life, and still, the loneliness had followed him. He thought coming back would fix it. But nothing had changed.

His throat tightened. The sadness swelled suddenly, without warning, overwhelming him. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but they came anyway, hot and unrelenting. He wiped at them with the back of his hand, hoping she wouldn't notice. But when the first quiet sob broke through, there was no hiding it.

Maliha stiffened.

"What's wrong?" she asked, though her voice lacked the concern most people would offer.

"I don't know," he choked out. "I just… I feel sad."

She sighed but pulled him into her arms anyway, pressing his head against her chest. He clung to her like a drowning man, shaking as the sobs wracked his body. The weight of everything he had refused to face, everything he had buried, poured out of him in waves.

She didn't say anything. Just held him.

After a minute, his breathing steadied. The pressure in his chest eased, and his mind, though still heavy, felt slightly clearer. He hesitated before speaking, afraid to break the moment.

"I haven't met anyone like you," he murmured. "I feel like I can talk to you about anything."

Maliha tensed. A familiar discomfort crawled under her skin. Not again.

She had spoken too much. Given too much.

Lonely men always mistook kindness for something else. She had seen it before. They came here searching for something more than just a body. They wanted comfort, wanted someone to listen, to nod at the right moments. And when they found that, they convinced themselves it was special.

"Men will fall in love with anyone who shows them a fraction of a good time," she thought bitterly.

She gently pulled away from him, the warmth between them fading.

"Your time is almost over," she said, voice carefully neutral. "I have to prepare for other clients. You're drunk—you should go home and sleep it off."

Rudro sniffled and wiped at his face. "Okay."

She stood up, straightening her clothes, shaking off the weight in her chest. She had done this before. It should be easy.

"I'll call your friends to pick you up."

"That's okay," he said quickly. Too quickly. He sat up straighter, trying to reclaim some sense of control. "I can get up by myself."

A pause. His fingers twitched against his knee.

"I wanted to ask you something."

Maliha already knew what was coming. She sighed. "Yeah?"

He hesitated, his voice smaller this time. "Can I see you again?"

Rudro hadn't meant to say it like that. He had meant to ask casually, to make it sound like nothing. But now the words were hanging between them, bare and exposed, and he realized just how pathetic he sounded.

What was he even asking?

He barely knew her. He had met her a few hours ago, in a place where no one came looking for something real. So why did it feel like he was grasping onto something that mattered? Was he just drunk? Or was this what loneliness did to a man—made him desperate, made him see meaning where there was none?

Maliha's expression hardened. She had heard this question too many times before.

Not again.

The taste of bile rose in her throat. Why do they always do this? She had gotten carried away, spoken too much, listened too much

She fought the urge to sigh again, her patience thinning. She should have been more careful. Should have kept her words shorter, her presence more distant. But she had let herself slip, let the conversation become something that gave a lonely man hope.

"No."

Her voice was final, but she saw the way his eyes searched hers, looking for something, anything, that might mean she didn't mean it.

"I'm not your friend," she said, this time sharper, colder. "Come see me when you're ready to fuck."

She watched as something in him cracked, but she didn't look away.

Let him hate her. It was better that way.

Maliha led Rudro toward the door, keeping her steps steady, her face unreadable. The night air outside was thick with heat and the distant sound of revelry. Just as she was about to say something, footsteps hurried toward her.

The manager of this part of the brothel, a stout woman with sharp eyes, grabbed Maliha's arm, slightly out of breath.

" Isha has been missing all day" she said, her voice tight with urgency.

Maliha frowned. " What? What happened- Where'd she go?! "

The woman's expression darkened. " I don't know, I thought she was out with these kids in the neighborhood but Ratul told me she was last seen with a strange man."

Maliha felt her stomach drop. A chill ran through her despite the warmth of the night, unease settling deep inside her. Her fingers curled into her palm.

Rudro felt it too. The memory surfaced—just before he entered Maliha's room, he had overheard the madam questioning a boy about Isha. His pulse quickened. He crouched in front of Ratul, his voice steady but urgent.

"What did Isha and the man look like?"

Ratul shifted uncomfortably before answering. "Isha looks like any other kid… except for her eyes. Bright, like a cat's—you can't miss them." He hesitated, then added, "The old man was lanky. Had a cleft lip."

He stood up and said, "I can help. I can help look for Isha."

 A flicker of irritation crossed Maliha's face before she scoffed. "It's okay, we don't need your help," she said sharply. " You should go home."

Her tone was clipped and dismissive. Rudro frowned, not understanding why she was suddenly being so rude. A wave of irritation rose in his chest, but he swallowed it down.

"Whatever," he muttered before turning on his heel and walking away.

He scanned the streets for his cousins, only to realize they had abandoned him at the brothel. After a few minutes of searching, he finally spotted them huddled in a shadowy corner, passing around a joint, their laughter slow and hazy. 

He was incensed, his frustration simmering beneath his skin. He could no longer stand to stay in this place for another second. Without a word to his cousins, he turned on his heel and hurried back to their place.

Once inside, he grabbed his backpack with shaky hands, slung it over his shoulder, and set out for the station. He didn't know if he was running from the night, from Maliha, or from himself—but he knew he needed to leave.

The station was quieter than usual, the crowd thin, the air carrying a gentle breeze that soothed his skin under the warm glow of the halogen lights. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, and wondered—how did I ever end up here?

As a kid, he had imagined a different future for himself. He thought he'd grow up to be good-looking, fit, and sharp-minded, with more money than he knew what to do with. He'd have a stable job, a duplex house, and the love of his life waiting for him at home. There would be warm meals, quiet evenings, and no constant weight pressing down on his chest.

But the man standing here now was nothing like the one he had envisioned. The reality of his life—unstable, lonely, and adrift—was a cruel mockery of his childhood dreams. The realization made him feel small, pathetic. His throat tightened, the urge to cry creeping up again.

Before he could stop himself, frustration boiled over into rage. He clenched his fists, jaw tightening—then, without thinking, he slapped himself. Hard. The sharp sting snapped him back, but the ache in his chest remained.He figured he must still be drunk. 

Spotting a walking vendor, he bought a cup of tea, hoping it would sober him up before the long journey ahead.

Nine minutes later, the train arrived with a low rumble. Before boarding, he grabbed a pack of tissues and a bottle of water, preparing for what he already knew would be an exhausting ride.

Stepping inside, he walked past a few vacant seats with scattered passengers. He didn't want to sit in the middle—didn't want to risk breaking down in plain sight, sobbing like some miserable fool in front of strangers. So he kept moving, his footsteps slow and deliberate, until he reached the corner booth.

Unfortunately, it wasn't empty.

A man and a little girl sat by the window. At first, he barely glanced at them, but then he noticed her strikingly bright, catlike eyes! He felt a thump in his heart. His eyes quickly darted towards the man beside her. 

A cleft lip!

His breath hitched.

Without a single thought, Rudro grabbed the little girl's hand and yanked her from the seat. He had almost pulled her free when the man beside her tightened his grip on her arm, holding her back with alarming strength.

"What are you doing?" the man said, his voice low yet aggressive, trying to contain the situation, trying to intimidate Rudro into letting go.

"Let her go," Rudro commanded, his grip unwavering.

"How dare you try to take my child?" the man snapped, his voice edged with menace.

"This is not your child," Rudro shot back, his voice rising. "And if you don't let her go, you're going to be in deep trouble."

The man's expression darkened, his grip on Isha tightening. She whimpered, then started crying.

The altercation was drawing attention now. Heads turned. Eyes flickered toward them. Murmurs rippled through the train as passengers took notice. The man's gaze darted around, assessing the crowd, calculating his next move.

Rudro made the decision for him.

"KIDNAPPER!" he suddenly screamed. "THIS MAN KIDNAPPED A CHILD!"

The air in the train shifted. Passengers were tense. The murmurs turned to gasps.

Then, in a sudden, violent motion, the man shoved past Rudro and bolted toward the exit. One of the passengers lunged, grabbing at his shirt, but the fabric slipped through their fingers.

And just like that, he was gone.