beers, perhaps a smoke or two, one of the more daring boys firing up a joint, the stares and remarks the morning after on the stairwell and down the lane. The stations of the harlot’s progress, the final scene—a battered young woman lying in a recovery room in a government hospital in a cold alien city.
“I don’t know if we can stay here after this.”
“Will the landlord throw you out?”
“Even if he doesn’t, why would we stay?”
Smita drank her tea and considered this. “What’s he like?” she inquired of the landlord.
Quiet enough, was the answer. A Punjabi, not from the village. Bought this building a few years ago, according to those neighbors who deigned to speak to them. Not great with complaints, but not overly concerned with rent payments either. And he never just walked in.
“The people around here?”
There was an old couple who lived on the floor below. The ground floor was kept shut. The owner used it as some sort of storage space.
“And upstairs?”
The girls kept quiet, looking at each other.
“Well?” prodded Smita.
“It’s a whorehouse.”
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