She came from the chawls of Karnatipura,
those ancient five-storey houses with their long varandas
swanned by ladies of the night, who leant over banisters,
whispering in dark alleys, wearing rouge and kajal.
Keeper of beds, cheaper than kothi for public servants,
for drunken men of the village,
more outcast than dalit, bhangi or dhobi.
She came from the chawls of Karnatipura,
jangling her ankle bells, with deep-throated taunts,
prodding me on the train to Andheri when I was a foreigner
in my own country. I was ten years old
on summer vacation, packed in the Ladies' carriage,
dressed in t-shirt and Levis, among the garlands, the ghagras;
ingenuous to her chicanery, her occult skill;
not knowing beneath her sari the unspeakable scars
of custom and ridicule. A cultural fragment out of context,
a gender beyond my Christian judgements, Fata Morgana,
a ficto-critical anecdote. I'd never read the epic myths
or studied Sanskrit. I was ignorant of Lord Krishna
made incarnate as the beautiful Mohini and engaged
to Aravanan. Her name was Sīta, once from Bihar.
She was beaten and disowned by her family, assaulted
by beggars, by police; a harridan, an anarchist, her blouse loose
and gaudy, her eyes so wild I would not forget.
She came from the chawls of Karnatipura, a bathhouse,
where she lived with her mothers, her sisters and her friends.