Courage — Short Story

I had just moved to a new suburb from the main city. My new job was in town. I used to leave office by 7-7.30 in the evening. It was fairly dark by the time I reached my suburban train station. From there, I used to walk to my apartment. There was a long bridge which I had to cross before I reached my locality and then home. At a distance from the bridge, there was a parallel footpath. Very few people used that footpath. It didn’t have lights, but moonlight and lights from the bridge shone on it. Halfway through that path there was a slight bend where a few women would stand every day. They stood there as if waiting for someone. But looking at their clothes and careless way of standing, I realised they were actually prostitutes. It took me at least a week to reach that conclusion though, as I had never ‘seen’ prostitutes, only heard about them.

I would observe those women every evening while crossing the bridge. They would stand there: sometimes chatting, sometimes quiet, but always swaying their bodies in a particular way; and always clad in sarees. If I were lucky I would get to see one of them walking with a customer, away from the footpath and bridge. I do not know if those prostitutes had rooms of their own or it was the customers’ responsibility to take care of a place. I have no idea how the whole thing worked. I had never visited a brothel or had sex with a sex worker (or anyone for that matter), or ever talked to anyone who had. It intrigued me to think about those sex workers and their customers. How did a customer approach them? What conversation transpired between them? For how long? I never got to see the exact encounter (not that I would have been able to hear anything but I would at least have gotten to see their gestures); whenever I saw the sex worker-customer pair, they were already walking away from the footpath.

I was in my 20s and a virgin, and so I used to think about sex a lot. There used to be oestrus-like periods when I used to think about it even more. While crossing the bridge, whenever I spotted the sex worker-customer pair walking together, it would mildly arouse me. Gradually, I had warmed up to the idea of fantasizing about the sex workers. I wondered what it would be like to have sex with one of them. Would I be able to do it at all? What would her hut be like? Would she patronize me? Would the flesh of a woman who was not only a stranger but a few years older than me, was overly decked up, seemed sort of unkempt even with that extra make-up — would it repulse me? I obviously didn’t have the answers, nor was I very keen to find them. It was just a sort of game I used to play while crossing the bridge. But one day I thought — what if I actually did it? What if I took that footpath, approached the prostitutes, and took one of them with me? I was new in the suburb; no one knew me, so there was no chance of someone identifying me from the bridge.

One day, I decided to take the plunge. I am generally very shy, and utterly at loss for words while talking to strangers. But that day I don’t know how but I was feeling very courageous. I was in a sort of daze. My mind was working in a mysterious way. I was feeling quite concupiscent too. My mind had started working on the fantasies in the office itself. All through the train journey back home, I was imagining stuff I would do to the prostitute once we had reached her hut. It was giving me mild sensations. I had gone in a reverie. I wasn’t aware of anyone around me. I was slightly wet too.

But as my stop came closer, I started to think about the preliminary stuff: how to approach the prostitutes and what to say, etc. I started to imagine scenarios in my mind. I couldn’t come up with a single workable one. I started to become a little worried. How to strike up a conversation? What to say? I decided not to panic, hoping that the plan would work somehow.

It was around 9.30 pm when I got down on the station platform. The station wasn’t crowded. I started walking towards the exit. I took the bridge which led me right outside the station towards the footpath. I had set off on my adventure after all.

I think my mental state was surprisingly normal: I was breathing normally, my steps were steady. I don’t remember what my thoughts were though. I don’t think I was thinking anything anymore. I guess I had given up on coming up with any workable scenario. I was hoping I would come up with something on the spot. But as I started to approach the spot where the prostitutes were standing, I started to shake a little and my heartbeats increased. As I became aware of my perturbation, the pace of my steps increased too. I decided that I couldn’t do it after all. I had taken a glance at the women when I left the station. There were four. I had not even decided which one to choose. But now that question was redundant. I had lost my confidence. I was feeling slightly frightened too. I had given up at the last moment.

But I kept walking on that footpath, a little faster now. When I came closer to the spot where the prostitutes were standing, my heartbeats increased. I started breathing heavily, and when I reached the spot, I almost skipped a few beats. I didn’t have the courage to even slightly tilt my gaze. The pace of my footsteps had now tripled; and as I just passed the prostitutes, one of them yelled in a slightly husky rhythmic voice, “Aye chikane.” God, I had a such terrible impulse to run; run as if I was chased by a tiger. And I did run, eventually, when I was out of their view… I reached my apartment panting heavily.

Obviously, I didn’t take that footpath ever again. And after a few months I left the suburb too.


10 thoughts on “Courage — Short Story

  1. I have been thinking how foolish it was of me that I haven’t written about sex yet. It is plain embarrassing that I don’t loudly discuss sexuality or sex on my blog. I am so annoyed you got the “courage” before me. Yar. Tejas.

    This writing is amazing! So honest about human insecurities and thoughts while exploring sexuality. Superb! Yar. Tejas. This has inspired me!

    You always motivate me to disturb the calm!

  2. Honestly, kinda mediocre. Wasn’t a short-story by any means – more correctly a “brief account” (due to lack of much of a plot, storyline, characters, etc). I guess the best way to describe it is as “a first-person narrative account” … Also, the writing style was too disjointed with too many questions strewn/interspersed in between. It was like reading Aristotle’s mind when he was pondering Existentialism as applied to approaching a prostitute … (sorry, just being honest/my 2 cents) … Nevertheless, it is definitely bold/courageous to tackle such subject-matter. h/t

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