The Life and Times of a Body Connoisseur

by Rameen Saad

The Life and Times of a Body Connoisseur

Amongst the ruins of the old Lahore cityscape, tucked beyond the reach of tourists in search of some misguided cultural enlightenment, where the smells of street food mingle with the stench of open sewers, was a less than savoury concoction—the home of a certain gutter-rat. The expanse of her life—unremarkably short and sickeningly sweet in her head—was rooted in this gully packed into nocturnal Heera Mandi. She had been branded Gulzar Fatima from birth by her late grandfather, Shoikat, who met his untimely death when the slam of cricket bat against green ball reached his forehead, followed by a loud ‘FOUR’ from a bowler whose short height kept him from witnessing his eventual target.

Following this birthright, she accumulated a number of names in the years that followed with a sort of naive pride only expected from those who are not used to being called anything at all. Dirty for her skin tone, churail for the blackness of her rough hair and the mottled cries that kept the whole building clutching pillows to their ears, and made stray cats look up in wonderment. The neighbour next door saw her kajal-lined eyes and announced, in a bitten and sarcastic tone, that the brown-skinned baby would definitely rule over men’s hearts like any Rani was meant to. Her misguided mother, inhaling the last few dregs of the sutta clutched between her over-lined lips, tripped over the underlying message of this remark since she was already dizzy with Bollywood-bolstered dreams of what her daughter would achieve. The child who had previously been a post-marital hindrance to her otherwise lustrous sex life had finally found room in her thoughts. 

Yet as her prodigy grew and achieved a coarse, pre-pubescent understanding of the world, her mother was forced to see the shaking lack of remarkableness her daughter held. She harked like a parrot and held no siren-like capabilities to entrance those who were unfortunate enough to hear her talk. Her peculiar physique was that of a rake, dark hair sprouting from seemingly everywhere as she grew into her bones, lacking the bodacious bosom expected of her. Her upper lip sported a moustache, which made her mother almost tear her own hair out in anger as she religiously threaded the offending hair off once a week. ‘Only a little maintenance is needed,’ she mumbled to herself whilst her daughter sat obediently in her chair, masking her obvious agony through gritted teeth. At night, she picked at the excess hair with her own fingers, wishing she could fit the image of her mother yet it all remained for naught. 

And when summer after summer went by like this, her mother abandoned her little project. As the money she spent on lounging and brightly coloured georgette saris floundered, she side-eyed her little Rani and proclaimed to herself that home was no place for a young girl with prospects. The idea excited young Gulzar who had trailed the shadow of her mother’s skirts until her own was gulped by it. With nighttime approaching, she was ushered to the front door draped in colourful fabric, her face loaded with assorted powders to mimic a starlet glow. She was told to ‘be a good bachi and do whatever the nice man tells you.’

There she began her course in adulthood. She met men of all shapes and sizes who whisked her away in their cars, sometimes to old hotel rooms or darkened alleys. Devoid of regular schooling, she became very literate in the art of the body; not so much her own as much as that of the male specimen. She was made hyper-aware of what was important and what was not, learning to kneel when needed, bite her tongue and be laid out for the very nice men who finished their business and left her with a few notes. Some of them would have a trinket or two with them while others would call her their Rani. These rarities made her blush, the newness of being wanted filling her to the brim. Some were kind enough to drive her longer if she begged, promising a few more minutes in exchange for some wind. They enjoyed the joy they brought her, playing at being sweet companions until they tired of the game and wanted what they came for.

She, in turn, grew into her newly-acquired routine, noticing how her mother left her alone in the mornings. She began slipping out to the world, which was not very remarkable but a delight to the starved and isolated child. She was, at this point, the infamous Rani, earning smiles from men as they attempted to catch a brush of her youthful skin and sulks from the older women who saw this headstrong girl flashing what could only be called her assets. Children mocked her, their songs passed off as background noise, a cause for mirth. She lacked the vernacular of the street kids, their pointed insults falling to flat ears.

She still traipsed through the winding streets, mingling with the bustle of the market and finally finding a voice to chat with. Boys wanted to talk to her, fill her ears with boasts and flirtations that she met unsteadily at first, and grew accustomed to countering impishly. These youths made a habit of exchanging favours with her and she accepted readily, using her body as currency. Our Rani was easily filled with wonderment, weak to her knees at the twinkle of fairy lights. Things made a lot of sense and she was, what she considered, the happiest she would ever be.

It was in these streets that she met Abdul, the very picture of a teenager caught in the throes of puberty, who locked eyes with the  Rani and proclaimed that he had fallen deeply in love. This college boy saw her first with a massive paper kite clutched in her hands as she ran upon the roofs of the buildings that walled the alley with quick, fleeting leaps. The short shirt she wore lifted with each sprint, flashing a bronze belly at the boy and igniting a new flame that he would soon come to realize as lust but mistook for undying passion. He then attempted his wooing with sweaty hands and a shake to his lip, in shock when his love seemed to respond in kind as they stood together in front of the mithai shop, him clutching a box of sweets and her readily taking it, asking him to call her Rani and to pick her up at eight.

Freshly shaved and showered, he met her at the end of the street, new to the concept of courting in its entirety as opposed to our Rani, who fulfilled all the requirements she deemed necessary for a first meeting, biting her lip and making quite the show of what little chest she could use. He responded with the tent that was being erected slowly but surely under his shalwar as he felt her hair brush against his neck as she came closer and closer. This strange dance continued until Rani made the first move, eliciting a surprised, breathy and all too shaken moan from the unsuspecting boy who had never dreamed of such an encounter before. In the throes of his vague idea of sex and the quick way in which his darling dealt with the matter, he claimed he saw God in the darkness of the empty room in which they conducted their matter. Afterwards, gasping, he noticed she had collected her belongings and was methodically redressing herself, ensuring the makeup was still intact and was about to head out. His encounter with female flesh had emboldened him and he held her back with one arm.

‘Where are you going?’ He demanded, as she frowned in confusion.

‘Are you not satisfied?’ She was affronted. Her service, by her standard, had been quite good. She had worked him up after all. She obediently returned to his grasp and set back to work as her hand slid down, yet was further confused by his reluctance to her advances.

‘Look, Rani, from the moment I first laid eyes upon you I have loved you,’ he stuttered, a blush creeping up his cheeks. ‘I want to spend my life with you and feel bonded to you in a way I did not know could exist.’ After this rash declaration, he did not expect her quick reply.

‘Thank you. I’m free again at this time tomorrow but only for half an hour,’ she smiled sweetly at him, and then tilted her head in confusion as he stared back crestfallen.

‘Will you not tell me you love me back?’

‘I love you.’ The curtness of her voice had begun to drive him insane and her inability to mirror his passion hit him full force. He grabbed her wrist and forced her hand back.

‘Liar!’ He shouted, the betrayal of his beloved setting in. ‘You played me like some common whore!’

‘Ay!’ She finally replied with annoyed gusto, appalled that her work was being so heavily critiqued. ‘I am not a common whore. A common whore would not know how to have a man hooked from a mere swish of her skirts. I’m A-one, you hear?’

He met her with a slap, angrily sweeping his pants off the floor before darting out with a heavy chest and a backstory for his newly broken heart. Rani rolled her eyes, reaching into her bag to grab the pocket mirror she kept for situations like this. The stinging on her face brought on a bright red mark. She tutted silently to herself as she coated it with a fresh layer of powder. Dusting her shalwar off, she left the room as empty as it had been before she had flown in, reminding herself to practice saying ‘I love you’ in front of the mirror when she reached home. She had to give them what they wanted, after all.