Working girl

Night has fallen on Bombay.

The sea has swallowed the sun, and the night things have come crawling out.

Under the flyover next to Matunga Road Station, Varun lights his little lamp. It illuminates his tiny, perfectly clean mirror — the only perfectly clean thing in all of Bombay. Leaning in, he studies his reflection. His face has been scrubbed clean at the water tanker standing outside the construction site next to the supermarket. There is no trace of the day’s labour on it. At the ripe old age of 17, while his fellow brick-carriers at the construction site have let the sun and the heat and the despair carve deep grooves on their faces, Varun’s face is smooth. Teenage acne has passed him by. He has large, beautiful eyes and long, curling eye-lashes. Anywhere else in the world, he would be considered handsome, but this is India. And Varun is dark — skinned. Not the acceptable wheat — ish, but a deep, dark, smooth chocolate colour.

Varun grimaces at his fine features, and begins.

First, the foundation, patted on with a practiced hand. It is much too light a shade, and much too much of it, but Varun will do anything to make his ugly dark skin look nicer. Then comes the bright red lipstick, worn down to a nub. Then the kajal, gently applied with the tip of his little finger, just the way his mother used to do. Then the eyeliner, drawn into delicate fish-tails at the corners. And then the crowning glory — powder blue eye shadow, Varun’s most expensive and prized possession, dusted sparingly on his eyelids.

He pats his silky wig, attached to his short coarse hair with the auspicious fourteen pins, and makes some final adjustments to the tight T-shirt he was wearing over the push-up bra that makes his chest look just the right amount of feminine.

He blows out the lamp and crawls out of his tiny little tent, careful not to mess his hair. His neighbours avoid looking at him, as he sashays away, shiny little condom and lipstick-filled clutch in hand. Tomorrow they will share chai with him, but in the nights, he is a stranger.

Varun walks up to the only brightly lit spot on the road, outside the Bank of India ATM, and strikes a pose, smiling and waving at passing cars. He tosses his hair and juts his hip suggestively.

A big white SUV pulls up, flying the orange flag of a political party. He knows this client. A tough, powerful man who will want to cuddle him afterward.

The door opens and he gets in.

The SUV pulls back into the traffic.

Candy has started her shift.