Burman and Yasmeen

For Burman, the realisation that he was in love with Yasmeen wasn’t an epiphanous moment. It was a slow, somewhat sickening, sense that crept up on him one day. He felt it the way one feels sweat on one’s skin — it was oozing from within him and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was right after her last performance for that day.

All those years later, he clearly remembered it was a Friday, for that’s when the crowds thronged to watch Yasmeen gyrate to his tunes and toss coins — notes, if he was lucky — at them. He had finished collecting the proceeds for that evening, and had tucked them away, without counting, in his money box. His rectangular metal box, rusted at the hinges, had a photograph of Goddess Saraswati on the cover. The devi’s bright pink saree was etched on his brain. He couldn’t bear to use that box anymore; it was lying around his house, sometimes here, sometimes there, like a wandering spleen, that held bittersweet memories of Yasmeen.

The two were at dinner when the awful realisation melted into his consciousness over the evening. It was love, with all its trappings. That he was sexually attracted to her at some level was a thought he couldn’t bear to indulge in. It made him loathe himself to the point of nausea.

Burman’s disturbed thoughts on discovering the depth of his sentiments were understandable. The obvious barriers between them, that turned his feelings for her into the worst kind of forbidden love, had faded in a chemical haze that night, as he fed her affectionately. But the barriers were always there. Technically, the difference between him and her, at its genetic core, was less than a percent, but that was enough to make their union blasphemous.

Besides, he had separated her from her family when she was little, and subjugated her on a daily basis. He didn’t keep her in chains like some of the others of his ilk, but it was still an exploitative equation. Her dance moves were cute, but behind them, were hours of cruel training. This had become a way of life for her, though. She had no memory of her life before Burman took her. Theirs was a desperate kind of dependence. In a way, he was her family now.

Her own family was far, far away and would probably not recognise her if they were reunited after all these years. Her skin was now wrinkled and weathered from all the wear and tear of the city; Mumbai was no place for her. Even so, he had thought of setting her free many times. His was a dying trade after all, given India’s rapid urbanisation. He saw it in the eyes of her audience — the amusement was gradually being replaced by pity and concern. But where would she go? And could he survive without her? He depended on her for more than just his livelihood.

By now he knew her intimately — sleep rhythms, bowel movements, menstrual moodiness… he was aware of everything. Her facial expressions were not that easy to read, but he knew that she was the only one in the world who would, absurd as it was, miss his presence were he to disappear suddenly. His family lived in a remote village in a state up North and had all but forgotten he existed.

So that night, when Burman admitted his feelings to himself, he stayed up till dawn, dealing with all the visceral reactions within. Finally, at 6:00 am, emotionally exhausted, he got out of bed and woke Yasmeen. She grabbed his arm like she usually did and walked with him to Kanheri Caves, a wooded area on the outskirts of the city, not far from where they lived, around Borivali. He took off the identifying red threads around her neck and wrists, gave her an awkward hug, hoping she wouldn’t notice the tears, and nudged her to walk away.

He started retreating, deliberately breaking eye contact. Yasmeen stood there confused for a few minutes but then quickly climbed the first tree in sight, barely glancing down at Burman, as he absently hopped into a rickshaw and tossed his dumroo out on the street.

First published in The Aleph Review (issue 7, 2022-23)