By Neel Anil Panicker
It’s just a bed: A rickety closet, a side table atop which straddles an improvised lampshade that emanates light just bare enough to help me navigate the oblong space that I call home.
I saunter in at hours that can at best be termed unearthly, and drag my two weary feet across and slump onto to the ‘cool as autumnal freshness ‘ satin laced bed sheets, gloriously oblivious to my surroundings.
This when I am pitch drunk.
But there are also times when I am sober, when no clients come my way, when I return empty handed–, my pockets devoid of pelfs and perks associated with my line of business.
Coincidentally, these are also the nights I go to sleep, my stomach still craving and cramping for a mongrel of food.
You might wonder, looking at me, at my fancy clothes, and also the place where I stay, that I must be loaded, that I must be happy.
Truth be told: I am not. I am but an impoverished village girl who’s housed in this room paid for by pimp whose needs as of a dozen others I fulfill every single night.
A minimal being serving maximal needs of animalistic beings.
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