Laal Chunni

Laal Chunni

Inspired by Mira Nair’s “Salaam Bombay”

While walking through the teeming streets of Mumbai, he looked at every corner of the road, waiting for its story to be told. He could see stories of love, stories of loss, and stories of entire lifetimes spent in meaningless connections. With the desire for lust and an escape from real-world relationships and bonds, a man often walked up to the nearest possible joy of feeling connected and pleased — something people had come to call “paid love.”

To be called the provider of paid love was far more painful than being the consumer of this disquieting service. As he walked through the street titled “Falkland Road,” he saw plenty of women dressed in shiny, bright garments, with a prominent splash of color on their lips and eyes. The women stood there, waiting for one of the many men to keep them busy for the next hour, just so they could tuck a few Gandhis into the hooked, faded blouse they wore.

He could sense the hunger in the air of Falkland Road — the hunger for lust, the hunger for a full meal, the hunger to be free, and the hunger to be loved.

As he walked down the stairs of his chosen kotha, he saw the madam of the brothel, already prepared with a price for him to pay. She wore a deep blue cotton saree with loose threads flowing from her pallu and paan staining her dark brown lips. She looked like she had seen many days and nights — which she had — though her days had often been made as dark as the night.

She raised a question without the slightest hesitation, wearing a mischievous expression:

“What kind of girl are you looking for, saheb? Would you like to check them all out before you decide which apple you’d like to pluck from the tree?”

He looked at her with a mix of shame and excitement. The brothel owner gestured for him to enter the room that held all of the brothel’s “precious gems” — who, to her, were hardly worth more than the glass panes in the building. She yelled,

“Make a choice fast, saheb. People that enter this room often have an urge to keep changing their minds.”

Out of the many girls present in the room, he noticed one who was quiet, shy, and looked like she understood what many wanted to express but couldn’t. She wore a dark red lipstick, slightly smeared beyond the outline of her lips, and a pair of dangling hoop earrings, their silver coating scraped off. She was dressed in a black salwar kameez with subtle embroidered patterns along the borders, making it look like a frame around a painting. Draped around her neckline and flowing down her left shoulder was a red stole.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her and chose her for the next sixty minutes.

The madam led them to a room a little removed from the main hall — one of many rooms, some with beds whose sheets stayed still, and some whose beds told a different story. The red stole, laal chunni, almost worked as a congruous footprint guiding him to his destination.

The room was dim and worn. The bed looked barely strong enough to carry the weight of the pain she bore each day. There were photographs from the woman’s childhood — likely the last memories she had of it. A basket in the corner held items she probably used each day before becoming a scapegoat for the next transaction.

It felt like he was there to observe the little things about her room — and not her. But in truth, he was there to notice her, and everything that belonged to her.

They sat on the dusty wooden bed and looked at each other. Desensitized to the exploitation she lived through every day, she was prepared for what was about to happen.

But this time, the man chose to admire her — not her skin.

He looked at her with admiration and surrendered eyes. He looked at her as if she was the first of everything that had ever been. He noticed her scratched maroon bangles that didn’t match the shade of her kameez, but somehow matched the color in her eyes.

She asked,

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you here for—uh…”

She hesitated. A few questions ran through the chords of her mind, but she was too vulnerable to let them out.

He responded,

“I’m here to make love to you. I’m here to love every inch of you.”

She looked at him, shocked and confused.

“I don’t understand. Please don’t waste my time, saheb. I have many clients after you.”

He gave her a subtle smile and looked at her lips. He embraced her, his fingers pressing gently against her slender waist. Caught off guard, she pulled her stole toward her while he kissed her tender, young lips. His hands moved along her spine and lower back.

She felt pleased. She felt desired. She felt bonded.

Her hands reached for his sharp, bearded jawline, scattered with faint scars from childhood. He made love to her with all the care she had been denied.

After those passionate minutes of fulfillment and tenderness, he brought her close to his chest — warm and safe — while she still clutched her stole.

He asked,

“Why do you never let go of this?”

She looked at him with a broad, genuine, and rarely seen smile.

“This is my mother’s laal chunni, saheb. This is the only thing left with me that has a part of her in it. I can never let go of her.”

His eyes were heavy with tears — trained not to fall.

She placed a hand on his arm, worn from years of labor, and said,

“I wish I could’ve done this with you for the first time, saheb. I wish I could’ve let you give me all my first experiences.”

He sighed and smiled softly. Looking into her eyes and at her perfectly rolled lashes, he said,

“You did it for the first time today. You made love for the first time today.”