Letter from a Prostitute

I sincerely hope you haven't previously received a letter from a prostitute. I likewise trust that till today you have not seen the substance of me and different ladies of this age. I also know how wrong I was to write this open letter to you, but I don't know what to do because the situation is so dire and the demands of these two girls are so severe that I can't live without writing it. I'm not composing this letter, these letters are being composed by Bella and Batul. If any of the words in my letter offended you, I sincerely apologize. I'll do it out of compulsion.

Why are Bela and Batul requesting this letter from me? What do these two girls stand for, and why are their demands so high? Don't be afraid, I want to tell you a little bit about myself before I tell you everything else. I don't want to share my shady past with you. I won't even say when or why I started working as a prostitute. I have not come to ask for fictitious mercy from you out of any noble motive. By acknowledging your aching heart, I don't want to injure my sanity by creating a false love myth. I have nothing to say in my sanity, and the purpose of this letter is not to reveal the mysteries of prostitution. I just want to share a few things about myself that might affect Bela and Batul's lives in the future.

You must have visited Bombay numerous times. Jinnah Sahib has visited Bombay a lot. However, you must have observed our market. Fars Road is the name of the market near where I live. situated in the vicinity of Madanpura, Grant Road, and Faris Road. Crossing Grant Road, Limington Road leads to Upper House and Chowpatty. Marine Drive and Fort areas exist. Where the aristocrats of Bombay reside. Madanpura has a poor neighborhood on this side. Fars Road is situated in the middle of the two so that both wealthy and poor individuals can gain access to it. Madanpura is still closer to Gofars Road. because idolatry and prostitution are always very close to one another.

This market doesn't look very pretty. The people who live there are also not pretty. In the middle of it, trams continue to rumble day and night. where it is common to see stray dogs, slaves, martyrs, idle and criminal creatures roaming its streets. In this bazaar, the deaf, the lame, the drug addicts, the pickpockets, the syphilitic and gonorrheic, the obscene, the suffocating, and the lame walk. Filthy hotels, millions of flies buzzing in piles of filth on the slick pavement, depressing coal and wood warehouses, professional prostitutes, old necklace sellers of coke, nappy pullers, Chinese and Islamic barbers, and nude picture sellers On Faris Road, you'll find the swearing wrestlers and all the trash from our social life. Clearly, why would you arrive here? As many gentlemen as there are live across Grant Road, and those who are very genteel reside at Malabar Hill, so no gentleman ventures this way.

I once bowed and saluted in front of Jinnah Sahib's house as I passed. I also had Batul with me. I will never be able to adequately convey Batul's love for you (Janah Sahib). After God and the Messenger, you are the only person she wants in the world. He wears a chest locket with your picture on it. not with malicious intent. Batul is still a young girl, eleven years old. People on Go Faris Road already have bad intentions for her, but she'll tell you again at some point.

I live on Faris Road, so this is it. Near the Chinese barbershop at the western end of Faris Road is my shop, which is at the end of a dark alley. It is not referred to as a shop, but you are wise; what can I conceal from you? I will say that I have a shop there, and I conduct business there in the same manner as a tailor, fruit seller, hotel seller, car seller, cinema seller, cloth seller, or any other shopkeeper. In every trade, customers think of their benefit in addition to pleasing others. Similar is my business as well. The only difference between me and other traders is that I do not engage in the black market.

The place this shop is located is not ideal. Individuals stagger here around evening time or in any event, during the day. In this gloomy street, people empty their pockets. They consume liquor. where the entire abuse is sold. Here, someone has been stabbed. On every second and third day, bleeding continues. Because I'm constantly in trouble and wouldn't make a good prostitute to go to Poon Hill or get a house by sea in Worli.

Although I have traveled throughout India, drank that water, and sat in the company of a wide range of people, I am a very low-class prostitute who has remained in Bombay for ten years. on the same Road to Fars. I'm sitting in the same shop now, and I can buy a turban there for up to 6,000 rupees. Even though this location is poor. Mud is all over and the air smells bad. Heaps of rottenness stack up and bothersome canines hasten to distress overreacted clients, yet I track down the spot's turbans as high as Rs.6,000.

My shop is in a one-story house at this location. It has two rooms. My sitting area is in the front room. I work in the back room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom, sing, dance, and entertain customers here. A side tap is here. There is a bed on one side, as well as a large bed on the opposite side, a smaller bed underneath, and my clothing boxes underneath. The outer room has an electric light, but the inner room is completely dark. The house's owner has not completed the fort in years and will not. Who has time like that? I sing and dance all night while keeping Bella and Batul in the back room and resting my head on the cow pillow during the day. Frequently, when the clients go here to wash their mouths, Bella and Batul begin taking a gander at them with wide eyes, which is what their eyes say. The same is said in my letter as well. I am aware that the world would have tho of me if she had not been with me at that time. This sinful bond would not have done this insolence in your service. I am aware that it is possible that this letter will not reach you. Nonetheless, I am compelled to write this letter to state that this is Bela and Batul's intention.

You probably already know that Bella and Batul are my daughters. That is incorrect; I do not have a partner. These two girls were my purchase from the market. The days when the Hindu Muslim uproars were going full bore and human blood was being shed like water on Award Street, Faris Street, and Madanpura. At the time, I paid three hundred rupees for Bela from a Muslim broker. The girl had been brought from Delhi, where Bela's parents lived, by this Muslim prostitute.

In Rawalpindi, Bela's parents resided in the street in front of Poonch House at the rear of Raja Bazaar. They were a working-class family, and honorability and severity were in decline. When Muslims began killing Hindus in Rawalpindi, Bela, her parent's only child, was in the fourth grade. This incident occurred on July 12th. Bela saw a gym chair in front of her house and the houses of other Hindus as she returned home from school. Armed, these individuals destroyed homes and killed individuals, their children, and women. They used to use the slogan "Allahu Akbar" simultaneously. With her own eyes, Bella witnessed the murder of her father. He then witnessed his mother's death in person. Her breasts had been cut off and thrown away by the barbaric Muslims. When a mother, whether Hindu, Muslim, Christian, or Jewish, breastfeeds her child, she or he begins a new chapter in human life's creation in the vastness of the universe. Chants of Allahu Akbar cut off those milky breasts. The creation had been subjected to such cruel treatment. Some savage murkiness filled their spirits with this ink.

According to what I have read in the Quran, what Bela's parents went through in Rawalpindi was not Islam, it was not human, it was not enmity, it was not revenge, it was such a blessing, it was cruelty, and it was cowardice and the evil that comes from the bowels of history and tarnishes even the last ray of light. I am aware of this because I have read the Quran. Now, Bella is with me. She was with a Muslim prostitute with a beard before me. When Bella took fourth-grade classes, she was less than twelve years old. She would have entered fifth grade today if she had been at home. Then, when she was a child, her parents would have wed her to a poor boy from a noble family, and she would live in her own tiny home with her husband, her young children, and the little pleasures of her domestic life.

However, this delicate bud fell too soon. Now, Bella doesn't appear to be twelve. Although he is young, his life is very long. His expression of fear. The harshness of mankind or its blood, the thirst of death, Quaid-I-Azam, maybe if you can see it, you can figure out it. can descend into these helpless eyes' depths. You are a respectable man. You would have realized that innocence does not depend on religion if you had seen the Hindu or Muslim or innocent Sharif family girls. He has everyone's confidence. It is the world's heritage, and no god of any religion can forgive the person who destroys it.

I live with Bella and Batul like sisters. Bela and Batul are not siblings. Batul is a female Muslim. Hindu parents gave birth to Bela. They are currently sitting together in the rundi's home on Fars Road.

Batul is the daughter of a Pathan from Khem Karan, a village in Jalandhar, whereas Bela is from Rawalpindi. Batul's father was a minor farmer in Khem Karan, and he had seven daughters—three of whom were married and four of whom were virgins. Unfortunate Pathans yet Gheor Pathans who had gotten comfortable with Khemkaran for a long time. These three or four houses belonged to Pathans in this Jats village. Panditji, the tranquility and peace these people once enjoyed can probably be deduced from the fact that, despite being Muslims, they were not permitted to construct a mosque in their village. For centuries, since Maharaja Ranjit Singh took over the Annan government, no believer had offered adhan in this village. These people used to pray quietly at home. His heart was filled with mysticism, but he lacked the courage to speak because the constraints of the outside world and the idea of tolerance predominated. Her father's favorite girl was Batul.

The most youthful, the best, the most gorgeous of the seven. Pandit ji, you are of Kashmiri descent, and as an artist, you also know what beauty is. Batul is so beautiful that touching it makes me happy. It would be difficult to locate a gentleman to examine this exquisite beauty that is currently lying in my dirt pile. It is so well disguised. Only the rotten Marwaris, contractors with thick mustaches, and thieves with filthy eyes can be seen in this filth. Batul has no formal education at all. He chanted Jinnah Sahib's slogans and thought Pakistan was a good spectacle; all he had heard was the name. like children between the ages of three and four running around the house yelling "long live the revolution." He is just 11 years old.

Ignorant fool. I was given it by a Hindu prostitute. I paid five hundred rupees for it. Where did she once reside? I cannot say that. Yes, Lady Doctor has imparted so much information to me that listening to it could drive you insane. Batul is now also a little mad. His father was killed by the Jats with such brutality that the skins of Hindu civilization over the previous 6,000 years have fallen off and human barbarism has been exposed. His eyes were initially cut out by the Jats. They then cut his throat and removed his intestines after urinating in his mouth. After that, he brutally murdered his married daughters. Rehana, Gul Derakhshan, Marjana, Sohan, and Begum were all defiled by the barbarian man as they stood in front of their deceased father. Who sang them lullabies, gave them life, and bowed down before them in shame, wonder, and purity. slept with all of these mothers and sisters. Hinduism was no longer respected. It had outgrown tolerance. He lost his greatness. Rigveda's mantras were silent today. Today, Granth Sahib's every couplet was ashamed. Hara Shlok of Geeta was injured today. Who can identify the Ajanta painting in front of me? He can recite Ashoka's scriptures and sing Ellora's Sanamzadas songs. Your Ajanta's demise can be seen in Batul's helpless broken lips, the wild animal teeth mark on his arms, and the unevenness of his full legs. There is a funeral for Ellora. Your culture is obscured. Let me take you to see the beauty that once belonged to a maiden. Let me show you this foul-smelling corpse in Batul right now.

I spoke a lot, wallowing in passion-filled tears. Perhaps I should not have said everything. Perhaps this is your aesthetic. Perhaps no one has ever heard or said anything more repugnant from you. Perhaps not even slightly. Our nation has remained liberated. In India and Pakistan, anyone, possibly even a prostitute, has the right to inquire about Bela and Batul's future.

Batul and Bella are both girls. Two nations exist. Two civilizations exist. A mosque and two temples can be found here. Currently, Bela and Batul reside on Faris Road with a rundi who owns a barbershop next to a Chinese one. This tactic is not liked by Bela or Batul. I purchased them. If I want, I can acquire this work from them. But I think I won't do to them what Rawalpindi and Jalandhar did. Up until this point, I have kept them away from the world of Persia Road. However, when my clients go to the back room and begin cleaning up, Bella and Batul's eyes begin letting me know I can hardly sit tight for those eyes. I couldn't in fact as expected pass them on to you. Why don't you read what these eyes are saying for yourself? I want you to adopt Batul as your child, Panditji. I want you to think of Bela as your daughter-in-law, Jinnah, sir. Just once free them from the grasp of this Persian street and keep them in your home and pay attention to the groan of these large number of spirits. From Noakhali to Rawalpindi Tilak and from Bharatpur to Bombay, this cry is echoing. You will hear this voice, isn't his voice heard only in the Government House?

Sincerely, Yours Truly, from a prostitute from Fars Road