Chains of the Brothel: Part 2 — The Price of 2200 Rupees

The year was 1990. Anita had been married only two years when her world began to collapse.

She had once believed marriage was a doorway into love and safety. Amit Mishra had wooed her with promises — sweet words whispered in the quiet of evening, vows of forever, dreams of building a family together. Anita believed him. She gave him her trust, her loyalty, her heart.

And for a brief moment, it felt real.

When their son Aryan was born, Anita thought her life had finally found meaning. At just eighteen days old, Aryan was fragile and innocent — his tiny fists curling as he slept, his shallow breaths carrying the weight of her prayers. Every time she touched his soft skin, Anita felt strength surge inside her, a reason to keep living.

But the man she trusted shattered it all.

For 2200 rupees — the price of a second-hand car, land on the edge of town, or months of food — Amit Mishra sold his wife. To him, Anita was no longer a partner or the mother of his child. She was a transaction. A deal.

When Anita discovered the truth, the floor beneath her cracked open. She begged. She cried until her throat burned raw. With Aryan pressed against her chest, she pleaded for mercy — for her baby’s sake if not for her own. But her words fell into silence, as if the world had grown deaf to her suffering.

That night, the doors of her old life slammed shut.

The brothel was not just a place — it was a prison of despair. The air was thick with liquor and sweat. The food came spoiled, crawling with insects. The women inside carried hollow eyes, their bodies moving like shadows stripped of their humanity.

Anita entered this darkness unwillingly, but she clung to one fragile lifeline: Aryan.

Every night after enduring the cruelty of strangers, she would crawl back to her child. She cradled him close, rocking him gently as he coughed in the damp air. She whispered lullabies of a world beyond the brothel — fields of sunlight, homes of laughter, a life where his innocence would never be stolen.

But the keepers made sure hope came with a warning.

“If you don’t obey, your child will pay.”

Those words stabbed deeper than any wound.

Anita endured everything. Every humiliation. Every night of pain. She bore it with clenched teeth because Aryan’s heartbeat against her chest reminded her that she could not break. He was too small, too fragile. Her suffering had to be his shield.

Days bled into weeks. Weeks into months. Anita’s body began to move like a machine, trapped in the endless cycle. Yet her soul — bruised, battered — still fought to keep Aryan alive.

Sometimes she looked at the other women. Some were older, their eyes long emptied of hope. Others were young like her, their tears still fresh, their spirits not yet extinguished. They spoke in whispers at night, sharing stories of children left behind, families that forgot them, dreams that had turned to ash. In those whispers, Anita found both sorrow and strength. She wasn’t alone — but she was one of the few who still had a child in her arms.

That thought terrified her more than anything.

Aryan grew weaker as the months dragged on. His cough deepened, his cries turned softer, his tiny body struggling to survive in a place so poisoned by despair. Sometimes Anita feared that her love alone wouldn’t be enough to keep him alive. In those moments, she pressed her lips to his forehead and prayed with everything left in her soul.

Then one evening, the nightmare twisted again.

A wealthy visitor entered the brothel. His clothes were sharp, his laughter loud, his steps heavy with arrogance. Unlike the others, his eyes didn’t settle on Anita. They drifted toward the corner where Aryan slept, his chest rising and falling weakly with each fragile breath.

The man smirked. He set his glass down with a sharp crack that echoed through the room. Anita’s body tensed, her arms wrapping tightly around Aryan as if she could shield him from the gaze now fixed on her son.

The man’s boots scraped across the floor, the sound louder than her pounding heartbeat. Suddenly, he kicked a stool, sending it crashing into the wall with a splintering crack. Aryan startled awake, his cries piercing the suffocating silence.

Anita staggered back, clutching him desperately. Her whole body trembled, but her grip on Aryan did not falter.

The man’s laughter curled through the air like smoke — cold, merciless.

And in that terrifying moment, Anita knew the truth. The price of 2200 rupees had not finished collecting its debt. Her darkest chapter had only just begun.

To Be Continued…

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