I, Sharmi, Diamond -Ep10

1. 10. I

After that first experience, Senthil and I became close. We spent all our money on movies and drinks, and the question of how to get more became a constant torment. The initial experience had been beyond anything we had imagined, so we both harbored a secret longing for another opportunity. No call came for a week. Each time I considered calling, I remembered his promise to contact us. Having caught on to my newfound wealth, my sister began treating me with newfound respect. Due to my late-night drinking, I woke up late most mornings. Yet, invariably, her call would come as I was rising, informing me she’d made breakfast and asking me to eat before going out. This was all new to me. I’d smile inwardly every time she called. Twice that week, she asked for and received five hundred rupees. I appreciated how, when she asked, she would sit beside me quietly for a moment, holding my hand or stroking my hair while she spoke. It reminded me of my deceased mother’s touch, and I would give her the money for that alone. Her tender touch made me want to earn even more.

Yadav called and asked me to come over immediately. I called Selvam and told him, but he hadn’t been contacted. I insisted he join me. It was the same Nungambakkam flat again. From outside, I rang Yadav’s number, letting it ring four times before hanging up, then knocked three times—as instructed. He opened the door after a couple of minutes. His expression soured when he saw Senthil. Without a word, he opened the door fully, let us in, and immediately shut it behind us. “Don’t bring anyone else without telling me—anyone, including Selvam,” he said before disappearing inside. He returned with the same plump woman from my first visit. I was dismayed, thinking, "Her again?" But then she smiled at Selvam, whose initial enthusiasm visibly waned. I smirked and whispered, “Enjoy,” into his ear. He shot me a glare. Yadav gestured for Selvam to go with her and then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, handing it to me. It contained an address and a phone number.

“You know the Chola Hotel, right?” “Yes, I know it well.” “Good. Be at the entrance of the Russian Cultural Academy, next to the Chola, precisely at nine.

You’ll get a call within half an hour. Her name is Anjana. Her car number is… It’s a high-end operation. Ashok usually handles these arrangements, but since you brought someone along, your ‘worth’ will be assessed tonight,” he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

I took the paper without a word and slipped it into my pocket. Selvam had already gone into the room. The memory of the woman’s naked body from the previous week flashed through my mind, and I smirked. At the bus stand, no buses were in sight. It was already eight o’clock. I took out a King’s cigarette and lit it. As I inhaled deeply, the plump woman’s breasts resurfaced in my memory. With the lack of buses, the crowd at the stop was growing. I snapped my fingers and hailed an auto-rickshaw, telling the driver, "Chola." He set off without a word. Thoughts of Ashok and Anjana swirled in my mind.

A light drizzle began to fall, spraying into the open auto-rickshaw. Within ten minutes, we were caught in Chennai’s suffocating traffic, inching our way forward before finally arriving in front of the Chola Hotel. I craned my neck to look up at the imposing building. One day… one day I’ll go inside, I thought. It wasn’t even 8:30 yet. A strange mix of anticipation and anxiety churned within me. Several young women were gathered near the hotel entrance, each accompanied by at least two men. They touched each other casually, embracing and kissing each other on the cheek during introductions. Most of the women were smoking slim cigarettes. I wondered what those who equated cigarettes with masculinity would think of this scene. I observed a mix of hesitation in some women, blatant indifference in others, and a swaggering, almost masculine air in a few. It was noteworthy that many of the young men weren’t smoking. Passersby on the government buses stared with wide-eyed curiosity. I lit another cigarette. It was 8:50. I walked past the Chola and turned left, spotting the Russian Cultural Academy. The drizzle had stopped. I stood beneath a small tree, looking around. Cars and motorcycles sped past. Two young men a short distance away were exchanging insults every few minutes, their language mirroring my own. Suddenly, a car slowed to a stop near me, its headlights illuminating me. I could feel them watching me from within for a few seconds. Before I could shield my eyes and make out the license plate, the car moved on, stopping next to the two young men. The window rolled down, a fair-skinned woman inside spoke to them, and they climbed into the car. It finally dawned on me: they were like me. Just as I was processing this, a car horn sounded behind me. I turned to see the same car. At the same moment, my phone rang.

“Hi, I’m Anjana… get in the car,” a slightly commanding voice said.

Without a word, I hung up and tried the back door, but the front passenger door opened. Only after getting in did I notice an older man in the back seat. The woman driving was strikingly beautiful. The indifference in her eyes was strangely exciting. She looked me up and down and said, “Not quite Ashok’s type, but you’re smart enough. You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied.

Without warning, she placed her hand behind my head, pulled me towards her, and kissed me deeply, almost sucking my entire lip into her mouth. Her hands roamed over my body, one sliding beneath my pants, pressing firmly against me. She broke the kiss, glanced in the rearview mirror, and said, “Dear, the boy is fresh. He’s blushing,” before accelerating sharply, merging daringly onto the main road and heading towards the beach road. I simply stared at her.