You know how it feels like to be a walking-talking plastic, oh, wait! I am sorry plastics don’t feel anything. That is exactly who I am. When the hair dresser colors my hair, straightens my curls I feel nothing, when the make-up artists cakes my face with all the existing beauty products I feel nothing, when I am dolled up in different dresses as I walk the ramp, I feel nothing. I have shielded my eyes, no emotions cross my features when I walk the ramp or attend parties, because every single pair of eyes I meet there are either devouring me or envying. The handshakes are cold; hugs are just to tell me that I am good enough. The click clack of heels on the marble flooring annoys me to no end in spite of knowing I make the same sound while walking! I cannot carry my weight even though I am known for my zero figure, because I cannot carry the weight of not being me.
How I would give everything I have just to be at home and be a normal person, cook my own meals, start a family. I have longed to see love, lust is all I get to which I choose to close my eyes. I wish I had a normal childhood, where I would have played with dolls and dreamt about my future with the prince charming. But as fate would have liked it I played other games, which were far from the innocent ones that toddlers are introduced too. I was found in a compartment of a Delhi bound train, sitting on a coach hugging my knees and crying for help. The hand that reached out to me was not the one I expected to be, she wasn’t my mom, I still took it though I was hungry and tired. At the age of six I did not know to control those two. Sweet lady she was I thought as she took me to her place and fed me jalebis. Her home was enchanting to say the least, with the magnificent hall in the middle of four rooms with a beautiful chandelier adorning the ceiling, white washed walls thick red velvet curtains that were floor length which covered every single source of light (for me life), a carpet was laid on the marble flooring on which sat three small rectangular sittings spread out at equal lengths. Four girls were practicing few steps there, with ghongroos tied to their legs. Little as I was I went in between them and started copying their dance steps, they giggled at me and pulled my cheeks. That day Amma gave me my own set of ghongroos. Which are rusting somewhere in my wardrobe today. I dread that noise too now, since that thing is responsible for where and what I am today, From Amma’s kotha (brothel) to the glamour world a successful model. What is the point of that success? The person who is successful is who people want to see in me, not who I really am. No one will understand the difference between Mishti that I was and Misha that I have become.
Wondering how a former prostitute is a super model today? Firstly a former prostitute because I don’t go around spreading my legs for food anymore and not all myths about glamour world are true, especially the part wherein people say, “she might have done some real nasty things to get where she is today.” And secondly for me it falls true, since the person who got me here met me at Amma’s kotha, he was one of my customers the last one to be precise, because then I committed the crime of falling in love with him. He claimed to love me too and hence he promised me a new life, little did I know this was going to be my new life. Surrounded by hypocrites and fake emotions we no longer knew what real was, we had to part ways. Pages on the calendar kept on turning but I was on the very same page of my life from where I started. Just the numbers called my age kept changing, the older I grew the colder I became.
Now as I get rid of the last pin that made my hair feel like a flower pot, I take some cleansing milk on the cotton and let my fingers run on every nook and corner of my face like it does every day. I slip out of the tight fitted dress and wear my cotton pants and t-shirt. I look at the blue eyes glancing back at me in the mirror and the soft brown curls cascaded waist down as my white skin glowed under the yellow dim of the mirror in the makeup room. I tie my hair up in a messy bun, as I cloak myself in a burkha and veil my face, only eyes visible, I can change that I thought as I wore the brown sun glasses and walked out to breathe. I went to the local market, the garden; the departmental store all the places a common man goes to, just to try and feel normal, just to feel something for once!