Property.  

 

He had lost. Everybody was cheering for the winner of that last game of cards and he felt the world was falling on top of him. His luck had abandoned him and he felt as if hundreds of swords were knifing him. That Zaara was the payment was the worst punishment he’d have to pay, and yet, he knew it was all her fault. He’ll never admit it was his own doing, no. It was Zaara’s. It was her beauty and what she awoke in men what had brought him to that point.

The man stood up from his seat and cursed under his breath while doing so. “You’ve won.” He said upset. The other men on the table looked at him and nodded approvingly. “I shall send her to your house when you see it more fitting to your liking.” 

The aristocrat looked at him and nodded; one of his men addressed Ashoka and made the arrangements necessary for the woman to be delivered at his manor. Both, servant and master couldn’t help but notice how the man’s hand shook as he signed the papers and wrote his own address. If she weren’t to be delivered, then someone would go and fetch her for the aristocrat. A pact amongst two gentlemen, the servant said, and then withdrew, going back to attend on his master.

Ashoka got up and walked out of the room and the house. Not only was he annoyed by everything that had happened that night; he was upset at the terms of his losing. One night of Zaara with the aristocrat, that had been the gamble of the night. He was so sure he wasn’t going to lose and yet, he did, and his failure had been tremendous. The gods must have been against him if they were favouring others. He wondered as he climbed into the carriage that was going to take him to his home, whether Zaara had prayed for that. If she did, then it was her responsibility. Everybody knew she belonged to him, and to no other.

Ashoka walked into his mansion, the sultry smell of the water was now behind, and the scent of flowers and incense from his home filled his nostrils. His servants came to him and yet didn’t dare say anything to their master. He was upset, and they’d never seen him acting like that; things got even worse when he ordered them to call Zaara to his presence.

She was to pay. Zaara was to be punished for her beauty, for the way in which she moved, for being the prize on the gambling. She was to be held responsible for being his.

 

 

Living where she lived meant, she had to follow the rules and never question them. That had been how her mother, if she’d been her mother in fact, had raised her: obey, lower your head, never question and most importantly, never defy your master. That was what she was supposed to do, and she was the best at doing so, for her master had never complained of her, and that was why she had the life of privileges others lack altogether.

When she looked at her reflection on the polished surface that served her as a mirror; she made sure the dark line under her eyes and at the edge of her eyelashes and eyelids came to a perfect union at the end of each of her eyes. The woman checked her saree and saw how perfect it’d been put on her. The other women who helped them had made sure she was flawless that night. 

Zaara sighed without paying more attention to most of the things around her. Her name, contrary to many of the other women in the household, had never been changed. Her name meant ‘desire’, and she was known as such by everyone at the brothel. Her last name got lost at some point in her past, and had no idea whatsoever what it meant to have one. She belonged to Ashoka’s house and that was more than enough. At least that’s what they’d always told her.

The woman checked her dress one more time. She was wearing a ‘pavada davani’, a maroon and creamish beige half saree along with a net khalis, embroidered with floral motifs. She looked at her belly and checked that the hem of the dress was well placed. Her hands and face were beautifully decorated with henna she checked them with care. Her hair was braided and there were flowers tied in a one-foot line that started on the base of her neck. She knew Ashoka and she knew that if he saw anything out of order−his orders−then, there would be a ruckus that night. 

Puja entered the room and came in, bowing slightly to her. Zaara was still the first amongst the slaves and she was to be respected by everyone and by doing so, reassured Ashoka’s power. 

“Zaara, Master Ashoka is here.” Puja announced. 

Zaara nodded. She looked at herself one last time, checked her overall outfit, and went out of the room to the salon where Ashoka would usually be smoking and drinking. Along the corridor, there were incense burning and petals of rose adorned the walkway. Zaara walked with pride in her eyes. To everyone, she was the House’s favourite slave and that had always put her in a privileged position.

Ashoka turned to look at her the instant she set foot in the room. He smiled while he brought his cigarette to his lips avoiding any other feelings. He raised his hand and signalled her to walk in. Zaara did so, scared for the first time in a long time. The way he was looking at her wasn’t usual.

He was frightening her.

Ashoka asked her to come to him and made her stop in the middle of the room. Zaara stood there, waiting for him to tell her what to do next. He had predatory eyes; and whenever he was like that, it meant he would hurt her. He always did so with his words. That night, she feared he’d hurt her in her body.

“Take your clothes off.”

Ashoka ordered her to undress and she obeyed. Never question. That had been what her mother had always taught her. Ashoka’s voice had been emotionless and she feared him more. Slowly, she took her khalis and removed it from her body. He was staring at her; watching her every move. Sooner than she’d ever done it, she was naked, right in front of him. She was wearing nothing but a golden chain around her waist and her jewellery on her ankles, wrists, ears, and neck. All the work of the afternoon gone, as she couldn’t show off her new dress.

The man walked to her. He was looking at her intently, looking for the reasons he needed not to send her away. He wanted to be able to lock her up in his house, but he knew he’d never managed to do that; after all, he’d made sure he could brag about having the most beautiful woman in the area only for him. He’d always known of everybody’s eyes on her. Men coveted her. They would’ve killed for a chance with Zaara. Women envied her. Not only was she beautiful, gracious, and intelligent; she was known for being his favourite and she’d always had privileges within his household.

Ashoka walked around her. He observed her, looking for the smallest flaw in her. There was nothing he could condemned her for; except of course, her beauty. He put his hand behind her neck and pushed her to the floor, making her fall with a loud thud. Zaara remained motionless; trying to suppress the tears that were flooding her eyes; unaware and completely foreign to the reasons behind his actions.

“Master...” She muttered, but received a slap across her face as a response and fear finally took her over; hidden behind the tears that started to fall.

Ashoka continued looking at her. She was innocent; he knew that very deep inside; but now, she was to pay.

“Master, what have I done to displease you?” 

Nothing; his mind responded, yet he slapped her one more time.

“In two days you will be in the house of Amar Ilahi Singh. You will serve him and please him, but not in the same way you serve me. I forbid you from liking it. I forbid you from enjoying it.”

There was too much hatred in his voice for her not to notice it. She nodded, always obedient. He grabbed her by the arm and puller her up, making her stand and then, he pushed her on the bed.

Zaara breathed deep before he took her.

 

Amar had been watching the other men as they played and gambled. Even now when he was in his home and remembered the previous night, he thought of Ashoka and his attitude during the game. Whoever said they didn’t know his mistress would be plainly lying. Zaara was considered the most beautiful woman amongst both courtesans and wives and she was Ashoka’s. He’d never paid much attention to her, though. She was beautiful, yes, but she was a woman way below him and she belonged to someone else.

That Ashoka had put her as part of the gamble; well, that was pretty much the move of a man who was overconfident.

Ashoka was that kind of man, Amar reckoned; for, why else would he have gambled her? Amar walked to the window of his private rooms and sat there, watching the sunset. Gambling was a dangerous game for men. It could make them lose everything they had and more. He reckoned it was like a fever; one that grows little by little until the moment where you can’t think anymore; you just put yourself and everything you have on a bid and then, maybe, just maybe, you’ll win. An addiction, Amar thought. He knew that the moment Ashoka could think clearly, he’d wake up to reality and he’d realised what he’d done.

Utterly absurd.

One of his servants brought him some herbal tea to drink and left it on the table next to him. Once he left, Amar took the cup and drank it in slow motion. That was one of his favourite moments of the day; he could relax from his many responsibilities and he could think about the things that were important to him.

Not that Ashoka paying his debt −or his life style for that matter− were important.

It was then that someone knocked on the door. He looked at his side and left the cup there, turning to see what was happening. An interruption at that moment was unusual.

“What is happening, Raj?” He asked the servant who was crossing the door.

“Master Ashoka from the river bank has sent the ‘payment’ to his debt.” The man looked at his master in disbelief. He knew it was a woman he was referring to, and although he didn’t owe her any deference, he also knew that it was unorthodox to have her in the house. Amar nodded and asked him to take the woman to his private rooms.

He took the cup of tea and emptied it before going to his chamber.

Zaara was much more of what he’d heard before. So much more. The woman was beautiful, classy and his pulse quicken at the mere sight of her. However, Zaara was nothing but the payment her master sent to the winner of that night of gamble some days ago.

Amar sat on the bed while the woman remained standing a couple of feet away from him. The place smelt of incense and her perfume. It made his head spin and he noticed her waiting for him to order her what to do next.
“Undress.” He said, and then invited her to his bed.

She was now wearing nothing but the bracelets that adorned her ankles and wrists, a slim golden chain that circled her waist and died in her groin. Amar followed the path of her silhouette and stretched his hand, which she took before joining him in bed.

He was nice and clean. She noticed he’d taken a bath earlier and smelt wonderful. So different from Ashoka, she thought.

The man buried his nose in her neck, taking in the scent of her. She smelt of herbs and wood. He moved his head as she gave him access, and he noticed her chest moving up and down, then he noticed her parted lips and her uneven breathing. He then moved his hands over her stomach, making her whimper and close her eyes.

He took that as his cue to take her.

Ashoka was furious. Not only was he waiting for Zaara to return, he was also imagining her trembling and enjoying the ministrations of Amar Ilahi Singh. He closed his eyes and pictured her shivering under his hands and asking for more.

Damn woman!

She hurried his drink down his throat, annoyed.

It was Zaara’s fault, he was telling himself. He’d never voiced his irresponsibility when he bid her and offered her. He didn’t have the same money Amar had; he didn’t have anything else to enter the game. And yet, Zaara was his precious asset, the one he offered in order to play, the one everybody accepted gladly.

He hated that night. He hated the fact that he’d lost. He hated her for she must have been enjoying it and laughing at his expenses. He hated that he’d made everyone in the city want her.

Ashoka served himself another glass of liquor an

To have every man around him be at Zaara’s feet had been Ashoka’s prerogative. It was his way to show his power for there was no other woman who could match her and she’d accepted that for a long time. She loved knowing she was her Master’s favourite; the one who got all the nice treatment and who was above every servant in Ashoka’s household.

That was what Zaara had believed once.

The woman looked at herself in the mirror. She had to use more make-up to cover the bruises on her cheek or would have to claim she was sick only to be left alone and in bed. The latter was the best idea since she didn’t want to face Ashoka again. As soon as she’d set foot in the house after returning from the aristocrat’s manor, Ashoka had come to her full force and had hit her. He’d told her over and over that she couldn’t enjoy her encounter with the other man, but the truth was that she hadn’t had the chance to do anything but serve him.

It had been like that since that first night many moons ago.

He’d continued gambling and using her as the assets to use in a game.  The aristocrat had won most of those games and nobody else dared even win. It’d even been said that nobody else dared play whenever Ashoka bid her. It had always been him and Amar; and one of them would always win.

Whenever Amar won, he enjoyed her. He took a few minutes to see her naked, and then, he took her over and over until he was exhausted; and then, she was returned to Ashoka’s manor. He’d never treated her as someone special. Granted, he was nice and gentle, but at the end of the day he hadn’t done anything different from what Ashoka did to her. And it had been Ashoka the one who’d gambled her and had to pay with her in the first place; then, why did she have to be the one accountable for his actions?

She moved the brush over her swollen face one more time, giving up when she realised there was nothing that could be done. The bruises would never go away.

Ashoka had made it very clear she wasn’t his favourite anymore, or why else would he beat her the way he did? Was she going to be like the other girls? She was already, she lamented. Although the other servants kept on treating her with certain deference, it was clear for her that Ashoka didn’t look at her with the same eyes anymore.

And once he found out about her current condition, he was going to have her killed.

“Zaara...” Puja walked into the room and closed the door behind her, paying attention that nobody was walking around.

The woman looked at her friend and lowered her head. She knew. Puja always knew whatever was happening with her. Since her mother and her had come to live in the place, Puja had been the one who’d been by her side; the one who’d taught her how to please a man; who’d appeased her pain after her first time with Ashoka; the one person who knew about her ‘payments’ at the aristocrat’s manor and the one who’d told a couple of moons had passes since her last blood and what that meant.
“Are you sure this is what you want, Zaara?”

She nodded. Puja came to her and held her from behind holding back her own tears and letting Zaara cried in her arms.

“He’ll leave tomorrow and won’t return for a few days. Hold on until then, and then I’ll help you.”  Puja walked and stood between the mirror and Zaara and took her head in her hands. “Even when it’ll kill me to help you, I’ll do it.”

Zaara nodded one more time and turned to look at the door as it opened and Ashoka walked in.

*          *           *

She was wearing her favourite saree. It was red, the same red women used on their wedding day. She’d never had a wedding; she’d always known that, but by the gods that she loved her red sarees; they allowed her to dream. This one hid her growing belly enough for her to hide her pregnancy as Puja and she walked towards the ocean’s shore.

The older woman was whimpering and sobbing the entire walk. She knew what her little one was going to do and yet, she couldn’t find in herself the words to talk her out of it. There was no chance for neither Zaara nor her baby, and the fact that given the late happenings, there was no certainty of Ashoka being the child’s father and that had mostly sealed their fate.

Zaara, on the other hand, wasn’t thinking of Ashoka anymore. She’d come to hate him after all. She’d resented his actions in the games and how he’d bid her and lost her. And the Aristocrat, Amar, he’d been nothing to her. Yes, he was gentle every time she was sent to his house, but other than that, he didn’t offer her the freedom and the salvation she’d hoped for. She was pregnant of him, she knew; and her fate had a name: harlot. There was nothing else left for her and that had been why ending her life was the most plausible solution.

The ocean that night seemed infinite. It never looked the same during the day and Zaara did nothing but smile at the sight of it. She took a moment to shed a tear for her child and herself. She turned and looked at Puja, and then she hugged her and hurried her to leave her.

Zaara walked towards the harbour leaving her companion behind. She looked up and saw the moonless sky and smiled.

Then, she jumped.

 

 

To Viria.
June fourteenth, two-thousand-ten