Crowns and Curses
“I am sinner, I am saint. I am the beloved and the betrayed.”
Kamala Das, My Story (1976)
The streets weren’t safe after dawn. Meenakshi stood with her silver hair tied neatly, her sari crisp against the morning dust. Around her, people hurried, office bags clutched, footsteps certain. She watched them claim the day as if it belonged to them. They walk with names, with worth, she thought. I have walked with silence, with survival.
The rush of footsteps pulled her backwards. Each face in the crowd was a reminder of the girl she once was, trembling against daylight, clutching her shawl like armour. The present pressed her into memory, and the past rose unbidden. She remembered her own youth, the day she walked out of her home, tears burning her eyes. Her father’s silence had been heavier than anger; her mother’s sobs sharper than words.
She had whispered to herself, “I will live as I am, even if the world spits at me.”
That was the day she shed the borrowed skin of masculinity her family forced upon her and stepped into the streets carrying the only truth she had, that she was a woman, though the world would call her otherwise.
The streets became her refuge. At dusk, men like shadows. From alleys came whistles, sharp and mocking, followed by sly calls.
“Edi muthe… How much for one night? Hmm?” “Ponnu mole nillu…” “Shh… shh… Hey, don’t slip away, darling… Oru kali tharuo…?”
Coins clinked in her palm, the sound of survival. Hands brushed against her shawl, trembling yet greedy.
A man remained. His voice was not soft; cracked with hunger, jagged, fevered. “You’re mine… Tonight you’re mine,” he growled, breath scorching her skin, words breaking like a threat.
He seized her hands, crushing them to his mouth, kissing hard, biting almost, as if he could brand her with his lips. His grip was rough, desperate, his body pressing against hers with a hunger that rattled through him like fire in his veins. His eyes burned in the dim light, wild, frantic, clinging to her as if she were the last breath he could take. “Hold still, my love…You are incredible. You’re mine. MINE”.
Meenakshi felt the weight of him, not tender, but raw, consuming, clawing at her as though she were the only thing keeping him from collapse. His arms locked around her like iron, refusing release. His whispers came ragged, broken, spilling possession into her body; “Mine… mine… mine.”
He kissed her like a man drowning, held her like a man starving, touched her like a man who had nothing left but this. His hunger was endless, craving unrelenting, his need tearing at her with every breath. He made every second count, every gasp, every drop of sweat, every penny worth the price he had paid.
For those hours, she was no shadow; only the flame he consumed, the body he claimed. His desire was not love, not reverence, but possession, brutal and absolute, a desperate attempt to wring life out of her until nothing remained but exhaustion and fire.
She knew the truth; the night was her crown. She was indispensable, desired, but she also knew dawn would strip it away.
By morning, the night’s heat had curdled to ash. Meenakshi pulled her shawl tight and stepped into the market, where fish stank and dust rose with the sun.
And then, like a blow, she saw him. The same man who had clung to her in the dark now strode past with his wife at his side. His eyes struck hers for a heartbeat, then snapped away. His grip tightened on his wife’s arm, face stiff, as if the night never happened, as if she were nothing but air.
The wife’s voice cut through the market. “Look at them… flaunting themselves as if they belong. Shameless creatures. Why don’t they just disappear?”
The man nodded too quickly, his tone flat, rehearsed, desperate to cover the crack. “Yes… You’re right. They don’t deserve a place among us.”
Meenakshi’s chest tightened, but she didn’t flinch. She had worn this wound too many times. Instead, a crooked smile spread across her lips, sarcastic, pitying, almost sweet. Her eyes locked on his, daring him to remember the night before.
She stepped closer, her voice low, mocking, sharp enough to pierce. “Got any change for me today?”
The wife recoiled, face twisting, shooing her back with a sharp wave. “Filthy beggar… Get lost!”
Meenakshi didn’t answer. She kept her gaze fixed on the man, her smile lingering, half pity, half threat, a silent reminder of the truth he carried in his shadow. His face paled, terror flashing at the thought of his secret spilling into daylight.
She turned away, the smile still fixed. The humiliation burned inside, but the smile was her revenge. Her steps carried her into the street, swallowed by the noise, where dawn pressed against her shoulders, and dusk lingered in her memory. Her voice rose, cutting through the market, not for herself alone, but for every man who carried shadows like his, for all who thought the night could be buried in daylight.
“I carried the night like a crown and the day like a curse. But you… You will carry both as your right.”
And with that, she let betrayal loosen its grip.
Glossary
Edi muthe – A mocking street call directed at a woman, using “pearl” sarcastically as a catcall or crude endearment.
Oru kali tharuo – Soliciting sex. A slang phrase implying sexual favours.
Ponnu mole nillu – “Girl, stop.” A direct, intrusive command that objectifies the woman.
