On Sale
Therapeutic value of writing is no longer a myth. But some dare to compare writing to sexual pleasure.
It was during a reporting assignment; I met those cheerful, good looking young people in Thiruvananthapuram. I thought they came to attend the function like several who gathered there on that day. A noted writer and an environmentalist were the key speakers.
I noticed the youngsters as they were of my age; and they were standing behind the stage all the time. I thought they too were waiting to catch the dignitaries of the function for an interview or a chat. I said hi to them and when I inquired about them, there came a reply, which my ears could not believe that time.
"We are sex workers; belonging to ... (they said the name of a group based in the city).”
It was during that time, the term sex workers were being used widely to give an acceptance to prostitution.
I got shocked, not because they were sex workers, but the pride they showed in being in that dirty job. I was seeing sex workers live for the first time and tried my best not to express my disbelief and wonder in front of them.
As I was (and am) always against selling one’s body for money, I asked them why not they could try some other job to meet their both ends. There are so many options these days; I went on talking trying to change their attitude.
Suddenly one among them rudely interrupted me and asked, "You are a journalist, right? And you are selling your thoughts and ideas. You are lascivious with your brain, and we are with our body. If you can sell your brain, why could not we sell out our body?"
I left them after a word of war accepting only one point. Writing, indeed, is a pleasure.
It was during a reporting assignment; I met those cheerful, good looking young people in Thiruvananthapuram. I thought they came to attend the function like several who gathered there on that day. A noted writer and an environmentalist were the key speakers.
I noticed the youngsters as they were of my age; and they were standing behind the stage all the time. I thought they too were waiting to catch the dignitaries of the function for an interview or a chat. I said hi to them and when I inquired about them, there came a reply, which my ears could not believe that time.
"We are sex workers; belonging to ... (they said the name of a group based in the city).”
It was during that time, the term sex workers were being used widely to give an acceptance to prostitution.
I got shocked, not because they were sex workers, but the pride they showed in being in that dirty job. I was seeing sex workers live for the first time and tried my best not to express my disbelief and wonder in front of them.
As I was (and am) always against selling one’s body for money, I asked them why not they could try some other job to meet their both ends. There are so many options these days; I went on talking trying to change their attitude.
Suddenly one among them rudely interrupted me and asked, "You are a journalist, right? And you are selling your thoughts and ideas. You are lascivious with your brain, and we are with our body. If you can sell your brain, why could not we sell out our body?"
I left them after a word of war accepting only one point. Writing, indeed, is a pleasure.
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