I Sharmi, Diamond Ep-15

1. 15. Sharmi

After that night, my mother avoided my gaze. But the atmosphere at home shifted, buzzing with a nervous energy. There was a sense that they would somehow get my father out. After two rejected bail applications, my mother’s “adjustments,” as she called them, became more desperate. “If we want to get out of these problems, we have to adjust,” she stated flatly during dinner, her voice devoid of its usual warmth. When I looked up, I saw tears glistening in her eyes. She forced a smile. “Daddy will be back soon,” she said with a brittle confidence.

People outside rarely understand the immense psychological and financial strain placed on the families of those imprisoned. To the police, lawyers, court clerks—to everyone involved in the legal machinery—these families are nothing more than cash cows, milked for every rupee. I witnessed this firsthand. Each time my mother went to court, she pawned another piece of jewelry. But this time, she left empty-handed. I understood the true cost of her “adjustment.” I longed to see my father. I accompanied my mother to court.

The courtroom resembled a chaotic marketplace, teeming with people. Groups huddled together, conversing loudly. Lawyers in black coats, police officers, female constables, weeping women. Men shouting obscenities. Occasionally, a group of four or five men with beards and mustaches, their hands cuffed, were hurriedly led in or out. Some, still in handcuffs, spoke with their wives or mothers. Seeing prisoners holding their children while still in chains was heartbreaking. I felt a surge of anger towards the police. I was surprised to see some of the prisoners laughing and chatting. Didn’t they realise they were in jail?

Peeking inside the courtroom, I found it bore little resemblance to the dramatic scenes I had seen in films. I couldn't hear a word of what was being said. The conversation seemed to be conducted in a low murmur, inaudible to outsiders. There were no dramatic pronouncements of “Your Honor” or “I object.” An elderly woman, stepping down from the witness stand, cursed at another woman, “May you be destroyed for ruining my son’s life.” Lawyers quickly ushered her away. Everything was bewildering. These experiences were far too much for someone my age. Suddenly, my mother tensed. My father was being brought in.

He wasn't in handcuffs. His face was cleanly shaven but drawn and gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes. Seeing him brought tears to my own eyes. He panicked. “Baby… baby… don’t cry… don’t cry… everything will be alright. Daddy will be back… You must not cry,” he said, his own eyes brimming with tears. My mother pulled me away from him. An elderly woman, her voice filled with venom, grabbed my father’s shirt, shouting, “Cry then, cry some more! You swallowed our money, and now you put on this act! Your whole family will be ruined!” The courtroom erupted in chaos. The police separated my father from the woman and led him away. She collapsed into a sobbing heap in the middle of the corridor. My tears dried up, replaced by a chilling dread. Someone shouted “Silence!” and the cry was echoed down the hallway. Perhaps it was her curse, but my father was denied bail that day. My mother wept. I wondered then, and still do, if her tears were for the rejected bail or for the fact that her “adjustment” had been in vain.

That night, the house was filled with shouting. My mother was berating the lawyer uncle, weeping and railing about how he had betrayed her trust. He sat in silence. When her outburst subsided into quiet sobs on the sofa, he finally spoke, his voice low. “The P.P. messed up. The men who came here told them what happened… that’s why.” My mother abruptly stood up, smoothing her hair. “Tell him to come here now. I need my husband out,” she declared. The following week, my father was granted bail.

He returned home after almost a year. He was thinner than before. The ever-present smile was gone. From the moment he arrived, someone was always with him. I couldn't sleep. I tried to open the door to their room, but it was locked from the inside. I hesitated for a moment, considering knocking, but then returned to my own room, overcome with sadness.

The next morning, several people came to see my father—those who had invested money with him. Some wept. Others tried a more conciliatory approach. “If you have any property left, sir, tell us. We can resolve your problems.”

“You’ll have to go to the government for that,” he replied.

His response triggered their anger. “Just because you’ve been to jail, you think you’re some big shot? You dare speak to us like that? I could cut you into pieces right here!”

“Then do it,” my father said, lowering his head. Seeing this, I ran towards him in panic. My father yelled at me to go inside. I was terrified. One of the men kicked the teapoy in the hall, shouting, “If you can’t pay us back, should we start doing business with your women?”

My father calmly asked, “Is that how you made your money?” His face contorted with rage, and he lunged at my father. My mother, I, and the lawyer uncle, who had just arrived, pulled him away. Even after he left, his shouts echoed through the house.

One after another, people came, either to argue or to curse us. My father told me to go to college. I didn’t want to leave him in this state, but I had no choice. As I left, my father, sitting on the sofa with his head bowed, said, “Be careful, baby. Don’t react to anything anyone says.” I nodded, not fully understanding why he said that.

Amidst all these problems, college was my only escape. It was my first year. A women’s college, one of the most prestigious and expensive in Chennai. My mother had insisted on it, somehow scraping together the fees. It was her decision that I study there. With everything going on, studies were the last thing on my mind. My college friends were unaware of my family’s situation. I tried my best to keep it that way. Only my closest friend, Sushma, knew a little. She was the daughter of a wealthy businessman and sponsored almost all my needs. She was almost like a benefactor, but I maintained a certain distance, a facade of independence. She had many male friends, of the flirtatious type. It was through her that I was introduced to all the happening pubs in Chennai.

Every weekend, there was a party somewhere. I had been to every disco in the city—Park, Flame, you name it. I had become accustomed to the routine: the smiles, the casual hugs, the light kisses on the lips, the accidental hand on my breast as they put their arm around my shoulder. If you were willing to tolerate these minor transgressions, hundreds of wealthy young men in Chennai were ready to spend thousands on you. For them, the company of stylish, high-society women was essential. They needed a beautiful woman to display their connection in public. Sushma had been the one to explain all this to me. She had carefully considered before inviting me to a party at the Park Hotel.

“It’s couples only. I’m going with my boyfriend. They need another girl for one of his friends. You don’t have to do anything—just dance with him. If you like him, you can take it further. They’ll take care of your entry, food, and drinks. Plus, you’ll have fun,” she winked.

In the hotel lobby, Sushma introduced me to Sushil. He was thin, wearing jeans that clung tightly to his buttocks. The way the back pockets sat on his thighs was unsettling. He wore a tight t-shirt that accentuated his physique. As soon as Sushma introduced us, he opened his arms and hugged me like an old friend. I instinctively recoiled. Sensing my discomfort, he immediately pulled away and casually asked, “Hey… be yourself. Not feeling comfortable?”

“She’s new. Give her time to settle down, Sushil,” Sushma said.

Loud music filled the hall, and couples were dancing intimately, bodies pressed together. Sushil led me inside, going straight to the bar. “What will you have?” he asked. When I said “Pepsi,” he looked surprised and repeatedly asked, “Really? Are you sure?” I ended up drinking four glasses of Pepsi that night. As the night progressed, the crowd thickened. The air in the hall, despite the AC, felt hot from the close proximity of so many bodies. Everyone was in high spirits, singing along to the music, which encouraged us to lose ourselves in the rhythm. During certain songs, when the word “fuck” was sung, the couples would grind against each other and laugh. Sushma was dancing with Roshan. She had drunk about four large vodkas. Roshan, who had initially just put his arm around her shoulder during the first drink, was now kissing her passionately, his hand firmly pressed against her breast. Sushma, placing her palm on his zipper, asked Roshan “tu Kada hogaya?” And laughed.

Sushil’s touch was light, almost tentative. Fleeting brushes against my back, grazing embraces, soft kisses on my neck. The fizzy Pepsi sloshed uncomfortably in my stomach, prompting a trip to the restroom. The journey there was a gauntlet of exposed flesh and raw desire: women locked in passionate embraces, blouses undone, offering themselves freely; others kneeling, performing fellatio. I couldn’t help but notice. A heat bloomed in my own body. They were lost in their own worlds, oblivious to my presence, consumed by the haze of alcohol. Emerging from the restroom, I turned a corner and collided with Sushil.

“Hey… what are you doing here?”

“About to get started,” he murmured, pinning me against the cool wall. He pressed his body against mine, his hands beginning a familiar exploration that sent a shiver of unwanted recognition through me. It was Arjun all over again, but without that underlying desperation, that frantic, almost violent hunger. Sushil’s touch was more calculated, a practiced routine. In one swift movement, he pulled up my top, fumbled with the button of my jeans, and slid the zipper down. His lips found mine, teasing at first, then drawing me into a deep, intoxicating kiss. A dizzying sensation washed over me. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the pull of his mouth as he gently sucked on my lower lip. Encouraged by my response, he tightened his embrace and slipped his hand beneath the fabric of my panties, his fingers brushing against my most sensitive place. A jolt, sharp and unexpected, shot through me. It wasn’t just his touch, though. My phone, vibrating insistently in my pocket, added to the sudden shock. I pushed him away, fumbling for my phone. It was Amma.

“Hello?” I answered, my voice trembling.

A sob tore through the line. “Appa… he’s gone, da,” Amma wailed, her voice breaking. The words hit me like a physical blow. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. A cold dread seeped into my bones. Unbidden, tears began to stream down my face.