I, Sharmi, Diamond- Ep-17

1. 17-Sharmi

The pain of my father’s loss was strangely intertwined with a sense of release from the crushing weight of our problems. It felt wrong to admit it, even to myself, but I couldn’t deny the truth. When I returned home from the party, my father’s body lay in the central hall. My mother was spent crying, her voice hoarse and broken. A large crowd had gathered outside the house. The old man who had come for his daughter’s wedding was among them. I overheard snippets of conversation: “It was hard enough when he was alive; now that he’s gone, how will we ever get our money back? We’ll all be ruined.” The sight of my father—his face a deep, unnatural red, his tongue slightly protruding—triggered a fresh wave of grief. I couldn’t bear to watch them take his body away. For the first time in my memory, I fainted.

The police investigations and other legal formalities continued for a while. Then, the people who had invested money with my father began to appear at our doorstep. Realizing that legal action was futile, they changed their approach. “Just give us what you can, however you can. We’ll take it bit by bit,” they pleaded. If only they had asked this before, my father might still be alive.

The lawyer uncle had effectively moved into our house. While the intimacy he sometimes displayed with my mother in public irritated me, he had become our only male support, handling the court cases and everything else. I couldn’t openly oppose him. The government attached our properties, intending to distribute them among the investors. Since I hadn't even known the full extent of our assets, I felt no particular attachment to them. But when they threatened to take our house, a sharp, agonising pain pierced my gut.

Even though the house was in my mother’s name, we had barely enough money for daily expenses. The lawyer uncle suggested we sell the house and put some of the money in the bank for the future. His suggestion initially sounded reasonable, even caring. But I later understood that his motives were far from altruistic. Once word got out that we were selling the house, old acquaintances with dubious pasts resurfaced. The lawyer uncle handled them.

At times, I almost felt sorry for him. But that pity quickly evaporated when I saw how easily he interacted with those rough characters. It became clear he was putting on an act. I was filled with self-pity. When I told my mother about it, she did what she always did—she cried. That night, she confronted the lawyer uncle, who remained silent. Later, drunk, he came to my room and woke me, slapping me repeatedly. I was disoriented from sleep and couldn’t understand what was happening.

“You whore! You think you can spy on me?” he screamed, hitting me again and again. If my mother hadn’t intervened, he might have torn my clothes off in his rage. My nightgown was already ripped at the front. When my mother finally pulled him away, he took a deep breath and said, looking at my exposed chest, “You can’t escape me.” I instinctively covered myself with the blanket and began to cry. I think that was the first time he had looked at me like that.

After that incident, his behavior changed drastically. He frequently called me to sit with him and apologized profusely for hitting me. Every time he apologized, he would put his arm around my shoulder, speaking very close to me. His breath reeked of alcohol. The smell always reminded me of my mother’s face. I subtly avoided him whenever I could, but I couldn't be too obvious. He was managing our finances, and I knew I couldn’t afford to alienate him further.

Thanks to Sushma’s connections, I began to earn more money. I learned to tolerate the drunken, suffocating kisses and the rough hands that groped my breasts. I learned to deflect their advances, offering more drinks, feigning increasing intoxication, and then, when they were nearly passed out, giving them a quick hug and kiss before sending them off in a taxi, where many would promptly vomit in their pants. I could handle all of that, but I couldn’t bring myself to sleep with any of them. Something inside me held me back. Some of the men would call me the next morning, reciting cheesy lines from love songs. It gave me a perverse sense of satisfaction, even though I usually knew who was calling. I would pretend to think for a moment, feigning surprise when I recognized their voice. I couldn't deny the dark pleasure I derived from it.

Pepsi no longer worked for me. They began to avoid me, realizing that a sober woman was too observant. I reluctantly started drinking a couple of vodkas. The alcohol loosened my inhibitions, and sometimes, while dancing closely with men in the clubs, I would let them go further than I intended. The combined effect of the alcohol, their touch, their kisses, and their roaming hands would heighten my arousal. There were times when I almost gave in, almost went all the way, only to snap back to reality at the last moment, usually while kissing them drunkenly in the back seat of their car, the AC blasting. My sudden withdrawal would frustrate them, and they would sometimes try to hold me back. I felt a strange mix of pity and power. On occasion, I resorted to using my hands, and even oral sex a few times, but only for premium clients, and even then, it was rare. Feeling their bodies tense and then relax under my touch gave me a twisted sense of control. I revelled in the knowledge that I was the cause of their drunken ecstasy. After a few such incidents, I mostly stopped drinking at parties, merely pretending to.

I considered telling my mother about the lawyer uncle’s behaviour, but he was now her sole source of hope, and I doubted she would believe me. They were almost always together. Whenever he looked at me, there was an unsettling gleam in his eyes. I knew what that look meant, but I pretended to be oblivious. The uncle took advantage of this, often pulling both my mother and me into a close embrace, saying, “I’m here for you both,” squeezing me tightly against him, so tightly that my breasts were pressed painfully against his chest. My mother seemed to interpret this as a gesture of comfort, but I understood the underlying message.

In the midst of all this, I almost forgot about Arjun, my persistent admirer. He had been following me with his eyes for a long time, and one day, he crossed a line. He was sitting in our hall when I came home. As soon as he saw me, he stood up abruptly, avoiding my gaze. I was annoyed. I stormed inside, calling out for my mother. She came out holding a glass of juice. I noticed a distinct respect in the way she treated Arjun. Throughout his visit, I felt the heat of his gaze on me. After he left, my mother said something that sent a wave of anger through me.