Madam

The heart of the matter
is that she danced
on tabletops for
you.
Bent her body
like she had double
the vertebrae.
Swung around her
perfumed hair for 
you.

The light at the
end of this tunnel 
might be a train 
for you.
For her sake,
I hope it hits you
hard, but not hard 
enough for 
painless death.

She walked with
pretty brown feet
clad with golden anklets,
she kissed mustached
men for you.

You laid a hand down
on the acid you kept
like a sleeping snake,
and the soaps
rolled on on the
next room.

You said,
don't you dare jump.

Like a bird with clipped wings
she was kept in your pretty
cage
with the many white balconies,
from which the girls
waved and shook their hips
after dark.

Where the rupee notes went
they never asked.
Your hand was enough to 
dissuade them. And the little parlor
was crowded with men in the night,
whose pockets leaked coins and notes,
and she wanted one to say

you are beautiful,
come home with me.

One to be gentle, and leave 
her in peace,
but none did.

And how you came to selling skin,
no one is sure,
but they know you by the expensive
red polish on your acrylic nails.
By the way your pocketbook bulges 
as you shop.

As your girls eat cheap take-out kebabs
and chew pilfered paan to ease 
the soft stabs and forget this place for a moment,
before the soaps whisk them away.

She wants just one to stop before ripping
away her sari, one to say,

oh but your skin, so soft.
and smother her with small kisses.
But none do.

The story of one girl hanging by the ceiling fan,
another, she still lives in the house,
disfigured by the elusive acid. 
Her face melted and cold.

It comes as no surprise 
that you owe her lakhs of rupees,
that her family thinks she is dead,

but the heart of the matter is
that she is silent, and sways her body
for you.