Hooker on a Bus

Sunday evening 8pm, I got on a bus at Bamba and promptly planted myself on the only seat available. More people filed in after me and when it was considerably packed with people standing in the aisle, the bus groaned awake and rumbled up the road.

Less than five minutes later, typical of Sri Lankan public transport, the bus hauled in at another halt to allow more people to squeeze in. A few people scrambled in and weaved through sea of bodies. Just as the new commuters had become one with the mass inside the bus, packed like a can of SPAM, starting from the entrance the sea of people parted neatly to make a clear path for the last incomer. Half expecting to see Moses emerge, I was a bit disappointed when instead a petite woman strolled in with an air of nonchalance about her. At first glance my mind alerted “Oooooh a prostitute.”

I’ve never actually seen a sex worker before but from what I’ve been told and what I’ve read in books, she had all the signs of a prostitute. She was wearing a short, worn out, blue cotton dress printed with a huge floral pattern, the straps of her bra were hanging off her shoulders, and around her waist she had a tattered white belt that didn’t really serve any purpose considering she was wearing a dress.

She had also accessorised with lots of cheap jewellery- a thick bracelet of pink beads and dangling earrings of red and green beads. But what was strange was the bottom bits of plastic bottle caps that she had attached to her hair-band that held her mangled, frizzy brunette hair in a bundle. Although the most telling sign might have been the bright magenta lipstick that was smeared on her lips, either that or the fact that people were leaning way from her in such a way you’d think she were a leper.

What got me thinking twice about her being a prostitute was that she looked extremely old. Her dark skin was dry and wrinkled. Even her cheeks had heavy furrows of wrinkles that sagged down to her chin. I’d say she was in her 50’s, if I had to guess. But then again, maybe she’s much younger because being a sex worker must zap the life out of you.

She stationed herself beside the seat in front of me just as the bus grunted and began to move. The mother and daughter seated there were squirming in their seat and crouching away from her as if she had an invisible force field around her that repelled them.

I couldn’t help feeling bad that people were behaving the way they were. It’s just not right. So what if she is a sex worker? Who are we to judge her? She’s obviously got it tough as it is, she doesn’t need people reacting merely to her presence as if she were something foul that the cat had dragged in.

Just imagine being in her shoes. Imagine making a living of allowing men have their way with you and then whenever you step out into the street people scurry away from you or/and stare at you from a safe distance. Even the bus conductor used a rough tone with her. Treated like a pariah, being a prostitute must be the worst and most lonely way to earn a living.

As much as I wanted to observe her a bit more (I found the strange old woman to be quite fascinating), I didn’t want to add to the general discomfort she must have been feeling while all eyes were on her, I averted my sight onto the passing buildings across the road. Although I think she seemed rather accustomed to how the people around her were reacting. Like I said earlier, she had an air of nonchalance about her. She didn’t really care. She seemed forcedly oblivious to how people were reacting towards her. To me it looked as if she’d programmed herself to tune out everything around her. In fact she didn’t show any emotion whatsoever, it was like she was on autopilot.

But then about 10 minutes later, everyone had gotten over the initial shock of being in the bus with a sex worker and returned to spacing out, with the glazed zombie look in their eyes as they waited to reach home. All except for the pair crouched in the seat beside her. At this point the daughter, who was seated by the shutter had her arm around her mother, pulling her away from the little woman who was so tired, her head was bobbing as she was falling asleep while on her feet.

At the next bus halt the person beside me vacated his spot and shimmied his way off the bus. I shifted to the side and the little old woman slid into the space beside me and rested her head on the window. She smelt musty. I can’t quite describe the smell. But the best I can say is that it was a sort of stuffy, old, musty smell that hung around her.

I got a few curious looks, people seemed surprised that I didn’t mind her sitting next to me. But then I guess they were all just too tired and soon got bored of the whole thing. Except of course for the mother and daughter seated in front of me. They would repeatedly turn around like wind-up toys to gape at her and look at me with wide-eyed disbelief like I had done something scandalous.

I guess the whole experience for me was a wee bit of an eye-opener to the harsh reality of the world.

Besides that I’ve always been a bit disappointed that I’ve never had any eventful bus rides. So this easily makes it as the most interesting bus katha I have to share- the strange old hooker.