Gautami remained in bed, and slowly the blood began to run through her cheek from her nose and fall onto her hair. She seems to be daydreaming; her gaze was fixed on the window on her left. A bit later, her hand ran through the blood and then through her eyelids quickly, her tears turned red.
Through the window, she saw huge buildings, trees, clouds, and the reddish sun who was falling from the sky. Such a big world, but still smaller than the window; maybe the world is smaller than she thought.
In that small world lives her family. Her parents and her sisters. If that day didn't happen, she would have been with them, playing, laughing, and living.
Gautami wiped her tears and bloodstains from her face, got out of bed, undressed, and the marks of teeth on her shoulder, small wounds that are slowly healing, scars less than a month old, and marks of belt slaps became clear in the evening golden light. She changed out of the shiny red saree (sari) that Bedi Ma had given her for a faded churidar that Misha had donated. For Gautami, the churidar was large, but it was enough for a sex worker, that's what Misha said earlier.
The saree was lying on the floor when Gautami picked it up. Her hands ran through it, the softness of the silk, the roughness of the embroideries, the shiny white stones that stitched on the saree. Everything brought her to the first time she wore a saree. As she slowly recalled the memories, she sat on the edge of the bed and sniffed the saree one more time. The smooth silk gently touched her lips. Gautami closed her eyes like the way a leaf gently fell to the ground and a drop of tear fell to the saree.
It's almost 9 years since she wore a saree for the first time, at 13, an evening that she doesn't want to remember but couldn't forget.