There is no place in the world for a tawaif. Not in the world of men, who would seek to court, to sexualise, to demystify her. Not in the world of women, who would disavow and shame and envy her. She has no place to go, no home to return to. Even her reflection is duplicitous. In the mirror, she sees two selves - her acquired self, and the child she once was.
She has stitched herself from all of the pieces of fabric people hand her. Her voice, her gestures, even her gaze. Is it a performance simply because she is aware she is doing it? Who is she when she is alone? What does she become?
She reaches into her poetry, her song, and seeks someone who can witness her for what she is, in her wholeness, in her complexity. She makes a world of dreams. The reason she is so bewitching is because, in her mouth, there is a place unknown to everyone but her. When she breathes, the wind carries the fragrance of this unknowable place into the room. She shapes this world from air, crafts it with her eyes. The only way to come close to knowing is to follow the fan of her hands, the scaffolding of her gaze. Even then, it is always behind a sheet of silk, shimmering beyond the horizon. Always just out of reach.
The only home for a tawaif is in the hand of god. It is only the most subtle, the all-seeing, who can bear witness to her in her fullness. She knows that her devotion is wasted elsewhere and does not misplace it anymore - not on the family who raised her, not on the women who instructed her, not on the men who sought her, not even on the almost love.
She writes her couplets for the one with perfect sight. With perfect understanding. The one powerful enough to return her gaze; who is the only one capable of soothing her.