Portraits Series Ch. 01: Mukta

With a short sigh, the young woman cast one last glance into the sole mirror in her one-bedroom, cramped student apartment.

As the garrish mix of car horns began to build up outside her fourth floor window into the usual cacophony of the morning rush hour, Mukta knew she was running late. She ran her fingertips through her long, straight tresses, and gazed sideways at the reflection of her dark skin under the deep flowing scarlet she had wrapped around it.

It was one of the few nice sarees she had managed to accumulate on her thin budget, most of them borrowed from her older sister and her mother when she moved from their little hometown. These were reserved for very special occasions, she had last brought it out for Diwali last fall, and today wasn't a particularly significant day. But, this time around, she had made up her mind to make an impression.

The cracked screen of her smartphone flickered; it was a friend assuring her that he had signed the attendance register for her.

Mukta grinned to herself and turned away from the dresser. She rushed to the sitting room, clutching her laptop under one arm while the other carried a wireless keyboard. The old, second hand macbook pro whirred to life on the dining table and she quickly plugged in the connector to the flat-screen tv placed opposite the one sofa in the room. She adjusted the screen several times, glancing at the television set to make sure the angle was right.

Like most around her age she knew, Mukta had grown to relish the freedom that came from moving away for college. They had escaped the prying eyes of the parents, the relatives, and the neighbors. Now, they drank, they loved, and they slept together. Unlike most, however, Mukta walked the extra mile when exploring this freedom. While the others skipped class to sleep in, she went live.

Honestly, Mukta liked it and had come to admit it to herself. All the years of desperation in high school, spent browsing the internet for something that would at least vaguely satisfy, only drove Mukta to need more now that she could do something about it. All the years of desperation in high school, spent browsing the internet for something that would at least vaguely satisfy, only drove Mukta to need more now that she could do something about it.

First, it was the shock from the filthy comments on her photos, which morphed into a sense of sluttiness as she pored over them. One person was kind enough to download and photoshop Facebook images of her portfolio from her sister's wedding and email her back with visions of gangbangs, glory-holes, and a particularly interesting image of her tied to a stripper pole by the loose end of her expensive black silk saree. All of this, for all the offense it caused her, she also learned to secretly like.

Growing bolder, she actively tried offering more, and not on Facebook. All kinds of men and women seemed interested in a naturally voluptuous, dark brown body like hers, and she quickly learned to flaunt it. Some even went further and fetishized her roots, yet Mukta felt oddly empowered by the strangers' dirty desires and sometimes even by their, often cold, emotionless objectification.

Then, somebody offered money. Mukta was flabbergasted—all the approaches from the frustrated boys in dingy New Delhi or Mumbai nightclubs seemed, put together, less offensive than the indecent proposal of this presumptuous, foreign stranger. She tried ignoring him, and he responded to the non-reaction by offering more dollars. Yes, he was cocky enough to think that this third-world, desperate young girl would be eager to please some American creep willing to throw money at her.

Proud Mukta replied with a most seething email, bent upon driving in the message and hopefully scaring him away for good.

That's not how she responded to the next guy, however. Once, drunk and alone, late at night, she let ProfDom guide her fingers into the recesses beyond the hem of her naughty little skirt for a few British pounds. She gave up control for the first time, yet her drunken state and his lust for her made her feel powerful.

Her eyes fixed upon the tv screen, Mukta turned on the fairy lights, bunched tightly together into a bright, neat circle behind the sofa, high up above her head. The rich tone of red fabric glowed under the halo. Her eyes shifted to the bottom of the tv screen and watched the familiar username - kinkycoconut - sign in. Her excitement grew and her breathing deepened. There was a long moment of silence, interrupted only by the lashing of raindrops outside and the occasional, distant groan of thunder.

She clicked upon the little icon on the corner of the screen and a window appeared with a live feed of her from the computer a few feet away. Another click and the upper half of the view was blurred. She sat back on the sofa and made sure her face was thus hidden.

Her "pallu" fell, and she moved it aside completely. Then she waited.

At the top of the chat window screen, the little dollar sign began to glow, and the number next to it went up by 50.

Mukta smiled wide, undid the top button of her sleeveless blouse, and clicked the button marked "BROADCAST".