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But you could even ascend to hell. That afternoon, I climbed the dark staircase again, paused at the first floor. There used to be an old man ironing clothes near the landing. There were dark rooms with untold personal histories.
But now, they have broken the walls. The light hurt. I touched the grimy walls. It had been years since I last ventured into these rooms where they lived splitting time and religions, identities and emotions.
Over the years that I have known them, I know they even puncture truths. I learnt that one should never abandon stories. Five years later, I returned again.
Time lapse. Does time lapse ever? Memories are another thing. It was a place of cheap sex and strange truths. It was the space you went to find something unavailable in the other world. I came once again to disorganise my sense. I like disruptions. Literature is indeed summons to hell. And I never found a way back again. An anonymous person once wrote to me saying a story of mine set in this brothel led to loss of innocence. The novel had tested the moral issues of urban life in St Petersburg in the 19th century.
For so long that I have met the prostitutes, I have remembered the character of Sonia. I have been accused of having contempt for my subjects. But then, how do we discount the impact of external forces in perceptions and perspectives of a character?