Wanchai bargirls

Walking down to the station after work, I usually cross a couple of bars where young girls in make up and skimpy clothes sit at the doors looking expectantly and hungrily at any light complexioned male crossing by.

This is the brightest spot of my day away from home.

An interesting observation about these bars besides the unsexy women (I know I am mean but I realise that often what turns on a man looking for street thrills is only a willing female with a vagina) are the small square altars of worship, I see outside.

I have never had the chance to see what an average Hong Kong household looks like. But going by the pace of life and congested spaces, it is unlikely that a place of worship finds a corner in most homes. However, most of the bars between the MTR station and my workplace have an altar cut into the wall.

They are well cared for and generally adorned with fruit offerings and incense sticks. Seeing them next to the bars, adds another speck of grey to my salt and pepper hair.

It reminds me of a scene from Devdas. A handful of mud from a prostitute's house is well sought for sculpting Ma Durga's statue but the idea of a loose woman in one's house or nearby is sacrilege.

It also reminds me of a rickshaw ride I took years ago with a friend from old Delhi Railway station to CP. We crossed GT Road and it was in no way as glitzy as red light areas in Indian movies.

There were dirty corridors full of charas stupored men and prying women in garish makeup. Their eyes flitted around, sizing the potential of every man passing by.

I have often thought about that day and tried to imagine what it must be like to serve a truck driver or a rickshaw puller-bad breathed, smelly, in dirty clothes, swearing and with no heart for a woman's pain.

As I write, I also remember a you-tube video of a police raid at a hideout for minor girls being readied for flesh trade. It was a dark place and as the girls were shoved out, they looked like rats being pulled out of a hole.

What I remind myself when I walk past those girls in Wanchai is that I have my clothes on, I have a man, my parents, a pimple free face, a roof and endless possibilities ahead. Though I am about to turn 28, I am not worried that my fatness and wrinkles will reduce my chances to do good business.

Yet I crib, look glum and regret over what I missed and let go.

There is no limit to the way a human being can be tortured. And there is no end to the souls' perseverance.

It is not necessary that the choices we make our always our own. And chances are that the best efforts to see a silver lining may be too big a flight for heart and hope to make.

I look forward to the girls in red, in yellow, in black, all made up and putting their best selves forward to learn a lesson of courage, moving on, living for the moment and relishing what I have.