Cowsila the Coolie Whore

(Based of the Guyanese Short story)

Perched cross-legged on the side of a broken down punt and admiring her reflection in the stagnant forty-feet trench, Cowsila, the coolie whore, smiled tantalisingly at the cane-cutters as they rushed home tired, sweaty and reeking of stale roti and fish curry. Cowsila had spent the earlier part of Friday cooking and daubing the bottom-house with fresh cow-dung. She then washed herself at the standpipe with carbolic soap and water from a galvanised zinc bucket. The water was cool and refreshing and came from the overhead vat that captured rainwater. Now she was ready for business. Long black hair gleaming with coconut oil that suffocated most of her head lice and nits, Cowsila smiled as she noticed Ramesh and Shivnarine eyeing up her voluptuous curves. She had worn her pink, body-hugging, bonded-knit dress because it was pay-day at the sugar estate and Cowsila had to provide for her lazy good-for-nothing man Rohit.
Rohit drank all day at the Indian Bull rum shop then he returned home to fill his belly with roti, squash curry and fried hassa fish. He had no idea where Cowsila got money or food from and just assumed that his wife either begged her family or friends for help. As soon as Rohit finished his food, he just sprawled out on the floor mat and slept.

Cowsila kept the mud hut tidy and cared for her man. She had a slate at Big Pi's grocery shop that could rival the country's national debt, so it was important for her to earn a living. Sometimes Big Pi would take payment in kind behind the jute bags of rice at the back of the shop. Big Pi was easy and pragmatic. In his own words, life was too short to worry. Sometimes he felt sorry for Cowsila and give her a small piece to buy fresh fruit and vegetables from the market.

Cowsila glanced down and noticed the tadpoles swimming at the bottom of the punt. It was the rainy season and the backdam was muddy. Little cock-a-belly fishes appeared in puddles along the dam and the croaking frogs, dogs barking and guinea fowls squealing sounded like a jam session at the jazz club. The hustle of the estate overseers, foremen, charge-hands and labourers heading back home jangling their cutlasses and metallic zinc carriers was dying off. Cowsila flinched as both head and crab lice recovered from temporary paralysis by carbolic fumes and began feeding on her blood. Long James went past on his bicycle as he shepherded his cows back home. Twilight was setting on the backdam and soon it would be dark enough for Cowsila to do business.

A few lady birds and candle flies buzzed by followed by the dreaded mosquitoes. Cowsila was just beginning to lose her patience when, like a zombie, Ramesh appeared from the side of the punt. Thank God, Cowsila muttered under her breath at the exact moment that Ramesh blurted out - how much? Hundred dollars, Cowsila replied. Banna that's a whole bottle-o-rum Ramesh thought for a second. Then he looked at Cowsila's charms and his blood boiled. Awright! Ramesh disappeared with Cowsila behind Sproston's punt to seal the deal.