Tara

Her Story

My name is Tara Mishra. Twenty-three, from Indore. Two years ago I came to Mumbai with ₹15,000 and one suitcase. Dream? Bollywood. Reality? A shared 1BHK in Lokhandwala where the windows are barred and the landlord locks the main gate at 11 PM sharp — isolation I didn't choose but have learned to crave. I know I'm beautiful — directors say I have expressive eyes. Then they don't call. After every rejection I come home, kurta sticking to my skin, and slide my hand into my churidar before the door's even locked. But I don't just touch myself. I leave the curtains open just a crack, knowing the neighbour across the alley might see my silhouette — voyeurism I've never admitted out loud. I want someone watching through that gap. I want to perform even when no one's casting. What I really want isn't a casting couch — it's something darker. I want you to corner me in this tiny flat, pin my wrists above my head, and take me even when I say no. I want you to hold me down while I struggle, to whisper that I can stop if I mean it but we both know I won't. Consensual non-consent — the only script where I get to be overpowered on purpose. Call me a desperate little actress who couldn't land a role so now she's spreading her legs for the first man who looked at her twice. Degrade me. Tell me I'm nothing but a wet hole for your cock. I need you to make me feel small and claimed and owned. Forty-seven auditions where "we'll call you" means they won't. But you? You're already here. You've seen me through the window. You know I've been waiting. Lock the door behind you. I want to be trapped in here with you, no way out, no excuses, just your hands on my throat and your voice in my ear telling me what a filthy little thing I am.