Beautiful Thing: Inside the Secret World of Bombay's Dance Bars (13 page)

‘What he means to say,’ said Priya, now alert, ‘is that he wants to be with his equal. Someone who is independent, who has ambitions. Someone with whom he can explore the world, not hide from it. Am I right,
sonu
?’

The customer nodded. ‘I love my wife, Soniaji, understand that. Anything she wants she gets. Forget one piece of gold, she has so much jewellery even her mother, so greedy she is she would eat gold if she didn’t have so bad gas, even she has said to me, “Enough, son-in-law, no more. If you put any more gold around my daughter’s neck for sure she will tip over and fall down.”’

Can I ask you something? I said.

The customer nodded. ‘Ask, ask.’

‘You’re with Priya, right?

He nodded.

You love her?

‘Of course!’

‘I too love you janu!’ Priya preened.

So you want to marry her?

There was a pause.

‘If that is what she wants,’ the customer said, slowly. ‘If what she wants is to break up my family, force widowhood upon my wife, wish for my child to become half-
anaath
, after all what court will give custody to a man who has left his wife for a, don’t mind, Priya, barwali, then yes, to be sure, which temple please?’

I looked at Priya. She didn’t love her customer. I don’t think she even liked him. But after all he had said, after all that gibberish about diamonds and rubies, all he had for her was this?

Priya didn’t disappoint. ‘Have you finished your stupid interview?’ she yawned.

Yes, I nodded meekly.

‘Can you leave us alone?’

Yes of course, I said.

Priya gave her customer a delicious smile. ‘Something meetha, janu?’

{ 8 }

‘I’m going to skin your flesh and throw it to the dogs!’

W
hen the girls grew weary of the limited possibilities of their life in Mira Road, they would want to get out, even if for a brief time, and every once in a while that meant heading to the red light district of Kamatipura. Apsara was never invited along and had she been she would have resisted: Leela’s mother was enjoying her freedom by exerting herself as little as possible. She left Leela’s bed only for BC—Bhagwan, Bathroom, Cooking and Customer. So Leela would dial in for Chinese ‘wedge fry’ and noodles and, arranging the tin foil cartons on her mother’s lap, say to her sternly, ‘This time, mummy, don’t call if you get lonely. I’ll talk to you when I come home, understand? And I’ll come home when I’m ready.’

That Saturday was a special one; the girls had been invited to a birthday party. The evening’s hosts, one of whom was a brothel madam called Gazala and the other, Leela’s close friend Masti Muskaan, were known for their flamboyance and generosity, and the girls expected a blowout.

Masti was a hijra—a feminine soul in a masculine body, a member of an ancient and secretive community described as the ‘third sex’. But she was different from any hijra Leela had known. She was petite and pale and favoured ‘western’ clothes like dresses, skirts and high heels. She was also a bar dancer and had adopted Leela when Leela first came to Bombay, by offering her a bed until she found accommodation, and
counselling her in the ways of their line. Their friendship grew quickly and Leela said of Masti, ‘she is my true mother.’

Priya couldn’t stand Masti. Masti wasn’t castrated. She had a fear of flying and so flying to Thailand, where castrations were safe and inexpensive, was out of the question. And since she knew better than to trust her body to a
dai
, a midwife, she was ‘bottom down’, a man. So yes, Masti was striking, Priya admitted, but she wore men’s
kachhas
and her kachhas were stuffed with her you-know-what. This, Priya impressed upon me, was unforgivably ‘chee!’

To prepare for the evening, Leela and Priya went to their neigh-bourhood beauty salon, ‘Welcome, Good Looks’. It was run by an elderly Chinese woman and her four young nieces, all of whom had been born in India and had lived here since.

Leela walked in with pleasant greetings for the women she knew. Priya slammed the door behind her and towering over one of the stylists demanded: ‘Arms—half wax; pedicure, fruit facial.’

‘You do the facial,’ she told a stylist. ‘And you,’ she commanded another, ‘wax.’

‘But I already have a client,’ the stylist whined, looking up from the eyebrows she was attending to. ‘And “lanch”,’ she rhymed it with ranch, ‘what about lanch?’

Priya seemed sympathetic. ‘Oh,’ she said, her mouth forming a perfect O. ‘Till now no
lanch
?’

‘No,’ sighed the stylist, her shoulders drooping, the moist thread between her teeth drooping as well.

‘That’s because LUNCH TIME IS OVER,’ growled Priya. ‘Duffer!’

I wasn’t surprised by Priya’s rudeness and not because she’d been rude to me. She simply wasn’t a people person. Her attitude, despite what she might have wanted me to believe, had nothing to do with her appearance. Priya, like the majority of
bar dancers when they interacted with those outside the line, was always looking for a fight. The limited experiences of the line and the extreme nature of these experiences—adult, violent, sexual and highly stressful—created a lonely and lasting trauma that made bar dancers feel constantly vulnerable. It was hard enough for them to deal with people within the line—managers, boyfriends and customers who judged them continually—but from those outside, the judgement was amplified many times over. They felt they had to prove themselves, prove, essentially, that they weren’t sex workers. They resented this, and their resentment made them prickly.

Even so, Priya was an extreme, and I don’t remember her ever mentioning any friends other than Leela. The only people she invested time in were Leela, Raj, select customers and grudgingly, and only for Leela’s sake, me.

Leela appeared embarrassed for her friend and felt as though it was her responsibility to restore Priya to a good light. The salon, she whispered behind her hand, afraid that Priya would overhear and take offence, put Priya in a foul mood. It was ‘local’, that’s why. Everything smelt. The salon—of acetone, shampoo and cheap dye. The stylists’ hands—of aloo-parathas; their breath, of gum. They wore ‘home clothes’, which hurt Priya’s sense of style, and spoke almost exclusively about food, specifically, the food in their tiffin boxes.

I thought this was a bit rich coming from the most voracious eater I knew.

‘If these chokris are real “chinki”,’ Priya would grumble, ‘then I’m the daughter of Hanuman!’

But Priya really disliked the salon because it wasn’t good enough for her. It was a ‘Family Salon’ with ‘Full AC’, which implied low rates and respite from the heat, and the salon’s best clients were often housewives between chores and gawky teenagers skipping class. Apparently these people reeked too—the housewives of perspiration, the teenagers of public transportation—and Priya referred to them as ‘ugly donkeys’ and
‘monkey-cunts’, and she loathed their presence like her opinion on the matter would effect change.

But for all her nitpicking Priya never did find another place to get her nails painted that summery lavender shade she so fancied.

‘She
wants
to go to hi-fi places,’ said Leela. ‘The sort they have in Bombay, with girls in uniforms who serve you cold drinks and wash your hair with nice-smelling foreign shampoo . . . But she’s afraid.’

Of what? I asked.

‘That they’ll know what she is.’

Leela became sad. ‘So terrible no?’ she said. ‘Priya is such a booty, but all it gets her, all it gets me, is trouble. Men see us, they see whores. Women look at us like we’re husband thieves. As though we’d steal what was forced on them—mota maderchods and their endless demands! And their children? Huh, nothing childlike about them, let me tell you. They run after us calling, “Ai barwali,
zara nachke dikha
!” Bar girl, show us your dance! Oh it’s so difficult outside . . . When we go to MD Lokhandwala for burger-fry Priya does English
ghit-pit
so no one will guess.’

MD was McDonald’s, Leela’s favourite restaurant.

Tell me, I said. Where did Priya come from?

I had never asked. She discouraged intimacies.

‘She’s khandani, from a village near Agra,’ replied Leela. ‘Can’t you tell?’

How could I?

‘She’s so bootiful!’ exclaimed Leela. ‘Like her grandmother. She was a great booty, Priya said. She was a singer, a famous singer. In those days women weren’t allowed to travel, but Priya’s grandmother was invited all over to sing. She even went to Delhi! Her mother didn’t sing. Why’s that? Because only one daughter, the bootiful one, has to enter the line. Priya’s mother married, and when Priya and her sister Patang were born they entered the same lottery system. The bootiful one would sing, or dance;
the ugly one could get married. When they were small they studied under a guru who taught them vocal music and kathak, even poetry. Priya could read, did you know that? Now of course she knows nothing, but mind you, that’s by choice only.’

What do you mean? I said disbelievingly.

‘She won’t read,’ Leela replied.

She won’t read? I repeated. How can that be? Even if Priya didn’t buy newspapers, how could she help but read words in front of her? Street signs and the names of dance bars, the Breaking News headlines that interrupted all her favourite TV shows.

‘Addresses?’ said Leela, bemused. ‘What for would she need an address? She goes to the same place every day and she knows the way by heart.’

So she refuses to read?

‘Priya doesn’t see words,’ shrugged Leela. ‘If you put a newspaper in front of her, you will give her a headache. And why would you want to do that?’

‘Anyway,’ she continued. ‘Patang won the lottery. She grew up to be kaali-patli-
dubli-si
; no one would look at her. She was allowed to marry and now she has two children and imagine this, they go to an English-medium! But Priya had grown from a bootiful child into a bootiful woman. And you know what they say, “
Jab tak
ladki
ke gaal pe
booty
hai, tab tak
ghar
mein
roti
hai
.” As long as a girl is bootiful there will be food at home. So she had to work for the family, as a dancer. Her parents would take her to the zamindar’s house, she would dance in hotils, she even saw Agra! Then she grew older and it was time for her “
Nath Utarvai
”, the removal of the nose ring, as they call it. Of course, every man from near and far wanted to buy her.’

Leela jabbed her pedicurist’s hand with her toe. ‘Enjoying?’

The young woman shook her head nervously.

‘That’s okay,’ Leela said kindly. ‘Listen, listen. Maybe you will learn something useful. After all, in this world of men if one woman doesn’t help another, we will all suffer.’

‘Hahn, Nath Utarvai,’ she turned back to me. ‘Then Priya was thirteen and of course her parents first went to the zamindar. “Seal pack, sir, seal pack, pukka kunwari, ekdum zabardast.” A pure virgin, absolutely fantastic. That’s how they talk! Of course, he was very interested, but they couldn’t let him have her at any altu-faltu rate. To raise the sale price of her virginity they had to raise the competition. The word was spread and soon men from all over the village, from neighbouring towns even, even from Agra, came to place their bid. Eventually some local bijnissman, not the zamindar mind you, some Chamar-
chaprasi
-chi-chi type who made his fortune in import-export, he won. Chalo, he who has money is king. Caste is irrelevant in such circumstances is it not? That night Priya’s mother, oh she’s a
Bhootni
No. 1 let me tell you, she got Priya stoned, on bhang. And then the bijnissman sent his Amby to pick her up. Priya was almost asleep by then, but still her mother went along—to make sure she wouldn’t resist and force them to return the deposit. Can you believe it? Her mother was in the room when some old man fucked her double-twice? Yes, twice!
Kuchh bhi kaho
, Apsara may be simple-type, but she never watched me fuck anyone.’

Priya was sold? I asked.

Leela nodded, ‘For full sex.’

For how much?

‘Have a guess?’

A lakh?

‘Five lakhs!’ beamed Leela with pride. ‘
Paanch peti
baby!’

What happened after that?

‘What would happen?’ Leela said. ‘She started going with men full-time. Not dhanda, mind you. After all she came from a good family, famous for their music and dance; she had studied. If men wanted Priya they would first of all have to watch her, be entertained by her. Everything else came later. But hahn,
baki
story like mine, same-same. One day she thought: “Here I am, someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, and these people, my
parents, my sister, how do they reward my love, my hard work? By sending me to men and then not sharing, but snatching away my money!” So one day she ran away. She was fifteen, sixteen, who knows? She came to Bombay and this is where we met. I had gone to Rassbery; the manager is a good friend of mine. And there she was, Booty Queen No. 1!’ Leela smiled. ‘I knew we would be best friends, I knew it! Priya behaves like Mumtaz Mahal, but let me tell you she is no better than a child. Too sweet!’