Beautiful Thing: Inside the Secret World of Bombay's Dance Bars (26 page)

We stopped by all the people Leela knew—Paanwala Shyam, Aftab her tailor friend, even her immediate neighbours, bar dancers, all of whom appeared wan and distracted, and given their circumstances, understandably uninterested in our questions.

No one knew where she was.

Finally, I phoned Baby. ‘I’ve changed NGOs,’ Baby said distantly. ‘And you know Leela. She never keeps in touch.’

I felt like I had run out of options. And I was worried too that Tinkoo would want to leave to be with Priya.

But he was enthusiastic to continue searching with me.

‘Priya has attitude,’ he confided. ‘Arre, if you have to do dhanda, do dhanda. You can’t be having your nose in the air saying “don’t put it here, don’t put it there; I’m not that sort of girls”. Okay fine, you look like Aishwarya Rai. But you’re not married to Abhishek Bachchan, you’re married to dhanda. So why say “
is
kaam
mein
izzat
nahin hai
”? There is no dignity in such work. Did you get into it for your izzat or for your survival? If you want izzat, madam, open your own brothel. Otherwise, keep your legs open.’

Priya has retired? I tried to confirm. From rickshaw business?

‘What can I say?’ sighed Tinkoo. ‘This is the problem with these girls. Commitment? Zero per cent! As soon as Priya made a bit of money, she moved into my flat, it’s not even my flat mind you, it’s my friend’s, but there she was making herself as comfortable as a queen. Now my friend wants us to leave because he says Priya makes his woman uncomfortable with her big-big eyes and showy talk. And money gets spent does it not? Already I have to do “
do
number
ka
kaam” to feed us. I’m confused, Soniaji. I thought a dalal was supposed to make money from his woman. But it seems like I’m going to be making money
for
my woman.’

I smiled. Of course, Priya had Tinkoo wrapped around her little finger. How could she not? And Tinkoo, I suspected, enjoyed the attention.

I wondered if he thought of it as affection.

Well, there’s nowhere else I can think of to look, I said to him in a friendly voice. Let’s go up to Leela’s and wait.

‘Why?’ Tinkoo shook his head. ‘Once Apsaraji starts her
ghitar-pitar
—
khit-khit
in front of you,
ghus-pus
behind your back—you will run away too and then I will have to look for Leela
and
for you! Leave her alone. You know what, we should go to Aksa.’

But that’s hours away. Why would she go there? I asked, worried.

‘Because she’s desperate. Do you not see how it is with these women? Before, they had balance, meaning money, but they had no brains. And now Leela has no balance, she has found her brains and realizes that without money she cannot survive Bombay city.’

I wondered if he was right about Aksa. Leela had taken me there a few months ago. She wanted me to see what happened to women who couldn’t leave the line.

I told Tinkoo about that evening.

An unexpected downpour had forced us to take shelter in the auto-rickshaw that had driven us over from Malad station. Passing time, we spoke of many things, among them of Leela’s desire to move someplace new.

‘Bahar
ka
life bahut achha
hai
,’ she had sighed. Life abroad is good.

Where do you want to go? I asked.

Anyplace. Lundun sounded good; there were many Indians there, she had heard. ‘But how to reach?’ The last time she had travelled anywhere far she had been thirteen. And Lundun was far, far away. God knows how many planes, trains and cars would do the trick! Who would she go to if something terrible happened? And what of the cold? She had heard the rain fell like stones. And she had no sweaters. If she did find something suitable in Mira Road for sure it would be unsuitable for Lundun. People would point. And laugh! Why would she go to Lundun to be laughed at? Might as well stay home.

Leela sighed. Gaon was best. Everyone dreams of returning to their village towards the end of their life. And in one’s dreams the village is beautiful. There are flowers everywhere, the trees are laden with fruit. Neighbours are kind, the police mind their bijniss not yours. In Leela’s dream, she has plenty of friends, and oh, how they admire her, how they fight for her attention! And to return to this paradise a success! Laden with jewellery, with two-two bags of new clothes and shoes and utensils, with presents for everyone, full of stories that would make even the panchayat’s eyes pop! That was her dream. But would it come true?

You’re not even halfway through your life, I said lightly.

‘You think so?’

Leela’s shrug seemed to say: maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not.

When the rain died down I paid the auto driver, and Leela and I began to walk across the beach.

Wild grey waves roared bullishly at us and the wind struck our faces sharp, salty and cold. We reached a cloister of palm trees and suddenly we were walking on a carpet of used condoms, and where there weren’t condoms there were condom packets and elsewhere were beer bottles and pornographic material, even bed sheets mangled by the wind.

‘A brothel has a madam,’ said Leela. ‘The street is full with public. But Aksa? Who cares for Aksa? Anything goes because nobody cares.’

I knew what she meant about Aksa’s isolation. It was considered so out of the way people from other parts of Bombay went there on vacation, to enjoy the beach and eat seafood. Those with money stayed at ‘The Resort’, a beachfront hotel popular with young middle-class families. But all the way to The Resort were clusters of
wadis
, or villages, with neat houses and front gardens bursting with flowers, with domesticated hens, goats, cats and dogs. Contrary to the rural idyll they projected, some of these villages made their money from brothels, the majority
of which functioned out of homes. Even if the guests at The Resort were unaware of this, they couldn’t possibly miss the sex workers that lined the road to their hotel—they clustered at the bus stop in their bindis and bangles; they refused to let a man pass without comment. The ones on the beach were forthright. ‘Won’t you have some fun with me?’ they would pout, patting a spot beside them.

That afternoon, right outside The Resort, Leela introduced me to two sex workers she was acquainted with. Soma was short and fat with bristly black hair on her cheeks. She greeted Leela cheerfully and continued to dig through her stubby fingernails for food. Sangeeta wore a tough expression and had half a dozen teeth. Nodding at Leela she pointed to a large, puffy scrape on the side of her face.

‘She was having an affair with my boyfriend,’ she grumbled. ‘I gave her one jhap. She cut me.’

‘Who? Soma?’ Leela asked, confused.

Sangeeta looked at her as though she was stupid.

‘Why would Soma sleep with my boyfriend?’

‘She wouldn’t,’ Leela said immediately. ‘Of course she wouldn’t.’

‘We are not that close I would share my mister like he was a vada-pav. My best friend Anita slept with him. You know Anita?’

Leela and I nodded vigorously. It was an ‘Indian’ nod. We could have meant ‘yes, I know Anita’, ‘no, I don’t’ or ‘please explain’.

I leaned in. The liquid appearance of Sangeeta’s scrape suggested it was still fresh. She must be in pain, I thought. But before I could say anything else, we were interrupted by an elderly man reeking of drink and clutching awkwardly at his southward-heading dhoti. Thrusting a fifty rupee note into Sangeeta’s hand he mumbled, ‘Come on.’

‘
Hat
!’ growled Sangeeta. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy? That I have guests!’ She turned to me, aggrieved. ‘See this dirty grandfather? This is the sort of kustomer I get, curse my luck.’ She listed the
other undesirables. ‘Bhangi, Musalman,
hamali,
jhaduwala, Chamar, Kumbar, Kadiya, helper,
havaldar,
inspector, harami saale. Whatever their caste, they are all like this motherfucker. Animals!’

The man offered us a confused grin; he thought we were playing with him. Obviously, we were there to work. Then why wouldn’t we?

He repeated his request with an oily smacking of his lips. ‘Chal
na
,’ he implored.

Sangeeta struck his hand. ‘Teri ma
ki
! Ask me once more and I swear I’ll hit you!’

‘Hit me,’ he cajoled hoarsely.

‘Now I’ll show you!’ Sangeeta said. ‘You miserable cunt!’ She looked this way and that, apparently for some sort of weapon, and then, as quickly, changed her mind. Throwing me a shifty glance, she snatched the fifty rupee note out of the man’s hand and stuffed it into her sari blouse. There was already a cellphone in there, along with some money, a packet of gutka and a photograph.

The man grinned with relief and lifting his hand in farewell, scurried down the path to Sangeeta’s designated spot. As Sangeeta stood up to follow, Leela said, ‘Bye bye. And don’t forget to wear a condom!’

‘You sound like that cunt I used to work for,’ Sangeeta sniffed. ‘She’d say, “Sister, don’t forget condom!” But she charged me twenty-five rupees for a condom, even though she got them for free. So I would use it. And then I would wash it and use it again, and then again, and then one more time. Twenty-five times! Why did I bother? Was there a single kustomer who didn’t bite holes through a condom he wore?’

Your madam? I confirmed.

Sangeeta nodded. ‘She made me pay to stand on the road. The public road. The whore! Okay, now I’m going. Listen,’ she turned to Leela, ‘if I were you I would go too and take your friend with you. Otherwise people will think you’re working
and they will ask, “How much?” Men over here have a dirty way of looking at women. Even good women aren’t safe.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ Leela said, patting her shoulder. ‘Go on and do your bijniss, don’t worry about us. You take care of yourself.’

‘That old whore was right,’ said Tinkoo. ‘Aksa’s kustomers are animals. But are the women of Aksa any better? Their two legs are two too many!’

Tinkoo explained that shortly before she disappeared, Leela had mentioned Aunty, a prominent Aksa madam many bar dancers had begun working with for her reputation. Aunty, they said, was ancient, like Aksa, and therefore reliable. She liked pretty women. She was no ‘gaal
pe
blade
dalnewali
’—she didn’t mark their faces with a blade like some madams did, to show ownership, to keep her girls terrified and close. And she didn’t allow customers to cut them either. She was a fine ‘bijnissman’ and was rightfully taking advantage of the boom in the ‘randi bazaar’ by offering bar dancers 50 per cent of their day’s take. ‘Of course,’ mused Tinkoo, ‘once the girls lose their looks, she won’t give them 50 per cent, she won’t even give them ten. But look how she’s pulling them in now! Like a politician!’

He was impressed. Other people had all the good ideas!

Aunty was rich, Tinkoo continued. ‘Wait till you see where she lives. You’ll go mad.’

What’s her name? I asked.

‘Aunty.’

That can’t be her name, I said. That’s like calling someone Mr.

Tinkoo grinned at me. ‘All right, call her Salma. Or Sangeeta. Call her whatever you like. But mind me Soniaji, she will answer only to Aunty.’

The following day I met Tinkoo outside The Resort in Aksa. He was dressed like a rap star—how he thought a rap star might
look. He wore sunglasses, a stringy black vest, baggy black jeans and an alphabet chain that said ‘handsome’. He asked me to follow him and so we drove awhile, down quiet roads, the sea on one side, gently swaying coconut trees on the other. After about twenty minutes he stopped in front of an imposing wooden gate, its great height preventing us from looking over. Turning to me he slid off his sunglasses and said, ‘You’re a
doctorni
.’

Really? I retorted.

‘Yes,’ he said sternly. ‘Or a kustomer. Which do you prefer?’

Doctorni, I had to admit.

Tinkoo parked his motorcycle and pushed his way through the gate. I followed into a watercolour. In front of us stood six small cottages—‘for sex,’ Tinkoo unnecessarily informed me. The cottages had thatched roofs and brick walls and they were tapestried with knotted vines and brilliantly coloured flowers.

Flowers grew everywhere, even beneath my feet, even popping out of ditches like the ditches were vases. There was a picturesque well and by its side a blue bucket tied to a rope. In the background, the sea was a blinding silver light.

I couldn’t help but contrast this magical location with Gazala’s brothel in Kamatipura. I doubt her hijras cared. Their burdens wouldn’t ease. But Aunty’s property was so stunning, so well tended to, it made me curious about who she was: what kind of woman would on the one hand nurture beauty and on the other help ravage it?

I didn’t have to wonder long. Tinkoo was pointing into the near distance, where an older woman was strolling beside a sprite of a man clutching a scythe. As she pointed first here and then there, the man bent down and rustled through the under-growth, repeatedly emerging with a fallen coconut. When the woman spotted us, she strolled over with a smile.

Gazala’s curious appearance had nothing on Aunty. She was a pixie with pale, deeply wrinkled skin and a crew cut the colour of ripe cherries. Although she must have been around fifty, she dressed somewhat like a Cabbage Patch Kid in lime green shorts,
a flimsy vest in a similar colour and pink slippers from which the dye had bled, turning the soles of her feet, I would later note, a delectable candyfloss.