my travels

Back from my tour of Delhi, Bangalore and Calcutta.

Work, being the way it is, did not allow me much time to gallivant in either Delhi or Bangalore. The only sightseeing that I did in Delhi was from the hotel to the studio, and from within the confines of our car.

Bangalore offered me more opportunity. I needed some stationary and decided to go look for it myself. I wandered on the streets of this great city for an hour and a half in the burning heat (to the sun's credit, it was kinder here than in Delhi), but still no stationary shops. However, every minute we would spot a new wine shop, with people standing at the counter itself and having their day's first.

There was no dearth of movie theatres either. Every small gully had a movie hall with huge cut outs of male film stars on the outside. The size of the theatre building itself. Atleast 10 garlands made of golden paper adorned each cut out. And it was only 11am, but there were already crowds waiting for the theatre to open. It was not even a Sunday.

Anyways, moving on to Calcutta.

While Delhi and Bangalore had its fair share of perverts, Calcutta emerged the winner, hands down. I think all the sexually frustrated men in the country are housed here. I had just stepped into Calcutta and in ten minutes had already got brushed against, honked at, serenaded and winked at atleast 10 times.

On the last day of my stay here, we got some three hours to ourselves. So a colleague and me decided to go sightseeing. Howrah Bridge we had passed while on our way to the studio, so Shivani did not feel the need of going back. I wanted to see Victoria Palace while she insisted on Kali Ghat. I was feeling generous that day, so I agreed to go to Kali Ghat with her first.

Even though I'm not religious I like visiting temples, dargahs and churches. I usually like the feel of such places. But Kali Ghat was something else. My usual romantic self had visualised a quaint little temple on top of a hill (where would anyone find a hill in Calcutta, i don't know, but I don't usually make use of logic).

When we reached Kali Ghat, I just wanted to run all the way back. The first man we met was one of the dalals, or someone who would get us access to the priest. He made Shivani buy some offerings and insisted that I do too. But seeing my stubborn face and the apparent disgust on it, he backed off. We went inside. I had started hating Shivani already. Then we had to do namaskar to some idol, after which we were made to stand in a line to get into the main temple, so we could worship the idol of Kali. As soon as we entered the main temple, the priest with us - he looked like a pucca fraud - started reciting some prayers. Each group of people was accompanied by a separate priest and each priest was trying to be louder than the others.

The temple was the dirtiest I have ever seen. Grease and dirt clung to its walls. The funniest part was that people had even written their names on the walls, like we do on dusty car windshields. There was a Raju loves Joyeeta proclamation too.

Anyways, as we crawled forward, the priest kept nudging me to close my eyes and pray. Finally I lost it and snapped at him to shut up. "Haath mat lagao...aur aankh bandh nahi karne ka hai bola na.." I yelled in my Bambaiyya Hindi. The family behind me stopped praying. My priest muttered something and from then on, spoke only to Shivani. Finally we reached the idol. There were two priests there - both put something on to my forehead, which I rubbed off immediately. We finally came out. But even here, the vultures wouldn't let go. Now another priest came forward and started praying over us. And then of course asked for money. Thankfully, even Shivani did not give any money this time. The prayers itself were so banal. He asked me if I was married. When I said no, he prayed that "bade ghar mein shaadi ho jaaye".

We needed to pay up even when we went to pick up our chappals. And then the priest and the dalal. Shivani of course did all the paying up.

We finally sat in the taxi and made our way to Victoria Palace.

Mission : Dance Bar

"You have to dance at a bar tommorow". Instructions given by my city editor, Lajwanti D'souza, the minute I walk into the newsroom. Dance bar??? my face says. "Yes. And write about your experience," she continues.

The R R Patil versus dance bars issue is at its peak and every newspaper worth its newsprint is cashing in on it. All newspapers have taken the "right to make a living" stand and are supporting the dance bars. Of course I have my doubts or rather I'm quite convinced that a lot of money has passed hands. Laj has only passed on to me directions given by THE BOSS.

But because we pretend to be a democratic bunch of reporters she gives me the option of saying no. I'm given some three minutes to decide. Thrilling? Yes. Scary? Yes. But me? Well...I say yes. I think even Laj is surprised. I don't quite have a decisive stand on this issue, though I do quite agree with the right to life argument. But again R R Patil also seems to be talking sense sometimes. The only thing going against him, as far as I'm concerned, is the fact that there are far more important issues that need attention.

Moving on to the more personal crisis caused by R R Patil in my life, I don't know whether I'm trembling with fear or excitement. Basically, I don't know how to dance. I mean, I can manage to shake my hands a bit, but my legs simply refuse to move. I don't even dance at normal pubs or parties. And here I am consenting to dance in a room full of leering, lecherous men!

I go meet Manjit Singh Sethi, the owner of Karishma Bar in Dadar. As soon as I enter the bar, I'm in a different world. Even at 2 in the afternoon, there are girls dancing and drunk men gawking at them, with loud Bollywood music playing in the background. I meet Manjit in his cabin and he agrees to give me a chance. I have to join that evening.

I go back to office to ponder over my decision. There is not a single person in the newsroom who supports me, but I can't back off now...Izzat ka sawaal hai..

At seven pm, I set off, along with Santosh Harhare, who is supposed to click my photographs, chupke se. The trembling has got worse now. We reach the bar. I take a diffferent entrance, while Santosh uses the main door meant for customers. As soon as I enter, I'm lost. While looking around, one of the girls mistakes me, quite correctly, for a journalist. She comes and politely asks me what I'm doing here and whether I'm a journalist. Looking at her confident, attractive face, I almost want to admit the truth, but I blurt out the practiced line with the right degree of nervousness. She smiles, gives me a motherly look and leads me inside. Seeing that I have not brought any appropriate clothes, she instructs a girl, about the same height as me to lend me a chania choli. The girl, Ruksana, is none too happy. "Kal nahi milega" she says rudely and walks off. Goddammit! This feels like the first day of school.

The dress she has given me, I suspect, is heavier than me. I stand in front of the mirror trying to figure it out. Finally, Ruksana takes pity on me, and comes to my rescue. She makes me take off my clothes, and though I'm only in the company of girls, I feel distinctly uncomfortable. I hope I'm not wearing anything branded inside. Oh hell, I should have thought of this. Thankfully, I'm not. "arrey baap re..iski toh kamar hi nahi hai.." quips one girl. Yea right...thank you ma'am. Another smiles, "lekin baaki sab toh badhiya hai.." Aiyyo...can I disappear..

Another girl mutters under her breath, “There’s a new girl… now we won’t even get whatever little we used to.” But when I tell them I have never worked in a dance bar before, they immediately turn more sympathetic.

Finally the torture is over; the dress is on me, albeit with a lot of safety pins. Next comes the hairstyle. I prefer to keep a half pony tail, but my well wishers won't hear of it. So off it comes, and I even have to comb my hair. I put my foot down, where make up is concerned and they let me off with only a light brown lipstick and black eyeliner. So, I'm ready.

The waiter has already started taking rounds, pestering the girls to get on the floor. A few girls have reluctantly agreed. This is their bread and butter, but getting up from the make up room and entering the dance hall takes grit. I feel the same misery when I'm asked to go out. It’s time to put on a fake smile, brace yourself and enter. A girl, Neha, accompanies me.

There is a Ganesh murti (I think it was Ganesh, or was it Nataraja...god knows) on one of the pillars on the dance floor, and after the mandatory namaskar, we are each given Rs 10 to hold in our hands. I stand behind the pillar and pretend to dance. Neha, dressed in pink, cute, chubby, fair, with the right make up and straight long hair, dances with me. I'm so glad even she does not know to dance. She has joined just a few days ago.

I observe the other girls. Most of them have their eyes to the floor, or stare into space. They are only physically in that place, while mentally, far away. I wonder what they could be dreaming of. Sometimes, when our eyes meet, I can almost feel the embarrasment and pain behind them.

Other, more experienced girls, look flirtatiously at the customers, wink, pout, and move seductively. One of them especially, has mastered the art of seduction. She is beautiful beyond doubt - of medium height, green eyed, with translucent skin, light brown hair, and naturally pink lips. She's the only one among us who seems to know how to dance. She's so beautiful that even the other girls can't help forgetting their dance, and looking at her instead.

I try to dance, but realise I’m doing a lousy job. Finally, a waiter hands me a 100 rupee note and points out towards the customer who gave it. I don't know what to do. I can't even get myself to smile at him. I look at the waiter for help. But he's of no use. I continue pretending to dance. Then comes the second 100 rupee note. After four such notes, I muster the courage to smile at him. Chalo, atleast Ive got something. I almost feel better. I calculate : 400 per day, say 500. 500 multiplied by 30 makes 15000. Fuck! more than I earn in a month. And this is only my first day! I wonder how much the green eyed girl must be earning...not less than 3000 a day. Fuck man...that makes it 90,000!!

Anyways, back to the dance floor. I steal glances at Santosh from time to time. I hope he's getting some decent photographs.

After some time, my customer, beckons me. Okkkayyy...what does he want now...i wonder? I make my way to him and he hands me a tissue paper. It says something to the effect of : “Kya socha hai? Aaj night ho jaaye? Bol haan ya na.”

Not knowing how to react, I head towards the make up room and show the note to another girl, Ruksana, who immediately tells me "Say yes, or he won’t udao any more money on you.” I tell her, I don't want to sleep with him, but she replies: “Who sleeps with these men? Just say yes and let him spend some more money on you.” She tells me that after work, the girls all leave in taxis provided for by the bar, and nobody dare touch them.

I still can't muster the courage to say yes. I wish I had though, I would have earned much more that night. Anyways, since I don't react to that note, more tissue papers follow : "Tere ko kya jaroor hai doosre ke saamne naachne ki. Bol tereko mere saath aane ka ya nahi? Mere ko tere saath kaam hai isiliye tere ko paisa diya.."

Finally my sense of justice awakens, and I think he deserves an explanation. So I go and tell him that my brother is coming to pick me up tonight and I can't possibly make it. So could he please come tommorow? To which he replies that he is from Pune and is returning tommorow morning. I make a sorry face, to which he adds that a friend of mine would also do. I tell Ruksana, who immediately says yes. But her condition is that he should shower her with a garland of Rs 1000. I think he proves too smart for her and the deal is off.

Make-up breaks give the girls a chance to go back to being themselves, if only for a short while. Here, girls, cuss freely and with a vengeance. If only the customers out there knew what their beauties actually thought of them..Others cry in corners. Many havent earned anything that night. Others fight on cell phones, with husbands, lovers..

One girl, Rehana, is fighting on the phone with her husband. She is his second wife, and now he wants to marry for a third time. After five heated minutes the conversation is back to mushy I love yous and miss yous. Love is scarce around here and everyone is trying to borrow some from life.

A waiter yells at us to go back to the dance floor. The expressions on the girls’ faces when they are told to go back are heart rending. It’s back to the tired smiles and seductive looks.

The day is finally over. But my asshole colleague, VKM, decides to make his entry just then and announce that we are from the press. I can't believe my eyes. Anyways, all the girls disappear when they realise this, and I know I can't enter that bar in a long, long time.

Don't ask me what I learnt from this experience. I don't think I learnt anything, though I did write some shit crap about how i admired the girls for their courage and jazz like that, because I was supposed to. But for me, it simply remained a great experience.

rambling

I wish there was an Undo key in my life. You know, some switch I could carry in my pocket, which helped me rectify all the mistakes I keep making on a minute to minute basis. Maybe I could undo entire days even.

I wonder at people, especially in these celebrity interviews who say that they have no regrets. How can you not have regrets? I for one, have more than my fair share.

I''d also like a Find option in my house. With the speed I keep losing things, this one is a must have. So often I have caught myself instinctively wanting to press the find option when I lose my keys or the ketchup bottle or other such important things.

The other thing I was thinking of yesterday was P G Wodehouse. Happened to read some of his short stories on the net, and marvelled yet again at his genius. I only have 12 of his masterpieces but have read them 4 times each atleast. Back in college, I used to know somebody who was doing her PHD in Wodehouse. Imagine that! What fun! Imagine doing a PHD in Calvin and Hobbes. Makes me want to do a PHD myself..If only I was the favorite niece of an uncle rolling in riches, and did not have to think of my aloo gobi - dal chawal...

blah, my saviour

They were back again. Hoping I'd bend a little this time. After all, a girl who smiles so sweetly can't be all that bad no?

There was a newcomer this time. All of them had been invited to dinner by mother dearest who is soon going to become a saint.
He started. Lets call him BLAH : So swati, lets say the prayers before meals.
SWATI, SMILING SWEETLY: Well, you guys can go ahead. I'l just finish some work I have.
BLAH Oh no no...that would never do...Have you said the I Believe today?
ME: Well...no...
BLAH: Ok we'll say it now then...you can repeat after me...I Believe in God...repeat repeat...
ME: (smile a little strained now) Well I can't repeat it if I don't believe no?
BLAH: WHAT??? (i think he'll have a heart attack..mum call the ambulance please) You don't believe????!!!
ME: (sweet smile back) : why, hasnt my mother told you yet??
BLAH: (trying to compose himself) You don't believe in the Christian God?
ME: (smile firmly in place) : I thought you guys say all god's are the same...anyways, I don't believe in any god.
BLAH: you mean you don't believe in God only???
ME: (yea dumbhead...what have I been saying for so long???? kind of look on my face)
BLAH: ok...do you believe America exists?
ME: yes
BLAH: but you haven't seen it, then how can you say so?
ME: because I feel so.
BLAH: and you don't feel god exists?
ME: u gottit
BLAH: and what if I were to say that I don't believe anything you wrote for The Indian Express
ME: (huh?? where did poor Indian Express come into this??) You are free not to believe...and definitely don't believe a lot of what Times of India, Mirror and Mid-day print either...most of it is lies..
BLAH: (losing patience now) thats besides the point...what if I say that I don't believe you exist...
ME: You are free to believe what you wish...


AAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHY COULDN'T THIS MAN UNDERSTAND THAT I DIDN'T GIVE A DAMN IF HE BELIEVED I EXISTED OR NOT. WHY COULDN'T HE SEE THAT JUST AS I HAD GIVEN HIM THE FREEDOM TO BELIEVE IN MY NON EXISTENCE, I NEEDED THE FREEDOM TO BELIEVE IN THE NON EXISTENCE OF GOD. WHY THE HELL ARE THEY TRYING TO SAVE ME?

I mean, are they all so dumb? Doesn't a single one see reason? I may be wrong, ultimately, and there really might be a kind, caring, compassionate god. But who are they to force me into believing in him? Imagine forcing someone to believe in God.

But then, isn't that what most people do to their children? Tell them about this great god, when their minds are most impressionable. Much later, this ingrained truth is indeletable. The children, most of whom have no lives apart from their studies and play, will hardly think or ponder over what has been handed down to them by generations. They grow up believing that good is rewarded and bad is punished. How naive are they...they even believe that the old blind woman down the street, who has been discarded by his family, is in this situation because of his own wrong doings, that the prostitute is in the whorehouse, because she is evil...It's all the work of this great caring loving god.

And what about the baby who was born without a spine, or the one who was smothered to death after her birth because she happened to be a girl...what about them? The answer usually is about some sins committed in their past lives or the even easier - that they will be rewarded their place in heaven soon. Bah! Hypocrites! Fools!

Finally BLAH was incensed enough to walk out of the house, but mother dearest insisted he stay for dinner. So he stayed, and ate the meal in silence, like a good boy.

all gray

The M word cropped up again yesterday. This time, because my mother happened to see a few strands of gray hair on my head. Serves me right for being lazy and not oiling it myself.

Anyways, I told her I was only 23 but she did not budge. She's sure im gonna be completely gray before any guy agrees to marry me. Sigh...

fumble

I have to learn how to get angry. I mean, not just upset or irritated. I mean really red hot angry. I don't remember ever being that angry. I wish I could yell and shout and rant sometimes, but its simply impossible.

Even sometimes, when the temperature has reached boiling point and I march down to blast the person responsible, what usually happens is that after the first few words, I simply don't see the point. As in, my brain suddenly starts asking me if the matter is really that important. And the obvious answer is no.

As soon as this happens, I start fumbling (one can't yell with our brain whispering to you all the time, right?) and the effect is completely lost. Once or twice, to my sheer embarrasment, I even ended up smiling! Gosh, the agony!

my first inspiration

GOOD BYE HRISHIDA. AND THANK YOU FOR THE MOVIES.

Noise

At this very moment, my dad is in the drawing room listening to the news blaring on television on why muslims shouldn't insure their lives.

My mum is sitting next to me, reading aloud from the Bible.

And I am in front of the computer listening to `Bhanwara Bada Nadaan hai..'

Chaos reigns.

PRESS

The one thing I miss the most from my journalism days is the press card. P-R-E-S-S printed in bright red letters on a white background that immediately gave the impression that one was on an important mission. What fun it was to see the reactions of policemen and difficult people in general when the wallet was opened and the red letters spilled out.

Now, when I open my wallet and see the blank space where the card once was, I feel a pang of regret for forfeiting it. Friends advised, although a bit late, that I should have simply said that I had lost the card. I kicked myself for not having the presence of mind, but its ok. I don't think I could have got myself to pretend something I'm not.

But I really do miss it.

nirvana part2

Ive been feeling so happy and content of late. Ive never been so content doing crap work. It's such a nice feeling.

I think the most important reason for this contentment is that post-journalism I have loads of time on my hands. I come home early in the evening and have ample time to read and write. Work mainly involves travel and I'm even being paid for it! I don't have to run from one place to the other, all day and night, just for the pleasure of seeing my byline in the next day's newspaper.

I know this won't last long, and soon I'l be back with my hyperventilating and my "where is my life heading" kind of posts. But I'l enjoy it while it does.