Mindboggling mascara magic. Mumbai masti moment. So, bar-bar dekho, hazar bar dekho...I’m not talking of some long-lost sweetheart, stupid. I’m talking of the Bombay bar girls. Two dozen of them are on the dance floor at Lakshadweep, Mumbai’s hotspot in upscale Juhu. Jiving to the sound of music. Showered with crisp ten-rupee notes in the thousands. By men standing on the margins. A quick glance darting across the floor. From here to there. And then, from there to here. Ms Gorgeous Eyes flashing the come-hither look. Mr Mauj Masti blowing a kiss. Then dipping into his pocket for more crisp currency notes. Reaching out his hand, to take hers in his. Just that. So, touch me, please. But groping’s strictly prohibited. The arch lights are for the women. The men better stand in darkness. Premium liquor in hand. And bottoms up to that.
This was my first dekko at the dance bars after countless visits to the city. I had goaded the men about town to take me for an outing. And boy, was I floored! I was floored twice over. Thrice too soon. First at Tandoor, in the city’s pucca middle-class neighbourhood, Mahim, on the ground floor of a residential block bang on the high street. And then, at Lakshadweep. First, at the entry-level ground floor bar. And then for an exclusive mujra on the first floor, in privileged company. And what a performance it was. That dame in her georgette gharara. Her head was covered with an orhni. Doing the Meena Kumari act.
You could call her Madhu Bala too, or Rekha, or whoever. Could be,
that girl next door. Could be my very own sis. Whatever!
I died a hundred deaths that night. In a desperate urge to join the gals
on the floor. And dance. I pleaded. But Don, who had led us in, wouldn’t
allow me any of that, that night. “They won’t let you on the floor. Mind
the bouncers. You have a reputation to keep,” he warned.
“There’s nothing disreputable about it. It all looks so normal. And the
sound system’s better than at any five-star disc in Delhi. The strobes
are hi-tech too. And the gals? Drop dead gorgeous!” I exclaimed.
“I meet them on the suburban every morning,” Candice in the office told me
the next day when I narrated my encounters to her. “You can hardly
make them out. Shorn off gloss and shine. Just like any other Mumbai
gal. ICICI Bank’s even started offering them five-year housing loans.
They are a giggly bunch on the train. Except when they get talking. And
they mostly fight over some new patron who’d lavished cash on just
one of them. ‘You stole my client, you bitch...’”
Have you been to a dance bar so far? I asked Candice, who’s been
born and brought up in Mumbai. “No,” she said. “Women from decent
households don’t go such places.”
The next time I’m in town, I’ll bring my wife along. And watch this mind-
blowing extravaganza together. Right there at the bar.
“Don’t get trapped by the glitter,” Don warned yet again. “You aren’t
aware of the pain behind the glamour. Many of these girls may have
been kidnapped from the boondocks. Perfectly decent middle-class
women from small towns in the hinterland. Many of them would have
been raped before being let loose on the floor. And you haven’t seen
any of that.”
I find the men respectable too. But God knows what’s on their mind. Look at Mr Share Dalal, lavishing cash on the gals. And at Uncle Batliboy on the sofa. He must be 60 plus by now. They all look so happy. The glint in their eyes. That smile across their faces. Smiling at the girls. The girls smiled back at them. You can’t read the pain on their faces. Yet, their eyes tell it all. That guy out there may be, he’s been bashed up by his wife. And that hunk, perhaps, a jilted lover. And that stud, possibly from the lonely hearts club. And that man with drooping shoulders, tripped in the office by the boss. Perhaps! You never know. But look again. And nobody’s complaining. Not the men. Not the women. They are living their life for this moment. And this moment is magic. I first went to a Christmas eve cabaret as a teenager at Trinca’s at the Park in Cal. I’ve also been to a peep show joint in Melbourne. And my wife’s accompanied me to Amsterdam’s sex museums. And let me tell you this, every time I went in there, I came out with a distinct feel of sleaze. It’s flesh on the rack. It’s faceless. And I have watched the whores on TV. From Grant Road in Mumbai to GB Road in Delhi. With garishly painted faces. In green petticoats and red blouses. They look so sick.
And here come the Bombay gals in mascara magic. If you ask me, they have always been there. From time immemorial. At Indra’s court. In Vishwamitra’s ashram. In the havelis of nawabs and zamindars. Mumbai brought them down to the dance floor to celebrate mass entertainment. It’s time Mumbai brought its dance bars out of the closet and set them up on supermarket shelves. I’m sure that for a city that has nothing other than a decaying colonial gateway to show off to the world, the bar gals could be its biggest tourist attraction.
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