The flawless facade of my Mumbai

It was a mundane Thursday, I remember. At 3 pm, Mumbai was on its routine course; in a couple of hours, a stream of people would rush out of their commercial spaces, roads would become non-traversable, and the trains would be packed with body mass of varied shapes and sizes, enough to prevent (in scientific terms) free molecular movement. 

I, on my part, was oddly enjoying a sabbatical from working at a news daily, and was on my way for a late lunch at a recently-opened brewpub The Barking Deer located in the city's now upcoming business district Lower Parel. Like most Mumbaikars, who believe in convenient, yet arduous commuting, I took the train from town side. Now, on such journeys, especially when they are short, I usually take to standing near the doors of the local and indulging myself in a little bit of sight-seeing. 

It is on this occasion that my eyes fell upon a dilapidated, moss-infested, stone-blocked, abandoned mill. I stared at it vacantly for a few breezy seconds, and allowed my mind to question what I had seen. Why did they shut down the mill, if only to abandon it? Who could possibly be in there? Is it guarded?

And then the train halted at Lower Parel station, I got down, my mind meandered and I forgot about it. I enjoyed my meaty lunch, visited my ex-colleagues and got back home. 

Next morning, an early morning call from a friend and an old colleague woke me up from my deep slumber. 

"Did you hear about the shocking gangrape in Mumbai?" she asked. "It is so sad, she was a journalist, like us. What's worse...It happened so close to our workplace in Lower Parel. It is so so scary," she continued.

Having deliberately shut myself from reading newspapers and watching news channels since the last few days, I was obviously clueless about the developments. "Oh S***! Where did it take place?" 

"Shakti Mills...that abandoned mill round the corner," she said.

My memory recreated the image of the mill, that had just yesterday, even if briefly, stirred in me a deep anxiety. The development certainly shocked me.  

That's how the news spread. From mouth to mouth, ear to ear, one home to another. Tweeters and Facebookers expressed distress. "Mumbai is unsafe for women," like a war cry, screamed its lungs out on my timeline and next-days newspapers. My mother was on loop, "What did I tell you about travelling alone in Mumbai?" The shock and dismay hasn't seized to pervade our lives. It won't for long. 

But am I 'very' surprised that it happened in my City? Apologetically, No.

Before spending over a decade in Mumbai, I lived in the city of Muscat in Oman.The city, which is only an-Arabian-sea away from Mumbai, is no Saudi Arabia. Women enjoy their freedom. They work, they drive cars, they shop, they travel, they take their long walks. But, often, they prefer being accompanied. Not because they believe it is unsafe. The city has no real reputation...all hearsay. So, possibly, it was just a norm. Having lived in such a protected environment for over 16 years, Mumbai became Las Vegas to me. 

This Indian metro, unlike other cities, enjoys a good reputation among its women folk. Many have not only taken this reputation for granted, but have believed in it, worn the facade like a badge on their chest, and lived it king size. When I came here in 2003, I got the taste of the freedom that this city had to offer. I could do my own thing, be myself, do chores alone; walk an isolated street at 11 pm in the night, without a terrible thought swinging in my head. All in all, I reveled in my newly-acquired freedom. 

But a sub-conscious alarm, always kicked in. Every time I heard someone say, "Mumbai is so safe, I can travel in the last local without having much to worry about," or mention, "Marine Drive is best to walk in the nights," I would fake agreement. I was at ease with my city, but would get goosebumps when I entered an empty ladies compartment in a local, and would rush to the general compartment for some self-assurance.   

In fact, just recently when a close female friend told me she would be coming over to my place in a cab late past 2 am, I had the most vexing time of my life until she reached home safe... not to mention her cellphone was unavailable. So, I possibly knew somewhere deep down, what I fervently believed, could not have been so true, so real, so bedecked in gold that it could never corrode. 

It is time we wake up to reality, not only women, but men too. We live in a city; we have the good, bad, ugly. The balance has never been retained, and this metro, of all places, is no blooming example of Marx's utopic living. Of course, we need to be shocked, but we also need to stop behaving like zombies, and stop reacting like it never happened. Mumbai has never been safe. If you read the newspapers carefully daily, you will find the story of a women, young girl, maid, daughter, sister or wife being raped and murdered, somewhere — often buried in a single column or a small box. It happens, yes it does. Let us accept it. We cannot live with it, is another fact. Sadly, it took us the gangrape of a photojournalist to realise this.         

I have one grouse. Our attitude. The convenience with which we label the city with negative adjectives, every time a ruthless and shameful crime slaps us in the face. Mumbai is growing by the day; its population has far exceeded the limits of law and order. And so, it is vulnerable. So stop the "shame Mumbai" campaign; stop branding the city as if it has always been the epitome of all righteousness; stop acting like we never knew fear. Who are we humouring? Ourselves, or those who live outside the limits of our city. 

No, I am not ashamed, shocked or embarrassed that it was my city, I am ashamed by the fact that my city is home to such horrible, fearless, demonic men. I am ashamed by the ruthlessness of the crime. I am saddened because it happened to one among us, and happens, everyday to many of us, in our so-called, presumed-to-be safe city. Some stay mum, some have the courage to come out like this young, brave 22-year-old. She opened our eyes to what prevails, and has been hidden in the glossy comforts of 'once upon a time in a safe haven called Mumbai'.   

          

Walking Mumbai's Red-light

It is 11pm. We’ve just had dinner at Café Noorani near Heera Panna and are now making headway to one of the city’s most menacing locales. Arzai (name changed) is with us. He has promised us a slice of Mumbai’s dark side. I am not keen about the visit, in fact I am very sceptical, not because I am not well-protected, but because the red-light is not the most fascinating place to be. When you see people of the same sexes garishly displaying their bodies as if to be objectified only, a bag of mixed emotions surface. There is anger, there is sympathy, there is hatred or there is either absolute ignorance.
We have decided to watch the red-light from inside the car. It is said that the red-light just gets brighter post 9pm and business is at its peak. We first pass by Falkland Road. The narrow pathway greets you with an unpleasant stench and you don’t know from where it is coming. But the smell reeks of filthy sex, small money, poor women and hungry men.
The stench is augmented by the restaurants, which have their pantries outside. Sweaty men are cooking chicken tikkas and naan for the customers who want to have full of everything today (both sex and food). Falkland Road is also lined with three cinema halls of which I remember Roshan Cinema. Right now it is screening “Golden Girl”- A rated.
On either side of the road, there are small buildings each compartmentalised into small rooms. The doors of the ground-floors are opened while the top floors have iron cages, just like the one you find in elevators.
Interestingly, these cages were built in the mid-1900s on the orders of the police. Girls in the red-light would be dragged or molested by pushy men. At the time, prostitution was at its peek, and men would literally line the doors for their turn. The cages were built on the ground and top floors to ensure that these girls remain within their safe havens and not loiter around in the “tolerated areas” and become victims of notoriety. These cages though of not much use today, still stand rusted but strong in these partially dilapidated buildings.
The women here are freely moving for customers. They are approaching men, calling out to them, making sleazy gestures. Most are dressed awkwardly in tight-fitting clothes, lining their stomachs which have developed a bubble with time. If they are wearing sarees, you wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t cover the upper-half of the body. Plunging necklines, red lipstick and heavily powdered – these women are nothing close to being deceptive prostitutes. It is a mix breed, from ages 16 to 60 to limitless frontiers, from the east (Bengal, Bangladesh, Assamese) west (Gujarat), north (Nepalese) and south (Tamilians and Kannadigas).
You know they are commercial sex workers and they have no reservations about it. They flaunt it, regardless of any appreciation. They are the cheapest of the lot (Rs 50 to Rs 500) and they have no qualms about it.
Enter Foras Road, which is on the other side of Falkland Road, and I feel like I have approached a dead end. It is nothing like Falkland Road. Prostitution is close to redundancy here and cane workers and tall buildings line the road instead. However, few metres ahead, the lanes of Kamathipura speak the same language of Brothels. Kamathipura is split into some 14 lanes, each unique with its own story to tell. Some of these however bear the footprints of residential homes today, as several brothels have now shifted base.
The ride was interesting, but Arzai tells us that there is more to come…he speaks of Congress House. Before I begin, let me give you a briefer. Congress House is located in one of the bylanes of Lamington Road near the Grant Road police station.

Once a beehive of India’s freedom fighters, the Congress House which is an enclave of seven buildings is literally surrounded by a mujra complex. Its only sightings with History are the names of the buildings like Sarojini Sadan, Dadabhai Manzil, Jinnah Hall, Congress Restaurant and Beer Bar.

In 1972, Mrs Indira Gandhi the then Prime Minister had set up a Sangeet Academy at Congress House. The Academy was home to members of the Agra community of singers and dancers who organised dance shows for the royals over 300 years ago.

I am sure she did not realise what it was going to be like today. Since the Sangeet Academy is located close to Congress House and because the National party's activities are now dysfunctional, Sangeet Academy has become synonymous to the Congress House.

Arzai also tells me that partymen at the Congress House were fond of song and dance (naach-gaana). So, after their days work, a mujra session would usually be called for late in the night... and women would sing and dance to the tunes of tablas and harmoniums. This is how the place went on to become a mujra complex and also flourished with time.

The ambience of a mujra performance is usually unique in itself. It has mirrored walls, huge chandeliers and brightly lit rooms that are filled with drinkers, who splurge money on girls. Well-depicted in movies, these men shower notes on the girls or gift them with garlands of notes.
Over the years the definition of Mujras has however changed, more due to the taste in music.

I attended one and it was less like a typical Mujra and more like a dance bar -this one is at the Congress House. The entrance has a old board which reads Sangeet Academy. As we enter, we have male and female gazes on us. People stare from floors above and are suspicious about the unregulars around. However, unlike Kamathipura and Falkland Road, the girls are extremely beautiful. Lustrous black hair, milk like skin and designer or expensive sarees…yes, this is not exactly the red-light, this according to Arzai is where mujras or kothas take place. The girls come from Agra, UP and Delhi.
When I attended one of the mujras sessions, the feel of the original Mujra is devastatingly tweaked. There are mirrors, tabla players, a singer and bling-bling lights….all apart but the musicians are stationery, they just sit and watch.

The music comes from blaring speakers and these pretty looking north-Indian damsels dance to the tune of Bollywood remixes. Two guests are sitting in the centre and they have in their hands several bundles of Rs 10 notes.

One of the guests tries his best to get hold of the girl or touch her, but all that he can do is pat her on the waist. He pats her twice on her waist and then gets no more of it. According to Arzai they don’t sleep for a pittance. Each of them make a maximum of Rs 50,000 per day, only by dancing and...wow, I say. The girls remain confined to their homes during the day and only work at night. Their day begins at around 3pm and goes on till 4 am.

Incidentally, they don’t work as prostitutes but naachne wallis instead. If they sleep, it is for the master who feeds them enough so that they don’t shift loyalties. Once they are his, the are salaried.

I move out in 10 minutes. It is not the best performance, but the thumkas, jhatkas and eye expressions can be a treat for any man, both inviting and sensual.

Well, this is some slice. One dark, one light, one monetarily exhausting and the other financially tempting…This is a slice of “red-light” Mumbai

Pic: Courtesy The New York Times