Beautiful Thing: Inside the Secret World of Bombay's Dance Bars (9 page)

But Leela missed nothing. ‘Such big-big suitcases!’ she exclaimed. ‘Only for two weeks?’ That was the length of time Apsara usually visited for.

‘Only if my daughter throws me out,’ said Apsara. ‘But if she doesn’t,’ she continued quick as can be, ‘mummy will stay on to pamper her. To cook for her and wash her clothes; to do massage for her head and press her legs. To comb her hair one hundred times every night.’

Leela attempted to demur, ‘You shouldn’t leave your husband alone, mummy. You know that, you know why.’

‘It’s been so many months, Leela!’

‘But you know what he’s like, mummy!’

‘Give me a chance, beti.’

And so Leela did, if only, as Apsara soon revealed, because Manohar had proved himself to be a
Rakshas
No. 1. He had broken one of her fingers, imagine it!

But he had done that before, Leela reasoned impassively.
Battered her so many times, their neighbours in the cantonment could only respond with a weary silence when Apsara insisted she was unable to judge distances and had, since she was a child, tripped down stairs as a matter of course.

So why leave now?

‘I can’t knit any more!’ cried Apsara, throwing her large, fat hands in the air. Tears rolled down her face.

Pathetic, Leela mused. Manohar had pimped Leela, and Apsara had protected his shameful secrets as though they were her own. But God forbid someone mess with her knitting!

‘I went to doctor sahib,’ Apsara sobbed. ‘But he said, “It’s too late, Mrs Singh, you are too old. Nothing can be done to straighten this finger. Just manage best you can.”’

‘Why did he do it, Leela?’ wailed Apsara. ‘Knitting is my all! Didn’t he know it? The years I spent by his side! And he couldn’t see it?’

Now Apsara, caring little that we had only just met and if anyone’s presence in her daughter’s flat needed explanation it was mine, launched into her personal history. She put aside her knitting, which she clearly hadn’t given up on despite the difficulties the task presented, and to ensure my full attention, hijacked my wrist. She moved this way and that, edging so close I could smell her gutka breath. I appreciated its minty freshness for it seemed she also enjoyed deep fried snacks.

‘Every time my mister gets drunk,’ Apsara said, breathing heavily, ‘he behaves like a buffalo rampaging through a sugarcane field. With God’s grace if I manage to run away all he can do is throw something in my direction—a chair, a stool, the knife he insists on keeping in his back pocket like he’s some hunter-wala! But if he catches me—
Hai Ram!
—God says bye-bye and the devil says “Apsaraji,
kya haal chaal
?” One limb at least goes
ka-ra-ck
!’

Leela rolled her eyes. ‘Apsara is fat! And she’s very, very simple.’

By ‘simple’ Leela meant ‘stupid’, but in a kindly way.

‘My mother is simple,’ she would shrug, when I asked why her mother hadn’t taken her away from Manohar. ‘My mother is simple!’ she would comfort herself, when she heard from her brothers that Apsara had spent her money orders on custom-fitted motorcycles and satellite radios for them. Leela’s brothers were unemployed, and hoping to remain so, reminded her in STD calls she paid for that they were praying for her health.

‘Buy yourself a box of Shimla apples,’ they would instruct, as though it was on them.

‘Eat almonds soaked overnight for breakfast.’

‘Drink a quarter litre of cow’s milk every morning.’

Leela saw through their solicitousness. ‘What will happen to them if I fall ill and cannot dance?’ She stuck her palm out. ‘Madam, paisa
do na, do na
paisa madam.’ Beggary.

All of this, Leela wanted me to know—Apsara’s attitude towards her sons, her sons’ stupidity and sloth, who knew, perhaps even Manohar’s antagonism—was a product of Apsara’s weight and girth and the fact that she was unforgivably simple.

Leela looked at her mother thoughtfully. ‘Since I could see, I saw my father beating my mother. I didn’t know A-B-C, but I knew what it meant when Manohar threw aside his plate. That’s why I ran away. Because he abused her. Once he hit her so hard she fainted. And because she didn’t say No, he abused me; and I knew that if I stayed on, if I didn’t say No, one day he would do the same to my children. Now I see her sons have inherited this quality from their father—they think women were created by God to serve men like them. And that’s what makes me so angry; that she can see what they think of her, she can see it because I can see it and neither of us is blind. And yet she supports them. She loves them. She loves them more than she loves me. But why? Why when I’m the successful one, the one who works, who feeds her, who clothes her, who asks if she has taken her medicine? Why when I’m the one who had the courage to leave for the city? When I’m the one who became a success and made money, makes money!

Money like a man! No, no, more than a man! I’ll tell you why. Because they’re boys. And I’m a girl. Nothing but a girl. The value of a boy is twice that of a girl—isn’t it so mummy, even if the boy is useless?’

Apsara’s eyes welled. ‘That’s not true.’

‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

‘It’s not true, Leela.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’m not strong like you.’

‘You’re not strong—that’s true! But remember mummy, your sons have wives now. You keep pampering them with my money and so they like you. But what will happen to you if I stop dancing? Will they hold you as close? What will happen, mummy, when I decide that like them I don’t want to work, I want to be taken care of? One day mummy, I will want to be loved. What will happen to you then?’

‘Your brothers are good boys, Leela.’

‘Don’t empty your
thali
mummy, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘You’re giving Soniaji the wrong impression about us,’ cried Apsara, throwing down her knitting needles in distress. ‘What will she think? Soniaji, Soniaji ours is a good family. From my side at least we are of a good caste. All our women have either been housewives or in service—cooking, cleaning
handi bartan
,
vagera vagera
. No bar background. Not like some bar dancers Leela knows whose grandmothers—grandmothers!—spent their life in Lucknow’s
mujra
salons.
Chee, chee, chee
!’

And still Leela entered this line, I said.

‘Yes,’ Leela turned to Apsara wide-eyed. ‘How did that happen?’

‘What can I say?’ Apsara reddened, looking down at her hands. They were thick with gold rings; presents from Leela.

‘Leela was headstrong. She would make her own friends and she had big-big “
Haathi Mere Saathi
” ears. She heard stories about Bombay, of its dance bars, of how much money you could earn. Imagine it! Money for
naach-gana
! Leela loved dancing,
did you know that? She won every dance competition ever held in school. She was known as “
Chhoti
Madhuri” after Madhuri Dixit. Accha, remember
Ek, do, teen
?’

‘
Ek, do, teen
,’ Apsara sang throatily, ‘
char, paanch, chhe, saat, aath, nau . . .
’

‘Mummy!’ Leela screamed, theatrically sticking her fingers into her ears. ‘
CHUP
!’ Shut up!

‘
Uff!
Okay, fine, I won’t sing. Where was I?
Hahn
, so one day without telling anybody this girl here ran away!’

‘Just like that?’ said Leela, sounding intrigued. ‘Just like that I ran away?’

Apsara ignored her.

‘I ran away because I like to dance, is it?’

‘I remember that morning very well even though it was how many years ago, four, five, hahn Leela?’ Apsara picked up her knitting. She was gamely working on a pair of pink booties. ‘Her father had left the house without making a show for the neighbours. What relief! What a change! You know, in those days I would serve him his morning cup of tea trembling. Trembling! Anything could go wrong. The sugar was too little or it was too much, the milk should have come from a cow not a goat, why is the plate white not blue, oh I can’t tell you what a mad rakshas he was. Much worse than now! But that day he was quiet as a mouse. I looked up, “
Devi
, have you answered my prayers?” But, of course, no luck, and only the day after that he was as he’d always been, shoving me back to front, front to back like I was one of the cows papaji had given him in dowry. In any case that morning he behaved properly and so I went to Leela’s room to tell her the good news. “Who knows,” I was going to say, “maybe our luck has changed?” And I wanted to see her smile. Poor girl, the evening before Manohar did something too dirty. He had insisted on hand-feeding Leela and Leela never liked that sort of bijniss, she’s a very headstrong thing. She spat out the food! Manohar gave her one tight
jhap
and shoved the food back into her mouth. What did Leela do?
She vomited—right into her plate! And then, oh well, you know what happened next for the love of God why are you making me repeat this story? This is not Ramanand Sagar’s
Ramayana
! No need for repeat broadcast!’

Apsara gnawed through a grumpy pause. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘this girl here vomited and my mister shoved her face into her vomit and wouldn’t let go until she ate everything, until she ate every bit of her own vomit. What was it now let me think? Bread-omelette, hahn Leela? Now I can’t remember, but just you imagine it! Imagine eating that! How I suffered watching her, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, I said to myself, “God, wouldn’t it be best to fling your humble servant under a truck? That would be kinder, no?” But Leela’s room was empty. Where was Leela? First I thought maybe she’d gone out to play. After all, remember beti, she was only a child then, in small-small
chaddis
, not even a woman.’

‘My mother is very simple,’ said Leela grimly. ‘Play?’ she glared at Apsara. ‘Play? After Manohar started sending me to those maderchods who would play with me? Who would talk to me? “Dirty girl! Dirty girl! Dirty girl!” That’s all I heard in Meerut mummy and you know it as well as I do—play, it seems! Someone has played a trick on you! Someone has snatched your brains!’

Apsara’s bottom lip trembled. ‘What do I know? I’m an illiterate village woman. Did I even see your father’s face before I married him?’

‘I told you one hundred times not to call him my father. He’s a rakshas!’

‘When his parents came to my parents’ home,’ Apsara turned to me, ‘the first thing they asked for, even before they asked for tea, was to see my father’s tractor. To check if it was good enough for their field. They even went into the kitchen to inspect our utensils, the cooking oil. My grandmother was cutting “wedgetables”. They showed her no respect. They looked above her, at the spices. They looked behind her, at our kerosene stove.
They looked top to bottom, at the big-big pots in which we had stored our rice and dal and atta. But they didn’t look at her. Later my mother-in-law, God bless her soul, she took me aside, to counsel me, I thought. What did she say? “After marriage if we discover you aren’t a
kunwari
ladki, a virgin, jaan
ki kasam
,” she said to me, “I will cut your breasts off with the same knife I use to cut the stems of the potato flowers and I will feed them, piece by meat piece to the crows.”’

Leela exhaled with frustration, ‘Good story mummy.’

‘Don’t talk,’ snapped Apsara. ‘If I drop one stitch I’ll have to start all over again.’

‘Accha, you know Sheila?’ she turned to me.

I shook my head.

‘Our neighbour, that one who lives there?’ she pointed abstractedly. ‘Short little thing. Wears too big-big gold earrings. Face like a little boy’s. No, wait, face like a rat! She’s a rat face! Have you met her? Have you met rat face?’ Apsara giggled gnomishly.

She had managed to move on to an entirely new topic. This too, I would learn, was a standard Apsara dodge.

‘You don’t know her?’ she said, sounding frustrated. ‘
Ajeeb si
ladki
hai tu
. What an odd girl you are. Anyway, Sheila’s third daughter—what did she eat to have three daughters?—she just had a baby. Another girl, imagine it! I said, “Okay, okay, don’t take tension, I’ll make clothes for her.” That way at least they won’t have to buy any. Everything is so expensive these days and babies don’t stay small-small
na
? Now look at Leela, how big she is! When she was small do you think one banana would have satisfied her? Or one
cheeku
? Never! Everything had to be two-two, three-three. Banana two-two, cheeku two-two, even egg-fry two-two! What a healthy eater she was by God’s grace!’

Apsara sniffed and wiped her face on her sleeve.

Leela rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she said to me with a short laugh. ‘Mama’s simple, I told you. Next time for sure she’ll ask if you know her mother—who died of tuberculosis
before I was born. You just say, “Of course Apsaraji, her
kadhi
chawal is
mast
!”’

‘I may be simple Leela,’ snorted Apsara, ‘but I’m not deaf.’

Leela nipped the knitting out of her mother’s hand and threw it petulantly on the floor. ‘Enough of this mummy,’ she said in the baby voice she used to great effect with customers. ‘Why are you always thinking about other people? Let the child run
nanga panga
, naked. You give me head massage!’

{ 5 }

‘I want a good break, yaar.
No cut-piece, sidey role for me’

A
psara was not the only woman in Leela’s life. She was certainly not the most important. Beautiful Priya was. Leela loved her best friend Priya the way I imagined she would one day love her own child—with a longing even immediate proximity could somehow not fulfil. She petted her, fretted over her health, insisted on sharing everything with her—sleep, dreams, secrets. Clothes, meals, cigarettes.

If Leela could, she would have shared life’s every experience with Priya.

Leela’s friendship with Priya proved to her that she could love someone and in turn be loved, with no caveat on either side. Her love was so sincere, so pronounced, it was like she meant for it to say to the rest of us, ‘this is how you should love me.’ And also, ‘why don’t you love me like this?’ In the world in which they lived, in which deceit equalled success and all success was ephemeral, Leela and Priya’s friendship was the one true thing they could count on.