I
write this post as a log about my first trip to a Dance Bar in Kolkata. I’d
refrain on commenting on how I got there and any moral implications. Judgement
is in the eye of the beholder. My story, is about the scene my unexperienced
eyes saw.
The
place is hidden behind a Sony showroom. The way to go is a lane protected by a
tough looking uniformed security guard. But he doesn’t ask any questions. We
seemed like the kind of people who knew where they were going. The lane covered
with old unoccupied buildings led us to a door which was transparent to the old
Hindi songs playing inside. We got in to find the place was jam-packed except
for one unoccupied sofa-set right in-front of the stage with a board
proclaiming the words RESERVED on
it. We haggled for a bit and ultimately agreed that we’ll move if the people
whom it was reserved for arrive. The
manager gave in and we sat.
Sitting
down, the room sunk into my system. I am no stranger to discos, but this place
had a darker aura. Maybe because of the smoking or the kind of crowd. It was as
big as any medium scale restaurant with a small bar in a corner and a stage,
towards which everything was pointed. Flashy disco lights changed the colours
of things everywhere. There were tables in-front of each seat which didn’t seem
to be made to support too much food. People usually had ice, a few drinks (usually a mug of beer), and a few
snacks on their tables. By the way, the Paneer Tikka was delicious.
I
realised that the music was not being played but was from a live performance. I’m
no stranger to world class concerts and famous bands and I daresay, this
vocalist was extremely talented. Accompanying him were 3 instrumentalists
beside the stage. But that’s not where my attention was. I noticed 3 girls sitting
behind the singer. 2 in short red western outfits and 1 in a green Sari. They
seldom made eye-contact with the crowd. They were busier in typing on their
phones and chatting among themselves. On either side of the singer were 2 poles
which surely weren’t meant for civil sturdiness. The singing went on for a
while, which though was good, was not what any of us were there for. Meanwhile,
a waiter was going around with a wad of 50/- notes to anyone who called him.
He’d go to a guy, and change any note (usually
few 100/- or 500/- notes) to fresh 50/- notes. Later, he’d take the tips to
the girls from the customers and point towards the customer who’d made the
generous gesture. Also, more girls kept coming in till there were about 10
girls sitting behind the singer on the stage. I realised a few things about
their dresses. (I really don’t care I you
call me a perv. I was in a dance bar after all. All the judgement to be made is
already out of the window)
- Barring one, they did not expose their legs. They wore saris, lehangas, and leggings (some netted)
- Only one wore a dress which exposed her legs. While sitting, she covered her legs with some kind of a cloth
- They didn’t show too much cleavage. Not as much as I expected anyway
Soon, the dancing began. Some lanky guy in a red t-shirt with a straight face came and pointed at 3 girls. Those 3 were to dance on the song which was started. These songs were played on a cassette rather than being sung now, as they had more beats and were faster. These were songs I hadn’t heard before but the dancers seemed to be conversant with them, as they lip-synced all along. I don’t think they were meant to, as they clearly understood that this was no dance competition. By no standards were they dancers which come close to the ones I had seen on TV or in live performances. They were just enjoying the song with the knowledge that their tips depended on how much the audience enjoyed their dance. This was an audience that got excited at every cleavage show or a sway of the hip. They didn’t need a salsa or a rumba performance. I, somehow was dejected. I expected better dancing at a dance bar.
My
eyes moved to the girl in the short red dress. She was constantly pulling down
her top to hide her navel. The skirt was as low as could practically go. The
girl seemed very uncomfortable with her dress. However, she smiled the most
among all the performers. Also, whenever the top moved up, a bit of her bulging
tummy would show. And by a bulging tummy I don’t mean anything like the big tyre
I travel around with. It was something like what Kareena Kapoor would put on
for a Malyali movie. Something told me that the girls didn’t do their own
shopping. I confirmed this when I noticed that the boots of all the
boot-wearing girls looked exactly the same. It was then when I noticed that
barring one, all the girls wore either boots or high heeled pin-pointed sandals.
Even though I didn’t like the dance much, but I understand how difficult it may
be to dance with a 4” pin sticking out of my shoe. But these girls were there
to earn their livelihood, and it meant wearing unfitting clothes and giving
their best on raunchy numbers.
I
also noticed something which particularly moved me. Every time a new girl would
enter, she would first bow to the stage before entering. These girls knew they
were performers and the stage was a means of their lives. They respected it as
much as anyone would respect their profession. Each time they’d get a tip,
which always came as a 50/- note, they’d touch it on their head and hold it
till the end of the dance, at the end of which they’d go back and put the
earnings in a jute bag kept on their chairs. At one point I also saw the singer
receiving a tip for a few notes. He touched the notes with his eyes and took
them to a small temple hidden behind a large speaker. I was surprised to see a
temple inside a dance bar. But making moral judgements here is not the aim of
my post.
About
the jute bags, I watched closely. All the girls had a medium-sized jute bag.
The kind of one my Mom takes for vegetable shopping. On closer observation, I
could read the word UNIVERSITY as the
2nd word among the 2 words on the bottom of the bag. It was a bag by
some University. Later I saw the word Institute
on the bag. I don’t know whether these girls went to a college or were they
just using the bags. I tried but I couldn’t comprehend the name of the
University, which must’ve been the 1st word on the bottom. In
addition to that, on the back of the writing each girl had pasted a piece of
paper, probably with her name on it to identify which bag belonged to whom.
I
realised that at the end of the song, the girls always returned to their
assigned chairs. They cheered for their friends on the stage and made gestures
indicating they were looking hot and sexy. They weren’t all friends among
themselves. Sometimes I could notice them staring at another dancer with menacing
looking eyes.
At
one point when a new song was started, 3 girls were called and 2 of them
approached the same pole together. They seemed to quarrel about who gets to use
the pole for a bit. The lanky guy who indicated whose turn it was to dance was
called to settle it. The 3rd girl offered one of them to use the
other pole but by now it was an ego issue. The girls declined the offer and
tried to use the single pole together. Obviously it didn’t work out and one of
the girls had to go pole-less. Guess there’s petty politics in every job.
I
wondered, even after the kind of job they were doing, it was still a daily life
for them. If they ever felt ashamed or afraid of what they did, with time they
must’ve learnt to live with it. They even had priorities about the type of
dance they liked and maybe about the clothes too. Like any office environment,
there were likes and dislikes, but were settled soon as everyone understood
that the work is of paramount importance, not anyone’s ego. After all, no
matter how demanding or demeaning a work is, after some time one learns to live
with it and even make a few choices about how they like to do that work.
At
one point, I had to… siphon my python.
I looked around for some kind of sign, like the “His” and “Hers” words, symbols, anything. But I realised that I was
unlikely to find one. This was not a place which would need to keep a dedicated
“Hers” door. I finally got up and
asked a waiter who directed me to a place right outside the gate of the bar. At
about 10 steps away, were 4 urinals in a corner. That’s all they need here, I thought.
I
noticed the crowd. While I did see some people who seemed rich, judging by
their clothes; most of the crowd seemed to be an old working class crowd with
faded untucked shirts and unshaven beards. And while this does not go for some
people, most of the people there seemed to be too self-conscious. As if afraid
to be spotted there. I don’t think it was fear or shame or guilt. It was just
the kind of thing you feel when you
are on stage. However, they weren’t. And the girls who were actually on the
stage seemed to be gaining confidence with the minute.
Yet,
the dancers hardly ever made much eye-contact. They saw themselves, other
dancers, their friends, floor, poles, air, but rarely did they glance at the
public. They weren’t too concerned about their expressions either, which to me
forms a very important piece of any dance. But then, bar girls didn’t really
get money for their expressions.
Although, now that I think of it, the ones who smiled more seemed to be getting
more tips.
After
about 90 minutes there, a man came and sat down beside me. He had the air of a
regular and smoked what my friends later told me were hard cigarettes. The waiters also seemed to know what he would like
to drink. He soon sent a small wad of notes to a particularly energetic girl
who was the only girl dancing with bare feet, allowing her to make some moves impossible
with heels. The waiter told her who has sent the tip. She looked and gave a
knowing smile. It seemed like she knew the man. I wondered if her acquaintance
was limited to tips on the dance floor or went beyond it.
I
wondered who these girls were. If they were girls who were seeking work in the
acting business, their dancing skills surely would come in the way. They were
all using new Samsung phones, meaning they knew a bit of English. Or were these
girls who simply failed to make a living on their own. Or were these girls the
ones disowned by their families, maybe born without one. Or maybe each had her
own story of how she got there.
I
tried to look closer to make out something from their faces. I noticed a few
tattoos on their arms, but wasn’t able to read them. I wondered what religion
they were from, but this was a place without any religion. For the customers,
lust was their religion and for these girls, their work was their worship. I
left with the immortal words of the great poet Harivanshrai Bacchhan in my mind
मुसलमान औ' हिन्दू है दो, एक, मगर, उनका प्याला,
एक,
मगर, उनका मदिरालय, एक, मगर, उनकी हाला,
दोनों
रहते एक न जब तक मस्जिद मन्दिर में जाते,
बैर
बढ़ाते मस्जिद मन्दिर मेल कराती मधुशाला!
