Sonia Faleiro

The second of my series profiling dance bar girls, which I began last week for Tehelka. The first is here.

Camera, Camera, Who's The Saddest Of Us All?
Mistress of the theatrical line, pretty-faced Shetty has found a new life in media studios after the ban

“Varsha Kale Zindabad!” Geeta Shetty screams until her eyes water. The women around her immediately follow suit and roar their allegiance. “Varsha Kale Zindabad!” The air is fraught, yet something about it smacks of the cynical. Kale is the President of the Bharatiya Bar Girls Union; the women gathered outside Cooper Hospital are disenfranchised bar girls who have come to claim the body of a colleague who committed suicide.

Suddenly a police van screeches to a halt, its occupants zero in on Shetty and drag her, still screaming, to jail. She’s released that evening, her face red with excitement. A little later--her nose, ears and throat adorned with gold, her eyes adorned with kajal, her cleavage self-confidently arrayed--Shetty catches a train to her home in a transit camp in Goregaon West. There, boiling rice for her husband and children, she recounts her adventure. They are bemused but proud. Mummy, after all, is the one who puts food on their table.

In many ways, Shetty’s story is archetypal of the Mumbai dance bar girl. She was 14 when she left her family in Nagpur to move in with an aunt in Mumbai. She earned Rs 600 a month at a cloth mill and walked the distance from Malad to Goregaon East every day. The money had to be saved; her father, a millworker himself, was dying of a tumour. Three years passed. Returning home one day, conjuring possible outfits she could stitch for herself from the cloth scraps cradled in a plastic bag, Shetty was accosted by a neighbour. “How much do you earn?” the neighbour enquired. “Come to my dance bar, you’ll earn thousands.”

So at 17, Shetty began working in Hotel Mood, a dance bar in Malad allegedly owned by Bal Thackeray’s now deceased son, Bindumadhav. Shetty never told her parents the source of her sudden largess; almost 15 years later they still believe she owns her own dance troupe. “Bars then weren’t what they are now,” explains Shetty, pouring out a glass of Pepsi. “Of course men slipped us their phone numbers and invited us to dinner. We couldn’t keep saying no, because being a successful bar girl is not just about being pretty or talented, it’s about responding to friendly gestures. But,” she adds with wide-eyed dissimulation, “I only returned calls. Never more. Illegal activities take place outside the bar, where it is up to the girls to do as they please. On the dance floor, we dance. We don’t have sex with stewards and managers!”

A week after the incident at Cooper Hospital, I had phoned Shetty to discuss the profile. Midway, she interrupted impatiently, “Yes, yes, I know. I’ve given many interviews.” The jaded chutzpah was strangely unsettling. But since the ban came into effect on August 14, Shetty has, in fact, been trotted out so often by the Union to speak on behalf of the bar girls, she now practically lives on money she receives for TV appearances. “The other day,” she recounts, “I received a cheque from ndtv for a chat show. But where do I deposit the money? I don’t have an account.” Why not? I ask. “Who’ll give me one?” she responds impatiently. “Banks want documents, which I don’t have. I returned the cheque. Again they came from Delhi to interview me.” Now, she can’t help herself. She breaks into a proud smile, revealing a row of tobacco stained teeth. “I took cash this time.” She gestures at two sacks of rice and dal. “First thing, I ran out and bought food.”

Shetty’s world is a curious combination of flashy dash and pathos. For the most part though, she seems oblivious to the latter. Her home is a single room occupied by her husband Ashok, 37, their children Vijayalaxmi, 12, Vinayak, 6, a narrow bed, a fridge, a steel cupboard, and a gas stove. They are all illegal tenants; accommodation here is only for families being relocated by the Government. But Shetty doesn’t mind living in fear of eviction. She pays Rs 2,000 in rent, unlike her neighbours who pay Rs 150. “There’s an inside toilet,” she says, “It’s worth the extra money.”

It’s drizzling and the children are restless — Vijayalaxmi fiddles with the hem of her blue dress, Vinayak rustles a newspaper. Ashok is a quiet man, responding in Marathi, when spoken to. A few minutes into the interview however, Shetty hustles him out. He stands quietly on the staircase, staring at the rain. The children are hushed. “They don’t talk to strangers,” says Shetty, stridently. “And don’t you take photographs of them. Otherwise, I’ll never talk to you again.”

Chunni cast aside impatiently, Shetty fries rice, and coats a mound of fish pieces with flour before placing them gently into a sizzling pan. The room fills with smoke and the aroma of chillies. Shetty’s plump face is sweating violently. She points at the photographer. “And don’t take pictures of the fish, either. People will wonder, ‘If she’s so poor, why is she eating fish?’ But what can I do? The children have been pestering me for days.”

Shetty was 17 when she met Ashok, who owned a tailoring shop. A month later they were married. At 18, she gave birth to Vijayalaxmi and stopped working. Ashok drank often and hit her. “But I talk so much,” she smiles self-deprecatingly, suggesting her husband is more sinned against than sinning. “And he never tortured me to earn more money, or now, to stop doing my Union work.” I think of the man outside staring at the rain. And this woman, a riddle of abasements and assertions. After an abdominal operation put her in debt of Rs 70,000, Shetty returned to a dance bar — Kiku’s in Borivali.

Working eight-hour shifts, seven days a week, she earned Rs 9000 a month. But the hours meant the children had to be sent to live with her brother, while they continued their education at a nearby English-medium school. Shetty who was spending Rs 2,000 on her children’s education, visited them on weekends, carrying gifts of chips and chocolates to appease their lonely hearts and her stricken conscience. She was so furious with herself and Ashok for the separation, she claims she did not speak to him for a year. She warns, “Main bahut buri bhi hoon or bahut achi bhi.” (I’m both very bad and very good.”)

Barely a week after the ban, her brother sent the children back. “He assumed I wouldn’t be able to pay their fees any longer,” says Shetty bitterly. He was right. The tenuous edifice of the Shettys’ life quickly came crashing down. There was no money for school, rent, or electricity. Shetty has the option of working at Kiku’s as a waitress, but the tips are too meagre to even cover a day’s train fare. The July floods amplified the devastation. Ashok, who used to earn up to Rs 8,000 a month, found his tailoring shop flooded.

Strangely though, the ban has been the making of Geeta Shetty. Instead of despairing, she has become the Union poster girl, the committee member who can be counted on to stick to script and deliver perfect media sound bites. “I think I’ll divorce my husband,” she says petulantly. “Now that I’m unemployed I’ll have to take to the streets, or dance at mujras, I can’t bring shame on him. Or maybe I’ll just commit suicide.” And the children? I ask. She winks. “I’ll give poison to my children too. How does it matter to me? I’ve already become a headline in every newspaper.”

The lines are practiced, tutored; the filmi coquettishness self-aware, the drummed-up pathos humorously saucy. One could be forgiven for forgetting Shetty’s dire realities. She seems to have forgotten them herself.

On a typical day now, she can be found sitting in on a Union meeting held at Majlis, the ngo, which is representing the girls in court. The meetings are attended by about 12 girls who, along with Kale, make decisions regarding future press meets, appointments with politicians and court details. After this, Shetty may be found in an air-conditioned studio taking pot shots at Deputy Chief Minister RR Patil, who orchestrated the ban. “The other day Patil says, dial 100 if you know the whereabouts of another Tarannum (the dance bar girl arrested recently for undeclared wealth and her connection with cricket bookies) and I’ll give you 20 per cent of her money,” recites Shetty. “I want to ask Patil when a man discovers a bar girl who can’t feed her children or wants to commit suicide, what number should he dial?” She pauses dramatically. “Be sure to write that down. In fact, make it your headline in capital letters.” She pauses again, smoothes her hair for the camera, and mulls: “I wonder why the press likes to photograph me so much.”

These days, Shetty often doesn’t return from her activist work till midnight. At that tired hour, she cooks the following day’s rice and vegetables for her family before slipping into the narrow bed alongside her husband and children. But she has never slept more sweetly. The teenager who joined a dance bar to save a father from a tumour, the wife who accepted her husband’s beatings because she expected no more, the mother who returned from nights at the bar to feed her children, have all contributed to the creation of this fiery mistress of her own fortune — at her most productive and self fulfilled. “I’ve never received so much respect in my life,” says Shetty thoughtfully. “It feels really good when people listen to me.”

Outside the drizzle continues relentlessly. The two sacks of rice and dal leaning against the wall seem a fragile fortification. How long will the media studios want Geeta Shetty’s dramatic lines? How often will the cheques make a guest appearance?

Shetty has found a new role for herself. But how long will she possess the stage?

Tehelka, October '05. Photo credit: Sanjiv Valsan

Labels: Profiles

brilliant! keep up the good work.

Dear Sonia...
I'm a regular reader of your blog...but i just dropped in here to say hi...
And what a brilliant post it is...
very nice presentation!!!!

You're doing an outstanding job with your bar-girl series.........this is really some quality journalism here, and i'm going to send this to some cousins who want to become journalists.....(recommended reading :-))

ps: I think the new template of the blog is very nice.

Sonia,
I am a regular visitor at your blog and I enjoy your writeups.

One suggestion though..though the template is very very nice - lovely watercolor on the right, the blog cant be read in a smaller window because the writing instead of adjusting itself tends to vanish into the darker borders on both sides.

Could you do something about it?

excellent piece sonia. however, i am guessing that a few readers, myself included, would be inclined to contribute financially to the betterment of the plight of these bargirls. does majlis accept donations to this effect?

sujatha

dear sonia very good article. keep it up. i've become a regular to ur blog. all ur articles r interesting. i really sympathise with these girls. moral policing is raising its head everywhere. one man's whimsical decision is ruining thousands of lives. political stars need to put their energy into good governance instead of banning. ban ban thats the new found mantra for these. dance bars, plastic,... who knows what is gonna follow.

Brilliant post, Sonia. I've recently started reading your blog and I really enjoy it.

Thanks for sharing this, it gives a much needed human touch to the bar-girls story. A story I would be unaware off if I hadn't read it here.

Good series on bar girls.

Would appreciate if you could dedicate an article to the homes and families devastated due to visits to dance bars.

Maharashtra Times in Mumbai had a couple of articles on families affected due to men frequenting dance bars.

A person took early retirement and
splurged Rs 13 lakh on a bar girl in an year, denying money for his son's education.

Another talks about a person who showered money inherited from his father on a bar girl, and is now penniless.

your words bring the touch of your sadness into the readers and we float with you...
you've done a great job....
I've blogrolled you...hope u dont mind...

Hi all, thank you for the kind comments.

I'm offline on the weekend usually, so didn't reply earlier. I would like to reply to three comments.

First, anonymous 1: Right now my immediate concern is with those who are suffering directly due to the ban.

The men went to the bars of their own volition. If they went there for sex, now that the dancing has stopped, but the bars are still open, they will find sex elsewhere. And worse, it will be easier and cheaper than it ever was before.

That said, there is a story to be done of the families of these men. It's ironic that in both situations, it's the women who suffer. The dancers. And the wives of the men who visit the bars, and spend all their money on a mirage.

If you have the links to these articles, or know who the authors are, do email me. And thanks for the tip.

2. Sujatha: I've recieved many emails and calls from people who want to help. I've been trying to get in touch with Lata Nair, who I first profiled. She lives in Dahisar, and I haven't been able to get her on the phone for weeks. She deserves our sympathy and help, and as soon as I re establish contact, I'll blog the information.

Of the other girls I've met, I wouldn't be comfortable, for several reasons, with offering them money. For this reason, I suggest going through Majlis.

3. Traveller: I'm sorry the blog looks dodgy on your computer. However, I spent a week working on this wretch and it will be a cold day in Hell before I dive into the template to make further changes! :)
Please do try and fiddle with your settings a bit.

She at least has a husband who is ready to work... Not a convincing story BUT then the politicians have to understand that its a free worls and eveyone has a right to work in the way they want to...

really brilliant profiling...
and i must admit i was sceptical when i read about u in another blog saying 'ur style is slave to subtance'..but its truly so..kudos..