Forbidden Territory

I have butterflies in my stomach. Maybe I’m scared, uncomfortable, or unconfident. Or maybe, all. I’m not sure I can do this alone. I’ve always wanted to do this, but the first time, I can’t do it alone.
I call up Ashwin. He agrees to accompany me. He has done a few street plays there. Ashwin calls back five minutes later and says he won’t be able to make it but his mother would like to come. I’m grateful. We decide to meet at Dagdusheth Ganpati at 6.30pm.
Aunty is delayed on account of the rain. Waiting for her opposite Dagdusheth Temple, looking at the devotees, the gold and silver interiors, the carving, the flowers and coconuts… all this opulence, I wonder, ‘two entirely different worlds, so near, yet so far.’ “Aditi, Aditi” my thoughts are broken, someone is calling my name. Oh, it is Aunty.
It is raining heavily now. We start walking in that direction. Finally, I am going to visit civilization’s oldest trade, almost ten thousand years old, as old as civilization itself. Finally, I am going to ‘Dane Alli’, Pune’s Red Light Area.
We turned left. “It begins from here. Keep looking to your left”, says Aunty. I obey. The only things I see are shops. Shops selling everything from clothes to umbrellas to plastic buckets to spices. Where? Has she got it all wrong? Have we made the wrong turn? Just then, I notice two young girls wearing tight short denim skirts and red lipstick, all decked up standing with umbrellas in this narrow dingy lane between two shops. This is the first of many dingy lanes I will see today evening. “Don’t stare like that. Make it inconspicuous. Remember you are the outsider”, advices Aunty.
The traffic is heavy. Horns are blaring. A mother and daughter step out of a dress materials shop dissatisfied. I notice a woman at the corner of the shop in a night gown. Chewing tobacco she lifts her gown to reveal her legs to passers-by. No make-up. A sharp contrast from the made up girls we saw earlier. But she is much older than them. The men don’t seem to notice her. Looks like it is going to be a tough night ahead.
“Turn right. Dane Alli begins here”, announces Aunty. The first thing that catches my eye is a shirtless man getting a back massage. “This is a common sight here. It is an age old business that accompanies prostitution”, Aunty informs. Two women draped in colourful floral sarees wearing fresh mogra ‘gajras’ in their hair are waiting beside him. Those are the only ‘gajras’ I see in the entire evening.
I look to my left. A cinema hall with obscene posters. Then a maternity home. A few young girls are playing with their mobile phones and giggling. They are clad in deep neck, cleavage revealing spaghetti sleeves, their busts almost spilling out. They look up from their phones at me. Stranger!
A pot pouri of fragrances. I can smell powder, perfume, tobacco, agarbatti, chai and vada pav…. All at once. My eyes search for the tea shop. It is a small shady blue shop, with benches instead of tables and chairs. A lone, tall woman is sipping tea. There are a few ‘pantars’ too – the pimps.
Something shining, fluttering in the breeze catches my eye. A closer look. They are strips of ‘gutka’. There are several such ‘tapris’ every few meters, selling ‘paan’, ‘Goa’, ‘Guy Chaap’ and the likes.
I see a cluster of women around the corner. Some young, some older. It is a complete blend of styles, colours, jewellery. From capris to sarees to skirts, from teasing pink to vine red to shocking orange, from hip dangling earrings to cheap oxidized jewellery… it is all there. Their faces coated white with powder, their lips red with lipstick. Almost all of them are chewing tobacco or rubbing some in their palms. I notice none of them smokes. Maybe cigarettes are too expensive, or maybe tobacco gives a quicker high.
I look up. The buildings look at least 60 years old. It feels like a different time and space. Things don’t seem to have changed here for decades. There are women in all the windows. The windows have criss-cross grills. The girls appear caged. Loud laughter. My eyes move towards the balcony where a group of ladies are laughing away at some joke. No, they are not caged. This is life as usual for them. This is exactly how every day is, every night is. They cannot afford to be caged or feel self pity or sob over their circumstances. This is their bread and butter.
“Mujhko Thand Lag Rahi Hain” she sings, lifts her petticoat, twirls in the rain and winks at the two boys ogling at her from under the crumbling green balcony. They follow her into a small room filled with at least ten girls sitting and giggling and pouting their lips and teasing. There are posters of Madhuri Dixit and Aishwarya Rai on the walls. A small, flimsy curtain separates this area from the area where these ladies service their customers. The boys go in with two women twice their age and draw the curtain.
We walk on. There are clusters of girls, women everywhere. It looks like they stand and wait in groups to attract customers. They talk loudly, laugh loudly, dress loudly. Business goes on as usual in the background. There is a big food grains shop at the corner. A musical instruments shop selling ‘tablas’, harmoniums, ‘tashas’ opposite it. One after the other there are these small parlours, each filled with ten to fifteen women chatting, waiting, turning tricks. A fat man comes out pulling up his trouser zip.
There is a commotion behind us. Aunty and I turn to see. A girl not more than sixteen is abusing some guys. Someone seems to have really upset her. “Tere laude mein itna dum hain toh aa naa. Phir mein dikhati hun mere pucchi kya kar sakti hain. Gaando saala”, she yells. The boys laugh at her. We move along.
Not many of these girls look Maharashtrian. There are many Nepali and East Indian faces here. I wonder what twist of fate has brought them here? Were they kidnapped, sold by their parents or husbands, tricked, or just ended up here out of no other choice? I’m sure each one of them has her own story to tell.
We are back on the main road. We pass by Dagdusheth Temple again. I laugh at God. But these prostitutes worship him too. They are followers of Shiva. They religiously fast on Mondays, take a head bath, offer their prayers at the temple and then pay their weekly visit to the doctor for their dose of Penicillin. It is a mockery indeed.
We sit in a rickshaw and head back. After having spent an hour here, I’m going back home, to my life as usual. Back to my house, my security, my comfort. Back to a loving husband, caring parents, dear friends. Life just goes on.