Excerpt: The Last Courtesan; Writing My Mother’s Memoir by Manish Gaekwad

We walked into the narrow, dark alley leading to the decrepit building. We climbed the unlit stairs into a corridor. We entered a room. I rested in a corner. In the evening, after I woke up from a short nap, I found myself alone in the room, walking out to the sounds of musical instruments and ghungroos. I stepped out of the room and saw there were several rooms across with doors open. Young girls were singing and dancing and giggling. Yeh kya jagah hai? What is this place? I had never seen anything like this before.

Children were bawling in a corner, men were milling in front of the doors, the air reeked of the strong scent of flowers and incense. There was something harmonious even in the chaos in this new place, as if I knew I had come to a house I would prefer to all the other houses I had lived in so far. It was alien, but it also felt safe within the hubbub of melodies, stringing the air with a light touch of effervescence. All the girls were dazzling, with their slender bodies and mellifluous voices. I was shocked by how strangely seductive and unreal this world was. No one looked undesirable, even though all of them were not particularly beautiful in one way, but in so many other ways through their striking costumes, white-powdered make-up and shiny red lipstick. They all looked ready for a wedding, or a mela. Who would not find them attractive?

Arre re re re, what is this? Pushpa said when she saw me.

She spotted the bloodstains on my saree. She gave me fresh clothes, but did not ask me to keep a social distance like in my house in Poona.

This was the first time I was meeting Pushpa. At first, Neeno and Pushpa gossiped about taking me to another place. I heard them say Sonagachi. I did not know who lived there. It was only then that I found out who my mother-in-law and her family were.

My mother-in-law trafficked girls. It was her dhanda, profession, what the bednis did. Bedias travelled from less-developed villages to towns and cities, serving the rich as labourers. It was mostly the women who were hired for household work. Men were employed in the fields. Later, as the bednis began to offer pleasure and entertainment, they also began to earn more and control their families. Men came second in the pecking order. Soon, it was a prosperous sign for them to have more daughters than sons. The bednis who did not want their own daughters to do the dirty work began trafficking girls by procuring them from as far as possible, travelling through the west of the country and even up north to Kashmir – where they preferred fair skin over other shades, although a lot of the bednis who willingly got into the profession were deeply tanned in the hot central climate of UP and Bihar. Neeno’s family picked up young girls from poor families and trained them to serve as naachne-gaanewali, courtesans, and as kamaanewalis, sex workers. So my marriage was a sham! I only found that out then in the building, where the mahaul – ambience – had already made me feel freer.

I had still not realized when Neeno must have seen me in Gullo’s house. Why was I chosen? I was the least smart of all my sisters. But I could not betray my luck. So I did not ask too much about what they intended to do with me. I think they wanted to get rid of me by selling me in a brothel in Sonagachi. I did not know what a brothel was. They could not sell me, as it turned out. Meri kismat acchi thi. Luck was on my side.

Neeno and Pushpa consulted some men, who said there was no great price for a girl who was not a virgin. Nabaalik ladki ki demand zyada thi. Virgins were preferred. She wanted to sell me as a young woman by lying that I was still a virgin. Some women advised Neeno and Pushpa to be truthful about me. It could backfire.

I am handing you to Pushpa for an amount of money in exchange. You have to work for her till she recovers it, Neeno said to me.

I used to do as they said. Utho toh utho, baitho toh baitho. Get up and sit down on their instructions. I did ask them out of courtesy – where have you brought me?

Neeno told me to keep quiet and do as Pushpa said from there on. I nodded.

The next morning, I was sitting in front of an ustad, Ashfaq. He had a harmonium and a stern command to open my mouth and sing as loud as him. Sa-re-ga, it went. I sang like Neelkamal, my goat. I hardly ever spoke – how was I going to sing?

No one was impressed. The ustad picked a paan from a brass tashtari, chewed it till it became a liquid that filled his cheeks and then sang with a guttural twang, juggling the red juice in his mouth as if it was lubricating his throat as the words bubbled up.

Sa-re-ga.

Sa-re-ga, my faint voice trembled.

What a waste! Pushpa said, spitting chewed betel nut in a peekdaan, spittoon.

I wished the ustad would use the spittoon too and not open his fountain mouth that sprinkled red spittle all over. It looked like blood was oozing out of his mouth. He was dying as he sang. I was too frightened to imitate him.

I feared they would take me to Sonagachi. I had to be good at this. Pushpa used to spend half her time in Bow Bazaar and half her time in Sonagachi. She never took me there. I was not ready for there or here.

A more foul-mouthed but good teacher was ustad Bashir Khan.

Haraamzaadi, suar ki bacchi, taal samajh mein nahi aata kya? Bastard, piglet, can’t you follow the rhythm? he used to shout at me, beating the tabla and handing me the tanpura to sync in teen taal. Initially, I did not understand anything at all. What is going on? Yeh sab kya hai?

Oh, and suar reminds me, I had to cook suar ka gosht in Ramlal’s house. I did not eat it. I hated even cooking it. I found it repulsive. Pigs used to be so filthy to look at – keechad mein ghoomte, tatti khaate, roaming in sludge, eating shit. We, my mother and sisters, did not eat suar. Later I heard that even uttering the word suar was a sin in Islam. I can only imagine Bashir Khan’s irritation with me. He was a sociable man otherwise.

Another ustad began to train me in kathak. I think his name was Krishna guruji. He would utter the bol – Dha Ge Na Ti Na Ke Dhi Na Dha – saying it was Keherwa taal. He would clap and ask me to stomp my feet in sync with his utterances. Here, I did fine. Herding goats, I used to be jumpy in the fields. I had a natural rhythm in my body, you can say. I knew in my heart that I could do this. I felt dancing was easier than singing raags. Singing could take years to learn. Dance was not so strict, so formal. It worked on the rhythm of the moving body, not the voice that had to be produced from within. I was never the talkative one. It took me a longer time to sing. My body, however, responded instantly to music. Soon, I was able to follow several other taals on my feet. The guruji taught us the styles of Hindi-film dancers. He spoke of Bela Bose, Padmini, Ragini, Rani, Laxmi Chhaya, Minoo Mumtaz, Helen and Kumkum. I thought he was telling me about his former students. I would only find out later who they were: Hindi-film heroines.

Pushpa noticed that I was a quick learner. I was not such a waste of her money after all. Neeno had left me with her and returned to Agra. I did not see Neeno again for a long time. The singing and dancing training lasted for a few months.

I used to apply a red tika and kiss the ghungroos before wearing them every morning for the riyaaz, music practice, as I saw the other girls do the same. I think initially everything I was doing was by imitating those around me. I thought that was the best way to blend in and become invisible. So that no one would single me out for some other kitchen work. I detested that work now because of my experience with Neeno.

I used to hear the name of Ghalib a lot. The ustads would mention Mirza Ghalib while talking about some ghazal.

Yeh ghazal Ghalib ki likhi hui hai, Ghalib has written this ghazal, an ustad would say, trying to teach me the lyrics of a song.

One time I told the ustad Ashfaq, Bahut acchi hai, par samajh mein nahi aayi. It’s lovely, but I couldn’t follow it. Why do you not call him also, so that he can tell us what his ghazal means, I said.

The ustad laughed and said Ghalib had died a long time ago.

Oh, ho, I said, all these bhaari-bhaari, high-brow, ghazals must have taken a toll on his health. Let us not practise his ghazal then, I said. Most of Ghalib’s ghazals had complex Urdu words. I found another ghazal simpler to rote.

A ghazal I was taught was: ‘Humare baad andhera rahega mehfil mein, bahut charagh jalaoge roshni ke liye.’ Darkness will consume the gathering when I am gone, you will unsuccessfully light several lamps to illuminate it.

I loved the words of this ghazal. The sadness of its poetry struck a chord. It reflected my own misery in some way that I was too young to explain but felt deeply.

We walked into the narrow, dark alley leading to the decrepit building. We climbed the unlit stairs into a corridor. We entered a room. I rested in a corner. In the evening, after I woke up from a short nap, I found myself alone in the room, walking out to the sounds of musical instruments and ghungroos. I stepped out of the room and saw there were several rooms across with doors open. Young girls were singing and dancing and giggling. Yeh kya jagah hai? What is this place? I had never seen anything like this before.

Children were bawling in a corner, men were milling in front of the doors, the air reeked of the strong scent of flowers and incense. There was something harmonious even in the chaos in this new place, as if I knew I had come to a house I would prefer to all the other houses I had lived in so far. It was alien, but it also felt safe within the hubbub of melodies, stringing the air with a light touch of effervescence. All the girls were dazzling, with their slender bodies and mellifluous voices. I was shocked by how strangely seductive and unreal this world was. No one looked undesirable, even though all of them were not particularly beautiful in one way, but in so many other ways through their striking costumes, white-powdered make-up and shiny red lipstick. They all looked ready for a wedding, or a mela. Who would not find them attractive?

Arre re re re, what is this? Pushpa said when she saw me.

She spotted the bloodstains on my saree. She gave me fresh clothes, but did not ask me to keep a social distance like in my house in Poona.

This was the first time I was meeting Pushpa. At first, Neeno and Pushpa gossiped about taking me to another place. I heard them say Sonagachi. I did not know who lived there. It was only then that I found out who my mother-in-law and her family were.

My mother-in-law trafficked girls. It was her dhanda, profession, what the bednis did. Bedias travelled from less-developed villages to towns and cities, serving the rich as labourers. It was mostly the women who were hired for household work. Men were employed in the fields. Later, as the bednis began to offer pleasure and entertainment, they also began to earn more and control their families. Men came second in the pecking order. Soon, it was a prosperous sign for them to have more daughters than sons. The bednis who did not want their own daughters to do the dirty work began trafficking girls by procuring them from as far as possible, travelling through the west of the country and even up north to Kashmir – where they preferred fair skin over other shades, although a lot of the bednis who willingly got into the profession were deeply tanned in the hot central climate of UP and Bihar. Neeno’s family picked up young girls from poor families and trained them to serve as naachne-gaanewali, courtesans, and as kamaanewalis, sex workers. So my marriage was a sham! I only found that out then in the building, where the mahaul – ambience – had already made me feel freer.

I had still not realized when Neeno must have seen me in Gullo’s house. Why was I chosen? I was the least smart of all my sisters. But I could not betray my luck. So I did not ask too much about what they intended to do with me. I think they wanted to get rid of me by selling me in a brothel in Sonagachi. I did not know what a brothel was. They could not sell me, as it turned out. Meri kismat acchi thi. Luck was on my side.

Neeno and Pushpa consulted some men, who said there was no great price for a girl who was not a virgin. Nabaalik ladki ki demand zyada thi. Virgins were preferred. She wanted to sell me as a young woman by lying that I was still a virgin. Some women advised Neeno and Pushpa to be truthful about me. It could backfire.

I am handing you to Pushpa for an amount of money in exchange. You have to work for her till she recovers it, Neeno said to me.

I used to do as they said. Utho toh utho, baitho toh baitho. Get up and sit down on their instructions. I did ask them out of courtesy – where have you brought me?

Neeno told me to keep quiet and do as Pushpa said from there on. I nodded.

The next morning, I was sitting in front of an ustad, Ashfaq. He had a harmonium and a stern command to open my mouth and sing as loud as him. Sa-re-ga, it went. I sang like Neelkamal, my goat. I hardly ever spoke – how was I going to sing?

No one was impressed. The ustad picked a paan from a brass tashtari, chewed it till it became a liquid that filled his cheeks and then sang with a guttural twang, juggling the red juice in his mouth as if it was lubricating his throat as the words bubbled up.

Sa-re-ga.

Sa-re-ga, my faint voice trembled.

What a waste! Pushpa said, spitting chewed betel nut in a peekdaan, spittoon.

I wished the ustad would use the spittoon too and not open his fountain mouth that sprinkled red spittle all over. It looked like blood was oozing out of his mouth. He was dying as he sang. I was too frightened to imitate him.

I feared they would take me to Sonagachi. I had to be good at this. Pushpa used to spend half her time in Bow Bazaar and half her time in Sonagachi. She never took me there. I was not ready for there or here.

A more foul-mouthed but good teacher was ustad Bashir Khan.

Haraamzaadi, suar ki bacchi, taal samajh mein nahi aata kya? Bastard, piglet, can’t you follow the rhythm? he used to shout at me, beating the tabla and handing me the tanpura to sync in teen taal. Initially, I did not understand anything at all. What is going on? Yeh sab kya hai?

Oh, and suar reminds me, I had to cook suar ka gosht in Ramlal’s house. I did not eat it. I hated even cooking it. I found it repulsive. Pigs used to be so filthy to look at – keechad mein ghoomte, tatti khaate, roaming in sludge, eating shit. We, my mother and sisters, did not eat suar. Later I heard that even uttering the word suar was a sin in Islam. I can only imagine Bashir Khan’s irritation with me. He was a sociable man otherwise.

Another ustad began to train me in kathak. I think his name was Krishna guruji. He would utter the bol – Dha Ge Na Ti Na Ke Dhi Na Dha – saying it was Keherwa taal. He would clap and ask me to stomp my feet in sync with his utterances. Here, I did fine. Herding goats, I used to be jumpy in the fields. I had a natural rhythm in my body, you can say. I knew in my heart that I could do this. I felt dancing was easier than singing raags. Singing could take years to learn. Dance was not so strict, so formal. It worked on the rhythm of the moving body, not the voice that had to be produced from within. I was never the talkative one. It took me a longer time to sing. My body, however, responded instantly to music. Soon, I was able to follow several other taals on my feet. The guruji taught us the styles of Hindi-film dancers. He spoke of Bela Bose, Padmini, Ragini, Rani, Laxmi Chhaya, Minoo Mumtaz, Helen and Kumkum. I thought he was telling me about his former students. I would only find out later who they were: Hindi-film heroines.

Pushpa noticed that I was a quick learner. I was not such a waste of her money after all. Neeno had left me with her and returned to Agra. I did not see Neeno again for a long time. The singing and dancing training lasted for a few months.

I used to apply a red tika and kiss the ghungroos before wearing them every morning for the riyaaz, music practice, as I saw the other girls do the same. I think initially everything I was doing was by imitating those around me. I thought that was the best way to blend in and become invisible. So that no one would single me out for some other kitchen work. I detested that work now because of my experience with Neeno.

I used to hear the name of Ghalib a lot. The ustads would mention Mirza Ghalib while talking about some ghazal.

Yeh ghazal Ghalib ki likhi hui hai, Ghalib has written this ghazal, an ustad would say, trying to teach me the lyrics of a song.

One time I told the ustad Ashfaq, Bahut acchi hai, par samajh mein nahi aayi. It’s lovely, but I couldn’t follow it. Why do you not call him also, so that he can tell us what his ghazal means, I said.

The ustad laughed and said Ghalib had died a long time ago.

Oh, ho, I said, all these bhaari-bhaari, high-brow, ghazals must have taken a toll on his health. Let us not practise his ghazal then, I said. Most of Ghalib’s ghazals had complex Urdu words. I found another ghazal simpler to rote.

A ghazal I was taught was: ‘Humare baad andhera rahega mehfil mein, bahut charagh jalaoge roshni ke liye.’ Darkness will consume the gathering when I am gone, you will unsuccessfully light several lamps to illuminate it.

I loved the words of this ghazal. The sadness of its poetry struck a chord. It reflected my own misery in some way that I was too young to explain but felt deeply.