Caged Within

On a recent visit to Mumbai, I spent a lot of time wandering about in South Bombay with a friend, soaking in the historic British era architecture. Our wanderings also led us to Crawford Market. Once a magnificent piece of British Architecture, it is ramshackle now, dirty and unkempt. As we walked through it, we inadvertently found ourselves infront of the pet market. The place was a cacophony of noise with the animals shoved in cages and baskets much too small for them. The worst were the birds, in small cages with hardly any space to even flutter their wings. It was not pleasant to see and we left in a hurry.

Later, while having dinner at one of South Bombay’s famous sea facing Cafes, I still couldn’t get the caged animals out of my mind. The cages made me remember something I had read once and I asked my friend if she had heard about ‘The cages of Falkland Road’. Falkland road lies in the heart of Kamathipura - the notorious red light district of Mumbai. It is said that in some of the hovels the girls are actually kept in rooms with iron bars on the windows. Just like cages. They are not allowed to venture out on their own and are beaten and abused till they ‘break’. Then they are pushed into prostitution.

We got talking about it I don’t know how or why we decided that we must go and see if it is true for ourselves. I don’t know what it was, a morbid curiosity or perhaps we were just trying to prove something to ourselves. At first the idea seemed preposterous, almost ridiculous. But soon we found ourselves out on the road flagging down taxis to take us there.

The driver of the first taxi looked us up and down and positively leered at us when we told him where we wanted to go. We stepped back and let the taxi go. Still determined, we stopped the next one, the driver, although curious and surprised, told us that he would take us. We told him we needed him to drive us round and round the area and then drop us back here. “Aap log journalist hain” he asked us, eyeing our backpacks and cameras. “Haan haan” we lied conveniently.

We drove through South Bombay, with its glittering high rises where land prices vie with those in Manhattan. It was difficult to imagine that just beyond this shine and glamour lay kamathipura.

We turned off into one of the smaller roads and suddenly the mood of the street outside changed drastically. The first thing I noticed were the buildings. There were no high rises here. Just old, shabby buildings. Squatting on either side of the road, dingy, dirty, the paint peeling. The streets became narrower. There were signs of filth and squalor everywhere. We looked out of the window expectantly although we were not really sure what we expected to see.

Did we expect a scene out of a Hindi movie? Shops selling gajra and paan and music floating out of the houses?

There were infact shops selling paan and cigarettes, also a few small grocery shops and even a small mobile store. And suddenly there were a lot of men on the streets, sauntering down the road, standing grouped near the shops, smoking, talking. A few even peeped into our Taxi. Unconsciously both of us shrank back against the seat.

Still everything seemed as it would in any other slum in India. Clothes dried in balconies, children ran about on the streets or peeped out of the windows in the top floors.

Then we saw them. The women of Kamathipura.

Some stood alone, on street corners, or in front of the houses. Some stood in groups of two or three chatting nonchalantly. It seemed as if they were normal working women out on a normal day. Till we looked at their faces. The faces were caked with makeup. Bright, red lipsticks, eyes thick with mascara. Most were provocatively dressed, bare bosoms and bellies everywhere. Weaving in and out of sight as the lights from the passing traffic picked them out, They looked garish, almost hurting the eye.

What hit me the most was the fact that their faces seemed without emotion, almost harsh. Or perhaps the emotions were ruthlessly shoved down and suppressed. May be that is the only way they knew how to survive here.

The taxi continued to move slowly through the crowded lanes.

And then we turned a corner and perhaps saw what we had come to see. A few dilapidated buildings, tightly packed together. Almost tottering under the weight of the rooms piled haphazardly on top of each other.

In one of the buildings, the rooms on the ground floor had huge windows with bars on them.Women stood inside, looking out. Some sat on stools. We could see some children. Girls who seemed as young as 12-13 years old, made up like grownups, skimpily dressed. Showing themselves off – when they had nothing to show off still!

Out on the road, I saw a young girl talking to a pot- bellied middle aged man almost double her age. She looked ill at ease in a tight black skirt and red sequined top. Her young face ridiculously comic under the heavy make-up. Turning she led him inside a room.

There was decadence everywhere. Both within and without.

Suddenly we felt ashamed of ourselves, sitting there protected in our taxi, staring at them like they were on display. We had our cameras ready but we couldn’t bring ourselves to click any pictures. Somehow it seemed indecent to do so. As if by clicking them and putting their pics for the world to see we would be invading their privacy, insulting them further.

I felt physically sick. There was a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach as if someone was twisting my guts. I was horrified by what I saw and yet I couldn’t take my eyes off the scenes in front of me. It was like looking at a stinking, festering sore – something which repulsed me, but fascinated me at the same time.

Finally we decided to head back. We had not spoken much to each other, my friend and I. This drive had shaken us both more than we were willing to admit.

We decided to get off at Marine Drive and walk. There was an unexplainable need to feel the fresh sea breeze on our faces, to look at the wide expanse of the sea stretching seamlessly in front of us and perhaps try to forget what we had just seen …..