Echoes from the Brothel: 3 poems about how I grew up in a kotha

Still from the documentary film The Courtesans of Bombay.

Revisited some poems written almost a decade ago, and because they are always bearable when reworked.

True story, I grew up in-between boarding schools in Kurseong-Darjeeling and now erased from memory and history-the kothas of Bowbazaar, Calcutta, and Congress House, Bombay, where my mother worked as a courtesan or who you call a tawaif, or a baiji.

Ask me more if you are curious. It is not something I am ashamed of, neither should you hesitate.

It is a survival story about my mother, a BPL low-caste Kanjarbhat gypsy, who was a child bride in Poona, an indentured labourer in Agra, and who was later sold in a brothel in Calcutta when she reached puberty.

My story comes much later, and don’t worry, I have my mother’s permission to write about us.

I grew up in kothas run by beleaguered but beautiful women, where like wolves in the forest, I was raised fiercely to be free and independent, with absolutely no understanding of men, or patriarchy, because women lit the home fires and brought in the dough every night.

There was singing and dancing and colours and costumes and sex and violence, but not as pretty as films. It was like a Bhansali film set but with the budget of a DD National programme.

Men were welcome only as guests, because they had wives and families to return to where they could wield control. Some came with guns, some with swords, and some with roses, but most of all, everyone came with moderately fat wallets.

And that, dear friends, is why I will charge for the rest of the story. So please think big — book, musical play, film, web series, but not television. Have a heart. Show me the money, not the likes, not the comments, not the expressive emojis, loosen your deep pockets.

The one kind of privilege I had even before I learnt to read and write was a house-shaped birthday cake, a metaphor for a nest that never existed to shelter us, but it was tasty as hell. We blew out the candles as quickly as we could, so as not to allow its waxen taste to sour our sweetening souls.

Blowing together — Mother and I, in Kamathipura, Bombay, Circa 1980s

Read with patience, if not love. And act upon it.

Let’s for once do something about this possibility. Please share this post (with a small intro for your friends) because it is not a blood donation forward that does not match your blood group, and it also does not cost a single paisa to help through social media. (who knows what good might come off this, and you can demand some credit, right?)

Find me on Insta, Twitter, and FB under my name, and make yourself useful by sharing, agar aap ka dil ijazat de.

Merci Beaucoup.

I: The Praying HorseMere ghar mein koi namaaz padhta tha
Mere ghar mein ek bewaa rehti thiDaant kum thay mooh mein
Par shakkar se gehri dosti thiKehti thi mujhe
"Beta woh wala gaana ga do na zara
Banno teri ankhiyaan surmai-daani"Maa ki odhni churaya karti thi
Apni beti ke liye
Door gaon mein rehti thi jo
Bin byahee Banno Safai karti thi mere ghar woh buddhiya
Haath ki aur kabhi kabhi jhhadu liyePaanch-o-waqt ka namaz padhti thi
Usse dekh kar main sochta tha
"Hamare liye bhi kuch padhti hogi"Jaane kahan hai woh boodhi bua aaj
Namaaz ki aadh mein baithe
Ghodey ki tarah soya karti thi
II: HashmatKhuda ko bhi na jaane
Kya manzoor tha
Ke maa ne ek shaadi-shuda aadmi ko
Apna dil phhokat mein de diyaPathaani khoon tha unme
Naam tha HashmatBachpan mein main jab
Apne papa ka naam poochta tha
Tab Hashmat sun kar
Hairaan ho jaata tha
"Yeh kaisa naam hai…Has mat"
Hans uthta thaSardiyon ki chutthi mein
Jab Darjeeling ke ek boarding school se
Wapas Kalkatta aata tha
Tab maa ko behad tang karta tha
"Mujhe mere papa se milao"Kisi naukar ke saath
Maa mujhe unke karkhaaney
Bhej diya karti thiKarkhaana steel ka tha
Par uss se kahin zyada saqt
Dil unka thaMaa kothe ke naukar se kehti
"Isse dikha aa iske baap ki manhoos shakal
Laut tey waqt Royal hotal se biryani ke liye paise maang lena""Aur mere liye phirni"
Main apni maange poori kar leta thaSaal mein papa se ek baar milta tha
Aur unka diya hua ek rupaih ka sikka
Mutthi mein kas kar inaam samajh leta thaMaa se shaadi nahi ki unhone
Jab ki unke mazhab mein jagah hai maa ke liye
Teen hi baar toh kehna padhta hai sirf
Qubool Hai Qubool Hai Qubool HaiPehli shaadi se teen bete thay unke ghar mein
Main ek kum hoon unke janaaze ke liyeMeri chhati par unhone
Bade soch samajh kar
Maa se kaha tha
Ke mujhe Aurangzeb ka naam diya jaayeKhamakha apne aap ko
Shah Jahan samajh baithe thayChhati: Ceremonial sixth day of the newborn
III: Bandook GullyChu ki
Bandook Gully mere ghar ka address tha
Boarding school mein dost saare
Khil-khila utthte thay
'ठायीं -ठायीं'“Kaun se naale se nikla hai bey tu”
Kehte thay sab 'ठायीं -ठायीं'“Bandook ki baddua lagegi inn sab ko”
Mere dimaag se goliyaan chalti thi
'ठायीं -ठायीं''ठायीं -ठायीं' bahut hoti thi
Bandook Gully meinDin raat ki 'ठायीं -ठायीं'
Doosri type ki 'ठायीं -ठायीं'Jab maa ko chitthi likhte waqt
Ghar ka pata likhna padhta tha
Tab main sharminda hokar
Bandook Gully ko Bandhu Gully likhta thaMere liye zyada kuch mushkil nahi tha
Bandook ko Bandhu bana lenaAur waise bhi Bandook Gully ke log
Din bhar gaali-galoch toh karte hi thay
Par Bandhu banne ki koshish bhi bulund thi
Jab 'ठायीं -ठायीं' ka time hota thaToh ab aap hi kahiye mezbaan kya harz hai
Bandook ki salaak mein gaali-goli ki jagah
Ek do thho Bandhu ko hi ghusedh do, hai naBade hote hote, akal bhi badhi thodi
Bandhu Gully ko 'translate' karke
Friends Lane likhne laga
Akal se kahin chauda tha chauraha
Jahan maine yeh Angrezi modh liyaMaa kabhi-kabaar mujhe phone kar ke
Saaf lavzon mein kaha karti thi
"Tu toh va kai bada ho gaya hai re
Chitthi bhi nahi likhta aaj kal
Angrez ka choda ho gaya hai kya"Daakiya pareshaan
Kalkatta ki gulliyon mein
Friends Lane dhoondta phire
Bandook hi thhama de koi bechare ko
Haye haye se pehle
Usko bhi 'ठायीं -ठायीं ka sukoon mile