Nidhi Dugar spends an evening with members of a band formed by the children of sex workers in Kolkata’s prostitution district.
During the day, this is just another street in Kolkata.
Men soap their bodies in a public bath. A juice vendor slices through a
watermelon. A chaiwallah pours tea into clay kulhars.
Women in petticoats wash their clothes under the standpipe. And people
swarm into shops tucked between crumbling multi-storied buildings, for
cheap jewellery, hairclips, glitter and other trinkets.
But
as things slip into the silence of the night, other wares start going
on sale. Peeling off their saris and squeezing themselves into
tight-fitting blouses, women get ready for work. Breasts bulging and
stomachs protruding, they pile on layers of makeup — foundation to
conceal blemishes in their skin, lipsticks in all shades of red, nail
polish when they can afford it. They pose outside doorways, below
winking fairy-light garlands, the rooms behind them shielded only by
flimsy, dirty curtains. In the lurid light of streets, they look a lot
like office workers waiting impassively at a bus stop.
It’s
close to noon and Sonagachi, Kolkata’s centuries-old prostitution
district, is stirring after yet another late night. While I wait amidst
the rowdy banter for my guide to take me to my interviewees, I hear the
faint tinkle of ghungroos along with the beat of the drums and
the strum of a guitar. It isn’t a Bollywood beat. The fusion of metallic
bells, classical vocals and drums produces something more startling —
maybe more like Rabindra Sangeet composed by a prog-rock band.
A thin voice floats down from the terrace of the two-storied building
behind me. “That’s Mita Mondal, the lead vocalist of Durbar band,” says
Ratan Dolur, programme coordinator of the band and my guide for the
evening. Ratan is a sex worker’s child, a matchstick-thin boy in jeans, a
‘Tommy Hilfiger’ cap, and with gutkha-stained teeth. “Come,” he says, “let me introduce you to the band.”
* * *
Initiated by jouno kormi santan
(sex workers’ children) of Sonagachi a few months ago, the Durbar band
practices twice a week atop the dilapidated Avinash clinic, which is run
by Durbar Mahila Samanwaya Committee (DMSC), a collective of sex
workers in West Bengal. Women wait for their turn to consult the doctor
at this free health centre for the sex workers, stocked with boxes of
Nirodh condoms and piles of paperwork.
“That’s Nazia,” says Ratan, responding to my gaze pointed at a delicate-looking girl in white salwar kameez.
“She came from Agra just yesterday and is here to register herself at
the clinic.” Another lady in a cotton nightgown waits with a small girl
in a frock, the zipper at the back pulled together by safety pins. She
is here to register her sister’s daughter for singing classes with
Durbar band.
A narrow staircase leads up to the
terrace. In a tube-lit room, guitarists, tabla players and drummers
shake their heads like wound-up toys. Mita Mondal, the lead vocalist
croons into a mike, occasionally going off key. At first, the
spontaneous song from her brightly coated lips sounds awkward, but soon
gains thrust with the vigour she imparts to it. The conga player misses a
rhythm or two. The guitarist struggles with the chords. But everything
falls into place when Mondal begins singing the Durbar anthem, the
anthem of the collective that glues Sonagachi workers together. Amra jouno kormi santan. Amra likhchi, amra padchi, amra gachi gaan.
(We are the children of sex workers. We will write, we will read, we
will sing songs.) Everybody mouths the well-rehearsed refrain with an
outburst of concerted energy.
“Mita’s first big
performance was in Delhi, at a conference of LGBT activists,” says Ratan
proudly. I catch up with Mita between practice sessions. She speaks
with her eyes mostly, big and bright. She traces the silver hemline of
her long blouse. “That was also the first time she got onto a flight,”
Ratan smirks.
“It’s a dream all the children in
Sonagachi dream,” says a clean-shaven boy wearing a pair of green pants
so tight, they seem to be sewed on. He speaks in a low, mellifluous
voice and keeps running his hand through his highlighted hair, which
flops to the corner of his eyes. Rushu often dances to the band’s tunes
at shows. “We even have a song for it. It’s a song that’s been echoing
in the lanes of Sonagachi for many years now, given fresh beats by our
band.” Dadago ki jaane chadoile hamare... (Wow, what a beautiful vessel we have boarded...), croons Mita after I press her a bit.
“These
are some of our original compositions,” says Ratan. “But the crowds
never let us go before we are done with singing the Bengali heartthrob
Dev’s songs from his super hit film Paglu. Even Jeet’s 100 per cent Love is a super hit with all age groups.”
“So
what’s her story?” I ask Ratan, as the band prepares for its next
recital. “DMSC has a regulatory authority which prevents sex slavery in
the district. Mita was rescued by them, given a job as a receptionist at
the NGO’s headquarters and encouraged to hone her singing skills,” he
says. “We started this band in 2006, mostly out of frustration of not
getting work anywhere. And even if we got opportunities, we were
stigmatised. Only because we live in a red light area and are children
of our mothers. Working mothers.”
People have come
forward to help Durbar band find its footing. While Kalyan Sen Borat,
the famous music director of Bengali films, helps them get familiar with
their instruments (mostly donated by the customers of sex workers),
Ranjan Chakraborty, another stalwart, contributes to the lyrics. The
ensemble often gets invited to perform at paid shows at pujos held in Kolkata throughout the year. They also perform at weddings, schools and conferences within the city.
“We
also use songs to spread awareness,” says Ratan, and turns to the band.
“Let’s play that Surjo song for madam.” Mita, accompanied by tabla and ghungroo,
sings ‘Surjo sona yo akhoni bidai’, penned by the father of a dying
HIV-positive child in Sonagachi, asking his child to not leave him just
yet. The song doesn’t preach. It’s just quietly bitter, and heightened
with the heart that the band puts into this song.
This
colourful terrace party comes across as a zone that is liberated from
the moral scruples of the greater society that surrounds Sonagachi.
Here, taboos are taboo and the fringe of Kolkata life — sex workers,
their children, cross-dressers and transgenders — are comfortably
cocooned through their commingling. Much has changed for this
prostitution district. Phrases like AGM (annual general meeting), Geneva
Conference, donor agencies, advocacy and human rights are uttered
easily. And the Durbar band wonderfully symbolises this change.
“We
want to sing and make songs for Bengali films,” says Mita hesitantly,
when we talk about the future. “It’s a far-fetched dream, but then this
is Sonagachi, the land of the golden tree. One can afford to dream
here.” Would she be willing to move out? “Na na, this is home,”
she says. And the rest nod in agreement. “Wherever we might be, the
yearning for a home and family remains. Anyway, you don’t expect us to
find work in the parliament, do you?”
Source: http://www.thehindu.com/features/magazine/new-tunes-from-sonagachi/article4817401.ece
