‘Looks like a fucking dungeon.’
‘Probably is one.’
‘How exactly are we going to find these guys?’
‘The pimps?’
‘Yeah … I’m not sure they’ll want to talk to us.’
‘Please, they’re all “businessmen”, right? We’ll just talk business with them.’
‘Just like your piece?’ Abhay was getting aggravated again.
‘Yes.’
‘You think that will work?’
‘I know it will.’
We marched up Mariana Street. The dark alley was straight out of hell. The stench from the gutters was unbearable. The curtains in front of windows were still and calm. So many windows, so many lights inside. Women peered down at us as we walked up to a rickety ochre door. Apparently, the owners of the establishment had a sense of humour. Scribbled on the door was ‘No one can come just once’.
A scary-looking bouncer of sorts guarded the door. His bald pate made a silhouette against the dark background of the red baroque wall behind him. We could see his belly from afar too.
‘What do you want?’
‘We’d like to see the boss,’ I said as confidently as I could manage.
‘And I’d like to fuck Mallika Sherawat. Get the fuck out of here.’
‘Listen, you don’t understand, we’re all about profit here. We have a business proposition.’ It was a sea change from the fumbling Abhay I knew. He was deep into his sales pitch as the bewildered bouncer listened.
‘This is my friend Ajeet, I myself am Shakaal. If we could just meet your boss, life would be a lot easier for all of us.’
It was good to see him on a roll. Fortunately, he didn’t name one of us Mogambo.
‘What business proposition?’
‘We’d rather speak to someone in charge. There is good money to be made here.’
‘Okay, wait here.’
He turned to open the door but stopped halfway.
‘If you two are cops, there will be hell to pay because we already have a nice arrangement with some nice people in your department.’
We kicked into our fake laughs and denied the accusations.
‘I hate cops!’
‘Cops should die.’
Abhay went a bit overboard with that.
The giant guard didn’t look pleased.
‘Wait here,’ he snarled.
We hung around outside for about five minutes.
‘Wish you’d be cool about this, Abhay.’
‘Sorry, it isn’t every day that I get to go to a friggin’ brothel and meet the other side of life.’
‘Right, now before we get made and get carried out of here wrapped in white satin, just try to relax.’
‘Get made? Who are you? Donnie Brasco?’
‘Quiet, I think I can hear someone coming.’
There was a loud clang in the distance, behind the door. We could hear footsteps getting louder, someone seemed to be climbing down stairs.
I guess one of the added benefits of being a raging Anarchist is the guaranteed adrenaline rush. We wanted to make this little endeavour extremely special. We wanted it to go perfectly. Abhay’s characteristic left leg twitch of excitement was back. He had really been a quivering pillar of support. A true friend. A new man.
‘Relax, da!’ I told him.
‘Dei! What are you … trying to relate to me?’
‘For the millionth time, is it “da” or “dei”?’
‘It fucking varies.’
A booming voice from the inside interrupted our nervous banter.
‘Who the heck wants me?’
Then there was silence for a bit.
Abhay started fidgeting.
‘This is the first time I’m meeting a pimp.’
‘Shut up, Shaakal. Follow my lead.’
The silence was eerie now.
‘What is up with those names?’ I began again.
‘Nothing. I just panicked. Can’t tell him our real names now, can we?’
‘No, no, you did good …’
The door opened with a loud burst, and under the archway stood a short man, his most glaring feature being his enormous eyes. They peered at us, whiter than most clouds, larger than most eggs. The bouncer stood behind the little man, his arms crossed.
‘I said, who wants me?’ It was hard to imagine such a deep baritone from such a puny-looking man.
‘Sorry sir, hope we aren’t interrupting anything.’
‘You land up unknown and unannounced, obviously you’re going to be interrupting something. What the fuck do you want?’
‘Relax sir, we’re just here to ask you for help. We have a proposition for you.’
‘Usually, I am the one who makes the propositions.’
‘Well sir, Mr …’
‘You don’t need my name. Get to the point.’
‘Mr … Mr Pimp sir, we were wondering if you would let us use your brothel as an outlet for our merchandise.’
‘What? What merchandise? Stop wasting my fucking time. Murli!’ he called out to his bouncer.
‘We have a lot of things, we have a condom dealership and some very interesting new products for your clients. Right from toys to paans,’ I interjected.
‘Paans?’
‘Yes sir, it’s an extraordinary paan that invigorates and energizes,’ Abhay piped up.
‘It would be ideal for the tired and weary souls that venture here, seeking entertainment, looking for some time off from their lives …’ I started the story.
‘Their jobs …’ Abhay chimed in.
‘Wives … kids … bills.’
‘I get the picture!’ the evil little man piped up.
‘What else have you got?’ He tried to look unimpressed.
‘We have a pretty good network.’
‘Network?’ he scoffed. ‘You’ll be surprised at my present clientele.’
‘We know you already have a great presence in the market, sir.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘No one, no one who means any harm, sir.’
‘Go on, what can you do for me? What’s your name?’
‘I’m Ajeet. Like I said, we can get you great bulk jobs. What I mean is that I have a close friend who works at one of the top hotels here. He has to make arrangements quite often for his guests. I was wondering if we could work out a deal. I’ll manage the orders and transportation, all you have to do is supply the girls.’
‘That sounds interesting.’ He stared at me, looking me up and down. ‘You don’t seem like a man in this business.’
‘Neither do you, sir.’
‘Hmmm … It would be good to have a system in place to transport the girls without getting caught … How many orders are we looking at?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that, sir, we’ll work out the exact details later. So you’re okay with our proposal?’
‘Tell me more about the products you want to sell.’
‘Oh, they’re state-of-the-art sex toys, shipped in from Japan,’ Abhay said as he whipped out a purple dildo.
The pimp laughed a bit, pushing it back into Abhay’s bag.
‘Hmm … and what about the paans? Why do I need a paan store inside my building, there are so many on the street.’
‘That’s where you’re mistaken, sir. The paans are our creation. They’re special paans that are designed to increase the pleasure of your clients. If you want details, I can pass you a brochure. Shaakal, get it out, will you …’
Abhay reached into one of the bags and pulled out our beautiful eight-page brochure on the wonders of our paans. God bless InDesign. He held it out for the greasy man who stood before us. Flipping through the brochure, the pimp instructed his bald bouncer to fetch his reading glasses for him.
‘Well, I must say that I am impressed by your professionalism!’
‘Oh we’re just passionate about what we sell. All the inspiration comes from there.’
‘I see. Well I would invite you boys
in, but there’s no place to just sit and talk right now. I’m thinking of getting that place there too …’ He pointed to another building down the road. ‘It’s a bit run-down, but I think I can bring it back to life, if you know what I mean.’
We looked at each other. There was a phrase on loop in my head: to reform a system you must become a part of it. To reform a system you must become a part of it.
Hello, grindstone.
The thick pimp glasses brought from his pimp chambers perched on his nose as he read through the brochure.
‘This could definitely boost my business more.’
‘That’s right! It would also give you that competitive advantage, by improving the quality and diversity of the service you provide,’ I chirped helpfully.
‘What?’
‘It’s good for you and your clients.’
‘Right!’
‘So do we have a deal?’ We already knew the answer.
‘Yes, I think we do. Come back tomorrow morning and we’ll talk more about money, arrangements and how to go about our business. Partners!’
‘Great, here’s a little something to get you started and to let you know how serious we are about working with you. It’s a bag of our paans. They’re fresh and they’ll keep you fresh too.’
‘Hey! That could be a good tag line.’
‘Hmm … Waah! I think I’ll try one myself,’ he said as he stepped forward and peered into the bag with a huge smile on his face.
He picked up a paan and put it in his mouth. His style was natural and from it one could see that he enjoyed a good paan. He smacked his dirty red lips and shook his head in appreciation from left to right.
‘Murli! Have one, it is mind-blowing!’
‘Thank you, sir!’ The big bouncer stepped forward and daintily popped a paan into his mouth. ‘This is good.’
‘Yes, I suggest you hand them out to all your clients today. It’ll be good to get them hooked,’ Abhay added, slyly.
‘I like that idea. Murli, I want you to give one of these to every man who comes through here tonight. If they refuse tell them it’s invigorating. Say it’s a gift from me. Okay?’
‘Yes boss.’
‘And give these nice gentlemen, Mr Ajeet and his friend here, my mobile numbers.’
He then turned to us and said that we could call him any time.
‘How much for tonight’s paans?’
‘They’re complementary, sir.’
‘Nonsense, tell me how much they are for. I will pay you.’
A pimp who was keen to pay; never thought we’d meet one like him. Then he stepped closer to us and whispered.
‘Promise me you won’t go to anyone else with this proposal.’
‘We wouldn’t think of it.’
‘Good. Now how much do I owe you?’
‘It’s about Rs 7 a piece, there are about two hundred in there.’
‘I’ll give you a thousand five. Murli, get the money.’
Murli returned shortly with the promised dough.
‘You want something else for the night?’ he winked at us.
‘No thank you, sir, we have an early day tomorrow.’
‘Besides we never mix business with pleasure.’
‘Then you are in the wrong place, because my business is pleasure itself.’ He laughed out loud looking to his goon for validation. He too guffawed in a fit of false joy.
‘Okay, I’ll see you boys tomorrow morning, it’s a pleasure doing business with you …’ He continued his cackling laughter as we readied to leave.
‘Sure, sir.’
We walked away, out of the alley, towards the main road. Our old decrepit van was parked nearby. In it were more paans. More brochures and some interesting sex toys.
Shaakal and Ajeet then went on to make eight more visits that night.
It is remarkable how we always blame the establishments and never hold the patrons responsible for the wrongs that they do. It is perhaps difficult to track them. They don’t have a central place or haunt, other than the brothels themselves.
We thus decided to target the assholes that fed the system for a change.
‘That makes nine,’ I said as we concluded our last meeting of the night and reached our van.
‘Yup. Things are looking up,’ Abhay concurred as we got in and pulled the doors shut.
We had mailed a little advertisement to all the papers that day, in time to make the next morning’s edition. We even made calls to ensure that our ‘friends’ in the media would in fact print the stuff. Apart from one of them, everyone said yes.
‘Things are well in motion now,’ Abhay said contentedly as I reversed the van out of the alley.
We could hardly wait to see their faces when it all came together.
16. THE AFTERGLOW
Praveen Deshmukh was a respectable man. He led a good life, with a nice house, two kids and a wife. But Mr Deshmukh was not satisfied with his existence. He always had a keen eye for a bargain and perhaps that is what made his jewellery store so successful.
He woke up at his usual time, around eleven in the morning, and ambled out of his king-sized bed, scratching his privates and tugging at his wedged underwear.
He walked into his marbled toilet and stared into the sink.
Another great day, he thought, on the heels of a great night.
He splashed his face with some water and then looked up at the mirror. He shouted in disbelief. His face was green.
He tried really hard to wash it off, alas; it wasn’t on the surface, for the sin was skin deep.
‘What the … What the hell is this? Shakuntala! Shakuntala! Help! Where are you?’
The wife ran to the rescue, she had a fruit knife and an apple in her hands.
‘What? What happened?’
She saw his back, he was bent over the sink.
‘My face is green.’
‘What?’
He shrieked again. ‘My face is green.’ His arm muscles clenched in desperation.
‘I can’t get it off. What the fuck is this? Did you paint me in my sleep?’
‘Bastard!’ It was her turn to scream.
She walked straight up to him and looked him in the eye.
‘Where were you last night?’ A cold anger dwelt in her words.
‘Not the same shit again, Shakuntala!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have a serious problem here! I’m meeting some foreign customers today! What am I going to do …?’
‘Where were you last night?’ The anger was giving way to tears and an anguish that began to worry the respectable Mr Deshmukh.
‘What is the matter with you? I was at Ashok’s. Remember we play cards every Friday night?’
‘You were not at Ashok’s place,’ she cried. ‘You were not at Ashok’s place!’ Her voice was gaining decibels as her anger frothed up. ‘Filthy scum. Filthy low-life bastard scum tyrant!’
‘Watch your mouth,’ he yelled back, bewildered at his meek wife’s unusual outburst.
‘Wait here, you bastard,’ Shakuntala ordered him as she ran out of the bathroom to retrieve the morning’s newspaper.
Praveen looked at his face worriedly in the mirror. She returned and threw the paper at him.
‘What am I supposed to do with this?’
‘Page one, read it.’
The apple was not there in her hands any more; she had come back with only the newspaper and the fruit knife.
‘Son of a bitch!’ muttered Mr Deshmukh as he read. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Fuck you!’ she shouted. ‘I’ll see you in court.’
‘Children, children, come here and see what your father has done,’ Shakuntala called as she stalked off to pack her suitcase and leave.
‘Shakuntala! No!’
The bottom half of page one was a glorious advertisement for everyone to see. There was a picture of a smiley. It was green in colour. Below it was a message:
Green is the Colour of Love
Any kind gentleman walking around wi
th a green face today is in such a condition because he visited one of the brothels near Mariana Street on the night of the 12th.
Good luck, our green-faced freaks. Deal with who you are and what you have done.
The world’s oldest profession continues to flourish because of bastards like you.
Everyone is in on it. Everyone takes a cut.
We just decided to make it all public.
We encourage you to stay home or face the consequences.
One should not have to sell his or her body and soul for a living.
No one will, if no one’s buying.
Love,
Your Anarchists
It had panned out better than we had planned. Hospitals were reporting numerous cases of patients with a ‘green rash’ walking in for treatment. At the final tally there were about eight hundred cases reported. The media went ahead with weeks of stories about the incident and we were once again in the limelight.
Dhwani Sinha had become NDTV’s favourite correspondent for covering our stories. She was considered a bit of an expert on the matter. A few foreign channels had approached her for a commentary on the ‘creative protests everyone was talking about in India’.
‘I think she likes me,’ Abhay said as we watched a special report on the ‘Brothel Incident’.
‘She doesn’t know you, Abhay,’ I pointed out sagely.
‘She knows a lot about what I do, man.’
‘Maybe you should give her a call.’
‘No way … now shut up, her show is still on.’
‘These effects seem to have been caused by consuming a strong dose of the chemical triphenylmethane and certain yet-to-be identified copper compounds. It is a strange new combination that appears to be mildly toxic for humans. I believe it has its roots in the composition of certain commonly used fertilizers that promote the production of chlorophyll in plants. The Anarchists must have modified its concentration as the final chemical administered, though low in toxicity, is really high in its ability to cause coloration. Those who are affected by it must have ingested it. First, it would have coloured their tongues, and then the effects would slowly have spread outwards, to the gums, lips and finally the skin on their faces. At my clinic there were a few patients who turned up with the green coloration spreading downwards even as far as their navels and up their arms. My guess is that they were fed the chemical through paans to prolong the contact of the agents with their tongues, increasing absorption and exposure. The irritation and itching caused can be easily cured. The bad news is that I am not sure if the pigmentation effects will ever completely go.’
THE DIARY OF AN UNREASONABLE MAN Page 9
