Kishore Singh: A gentleman's guide to the mujra

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evening."

The only mujras I had seen, I must admit, were restricted to Bollywood blockbusters where ladies with daring cleavages but hearts of gold drew wolf-whistles from audiences. Since I did not know how to whistle, I listened carefully for any alternatives my wife might offer, though I was still puzzled about why such instructions were being processed for me "" I was to attend a wedding in Jaipur, not a mujra.

The mystery was soon solved. The bridegroom-to-be, part of Rajasthan's fading feudal aristocracy, even though he himself is a doctor in London, had arranged a mujra evening at his house for the entertainment of his guests, or perhaps as a last wild fling. In any case, I soon found myself in a vast hall, supported by a bolster, watching painted women swaying somewhat insincerely while they sang what I was informed were popular film songs.

My wife's nephew summoned one of the dancing girls and instructed her to offer me a drink. Slipped under the glass was a crisp five-hundred rupee note. Trying to appear a sophisticate, I pocketed the money and took a sip from the proffered glass. The girl flounced off in a huff. Too late, I remembered my wife's instructions, "Observe what the others do."

So I observed with diligence that the money was intended for the dancing girls, as soon as they had carried out their instructions, which in this case had been to get me to sip my drink. Feeling terrible at having pocketed her earnings, I proceeded to summon several of them to offer drinks at random to the guests who sat around, considerably lightening my wallet in the process. In not wanting to seem prudish, I ran the danger of appearing both decadent and certainly poorer.

"You must not," my wife had warned me, "engage the mujra girls in conversation." Too late I saw that to ensure they would not get drunk, the other men would draw out the girls in discussion, all the while refusing their entreaties to drink, thereby not letting them pocket their earnings as easy pickings, while I had succumbed to their ministrations and was tipsier than I might otherwise have liked.

If I was out of sorts, my uncle, who had accompanied me to these revels, was by now a jolly good fellow and the life of the party, throwing away money like it repulsed him (the following morning he looked out of sorts not just because he had a hangover but, I suspect, also because he no longer had the cash to pay for his airfare back to Shillong). So, when my wife called on the mobile to say she was sure I was up to no good, and she was coming in to check all was well, I assured her she was more than welcome.

Only I had not counted on her nephew and sundry cousins and other relatives challenging her to give the mujra girls a run for their money. The upshot of it all was that my wife kicked off her heels and was soon pirouetting on the floor, and the following morning I had to wake her up with a palm full of Disprins. I suppose it is now my turn to tell her how a gentlewoman must sport herself at a mujra...