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For a 23-year-old, Tasneem has the air of someone who has already seen a lot of the world. "People or professions aren't bad, it is perception that makes them bad," she says in Hindi, rapidly dusting her dainty oval face with talcum powder. As a schoolgirl, she thought twice before stepping into a street that had seedy establishments; now, seated in a dimly-lit area outside the greenroom of Hotel Ellora in Borivali, she declares it is just as safe as any other place. She may be annoyed at being questioned on her work, but she is happy that dance bars will blossom in the city once again after the Supreme Court verdict in their favour. The Punjab-bred girl had joined the bar as a singer a year ago; soon, she will stop lip-syncing and begin swinging to the music. "Ada (style) comes naturally to me," she says, raising an arched eyebrow and letting out a groomed laugh. The added income will help cover her parents' medical bills and fund her own expenses as a Bollywood struggler: cosmetics, fancy outfits and rent for a room on Yari Road. None of her previous jobs at shops or companies paid enough; sexual harassment was rampant.
Are Mumbai's famous dance bars a den of vice or a place for some harmless fun? A bit of both, perhaps. What can be said with certainty is that these bars have, for long, provided jobs to thousands of women from dire economic backgrounds. The trend had its beginnings in the 1970s when they recruited young women as waitresses and for live music shows. Bars paid women to dance in the 1980s, and when this feature became the primary attraction, they began to identify themselves as dance bars, says Sonia Faleiro in her book, Beautiful Thing. From 25 dance bars in 1984, the count rose to 200 in 1995 and 350 when the Maharashtra government banned them in 2005. In a recent interview, film maker Madhur Bhandarkar, who directed the National Award-winning Chandni Bar, called the dance bar "the most secular of places". That's because people from all communities, ages and income brackets went there: taxi drivers, office-goers, scamsters, businessmen, goons, diamond merchants, addicts.
Citing reasons such as the rise of illicit establishments, Maharashtra Home Minister R R Patil gave the call to prohibit dance bars, backed by groups of women - the morality police. All told, about 2,500 bars in the state were banned. Bars either closed or turned into orchestra joints and family restaurants. The number of bar girls dropped from 75,000 in the heydays, to about 20,000, says Pravin Agrawal, who owns the Borivali bar and is part of the Fight for Rights Bar Owner's Association. Several dancers who did not find work were most likely trafficked to West Asia or Southeast Asia for sex work. Others slipped into domesticity, odd jobs or became call girls.
Before the ban, bars paid dancers between Rs 2,000 and Rs 10,000 per month, based on their skills, and let them keep 70 per cent of the tips. On an average, most girls made up to Rs 25,000 a month - more than what fresh graduates from a large number of the country's engineering colleges and business schools can claim. The orchestra bars, to their credit, did not cut the salaries of these girls because of the lesser work they had to do now, but tips declined because fewer customers would come. Former dancers' incomes fell nearly 70 per cent when they took to singing or waiting at tables. Dancer-turned-singers like 27-year-old Meena are hoping to return to their old jobs soon with a big jump in earnings.
Perhaps the most talked-about bar girl in Mumbai's history is Tarannum Khan of Deepa Bar in Vile Parle which became a hub for cricket betting and underworld dealings. The dancer attracted the most high-profile customers and was held for links with bookies and cricketers. During an income-tax raid at her Andheri bungalow in 2005, officials found Rs 22 lakh in cash. The same year, reports said that the top 10 bar girls in the city were all crorepatis. In an incident at Grant Road's Topaz, racketeer Abdul Telgi allegedly showered a dancer with Rs 93 lakh in a single night.
Not just the girls, the Supreme Court verdict will also benefit waiters, cab drivers, tailors, bouncers, cooks and make-up artists. All told, around 150,000 people in the city relied on dance bars for employment before the ban. Bar owners will see big gains in patrons and alcohol sales, helping recover money spent on court proceedings, orchestra licences and redoing the interiors after dance was banned.
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Although there was no age limit, the dancers were an asset to the bar if aged between 21 and 28. Often, they belonged to desperately poor families in Maharashtra or remote parts of Uttar Pradesh, West Bengal, Punjab and Gujarat. They were either trafficked as minors or they took up the profession to fend for themselves and dependents. The dancers could be single, married or abandoned, with or without children. Many had histories of sexual exploitation within the family. Some were trained in mujra or folk dance, while others learned on their own with a little help from Bollywood. Their work usually lasted from 7.30 pm to 1 am daily. When exiting the bar, they would promptly wrap a dupatta around the head and obscure the face with a handkerchief. If they did not live with other bar girls in areas like Mira Road or Foras Road, they changed residences frequently. Few knew them by their real names.
Bar work can make the girls vulnerable. It has pitfalls such as being called names or dealing with inebriated customers, Meena admits, before questioning the morality of others. "In which profession do women not get harassed? Politicians say we practise the flesh trade but members of their own families visit bars." She lists several practices that should also have been axed if her work was immoral: pubs, discos, performances in five-star hotels. She may have a point here: while dance bars were shut in the city, three-star-and-above hotels were kept out of the purview of the ban. The stigma went away when the act happened in sophisticated environs. "When a Mallika Sherawat or Bipasha Basu dances on a New Year's Eve, entertaining drunken men and women, how come there is no stigma attached to that? Is it because a seat there costs Rs 5,000?" film maker Mahesh Bhatt asked in an interview.
For most, bar dancing was not an ambition but it offered the dignity of two square meals and modest savings. While most girls do not find the job morally wrong, they firmly cover their faces outside the performance zone. But they are more defiant than shy, attributing their cautiousness to social stigma. Many refuse to be photographed during interviews. Someone asks if their relatives are even likely to see English publications. "No, but my children's schoolteachers read everything," flies the retort. Conversation in the greenroom is usually brief as it could cost the time it takes to serenade a client or two. The work has its hazards. The orchestra bar licence allows for a total of four female singers but the rule is often flouted as another batch of girls waits in the wings to replace them. Even at old, well-established bars, raids are a daily occurrence. When warned of a cop's arrival, the extras quickly lock themselves in the nearest restroom. Bar owners pay bribes to escape inspections to the extent that some cops are said to seek a posting near bars.
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Inside the bar in Ellora hotel, a few men sit alone at their tables, nursing a drink. There are more waiters than guests. The orchestra is really a synthesiser, two men and five girls. Everything seems exaggerated - the purple and yellow lights, loudspeakers and the floating scent of smoke mixed with room freshener. Bhojpuri and vintage Bollywood songs dominate the requests. While one performs, the other girls stand around the stage, shifting their weight from one foot to another and searching the scant audience for tips. A patron hands out a couple of ten-rupee notes to the waiters, saving larger notes for the girls. Another raises a toast in Tasneem's direction, she responds with a playful wave and a smile that disappears with equal speed when she turns away.
The customers sit at a distance and are not allowed to dance or touch the performers. However, some bar dancers do engage in commercial sex once they leave the premises. It is also not uncommon for girls to fall in love with and marry a preferred client. "We cannot control what happens beyond our boundaries," says Agrawal. "But dancers are not forced into the flesh trade." Some bar managers brief girls every fortnight about the risks of being sexually involved with clients. NGOs hold interventions to educate them about HIV-AIDS and other diseases. Old hands in the business acknowledge that girls were victimised in the unlawful bars of Mira Road, Thane and Navi Mumbai. Fight for Rights Bar Owner's Association claims it sent letters to the chief minister's office with details of the bar owners who employed minor girls or encouraged flesh trade but no action was taken. Bars are willing to employ measures such as CCTVs, railings next to the stage and costume guidelines to restrict exploitation when the dance licences are issued, says the association's chief, Manjit Singh Sethi.
It may not happen overnight. Two days after the Supreme Court verdict, Varsha Kale, president of the Bharatiya Bar Girls Union, asked the girls to put celebrations on hold. "Despite appeals to discuss further steps, the state government has not shown any inclination to talk to us," she alleges. The thought of a prolonged legal battle makes her momentarily break down over the phone. "Some girls," she says, "are now too old to return to dancing." With legal advice, the state home department is mulling various actions including a review petition, moving the case to a larger bench or amending the Bombay Police Act. The state's decision is expected on July 22.
If the state does not respond by then, dance bar proponents plan to approach the Supreme Court for an implementation order. Should the home department approve removal of the ban, all licence applications will be submitted for processing within a day, says Sethi. Post-licensing, the focus will shift to organising the dancers, educating them about rights and appointing girls who can work with law-enforcing agencies to beat exploitation, says Kale. The proliferation of dance bars and new deadlines could add to the work of an already short-staffed police force. At the same time, it could also make work simpler since the bars are among the places criminals visit.
The girls want to be viewed as fankaars (artistes), who attract an audience to the bar much in the way popular actresses do in theatres. Bar employees share philosophies and unvarnished opinions with blithe confidence, the gift of a tough life. "Can you be sure what you will end up as? I thought I would be Femina Miss India but I am short," shrugs Tasneem, who is moderately educated with a decent knowledge of English. In the span of an hour, she reveals more than a few dreams but no concrete plans. "At one time, I wanted to be a reporter. Now my idol is Chanda Kochchar. You know her?"
Some names have been changed to protect identity
