March 13, 2008 - Kolkata, India
Four years ago, Faisal, a fellow-filmmaker and friend of mine, left Vancouver to go to Bangladesh and India to shoot a documentary on sweatshop labour. This year he was invited to screen it in Bangladesh, and then was interested in coming to India again as well. We ended up being able to meet in Kolkata for 4 out of our 5 nights there. Pretty nice timing, but for the fact that we missed out on the Tiger Safari we’d all been interested in doing… Another time.
What Evy & I particularly enjoyed (besides the obvious fun in meeting with friends while in completely different situations) was that by having an Indian-looking (even if not Hindi or Bengali speaking) male escort we had license to do much more in the city than we can normally. It’s hard to explain without experiencing it as a young Caucasian female yourself. The harassment can be beyond bearable sometimes, constant and unwavering. At first the ‘hello, Madam’s’ are a sort of amusing by-play, but there are times, such as when the small dirty beggar children follow you for city block after city block, pulling on all available clothing and bags, while vendors keep calling at you from all sides, that it becomes too much. As for going out at night on your own, forget about it. Somehow the descent of night seems to signal the end of restrained unwavering staring, and the posses of males from what seem to be age 12 up roam the streets without apparent restriction. Lewd stares & calls abound. For the most part I’m sure they’re harmless, but there tends to be a constant feeling of threat. It can be very uncomfortable, and very potentially, at least according to our numerous kind hosts & hostesses here, dangerous. It was thus a blissful break for us to lose our two-lone-white-girls status for a couple of days in Kolkata.
By day, Faisal was assumed by outsiders to be our guide(!). This meant that nearly all conversation and harassment was directed to him. This was perhaps not stellar for him, but it was a welcome relief for us. It was particularly amusing when people would ask Faisal questions about us, in English, while we stood right there with him. Evy’s favourite was when a guy came up to us and asked Faisal whether or not we liked Indian food. Faisal turned to us-
‘Do you guys like Indian food?’
‘Yup’.
He turned back to the guy- ‘Yeah, they like Indian food’.
It was pretty funny.
At night it was a slightly different scenario. As soon as it was dark out it (no longer tourist time?!) it was assumed that we were Faisal’s escorts. This, in local outsiders’ eyes, raised him up in esteem dramatically, and also meant that none of us were accosted. Pretty sweet deal.
On our last two nights we decided to take advantage of this license to go out at night.
Night One.
We thought we’d go to a local bar, just out for a drink. Surprising how long it’s been since any of us had done that (Faisal because no one drinks publicly in Bangladesh, and us due to the aforementioned circumstances). We meandered out of our hotel. Hotel Maria was our current residence, the lack of functioning plumbing and grimy walls & sheets having spurred a move from the Times Guest House.
Nowhere was open. Everything was closed. We asked at a hotel nearby and they, along with the odd person we met along the way afterward, recommended we go down the street to the hotel VIP International Club. Several other similarly named joints later (Hotel International VIP, Hotel VIP International Lounge, etc) we arrived.
Faisal got in, got efficiently frisked. I got stopped due to my ever-present camera. ‘I promise I won’t take any photos’. No go. They decide to call in someone else to explain it to me, whether it’s someone that speaks better English or the manager I’m not sure. Either way, four large guys, one particularly beefy with immense rings all over his fingers (brass-knuckle like? I don’t even really know what brass knuckles would look like but I would not want to be punched by that hand) appeared. Remember that in India, on average, I look over everyone’s heads. These guys were big, even by North American standards. And they had all apparently come to explain that I’m not allowed, under any circumstances, to bring my camera in. Ok, ok.
We leave our cameras with a little tag at the front, something I avoid at all possible times, not really trusting in their ‘security’ (often the security guard goes for a break/smoke/whatever leaving the stuff unsupervised behind him). In this case there didn’t seem to be much option though, and there definitely appeared to be security. We went in.
The décor felt fairly new, frosted glass accents with blue lighting, not dissimilar to what you’d find at a night lounge in Vancouver. As for the rest, well that’s another story.
To begin with, we were the only females in the audience. We were ushered to a VIP section (from which they unceremoniously kicked some guy out of) and immediately given menus. Fairly pricey, for India, typical pricing for Canadian liquor. There were a couple of tables in front of us, maybe 8 to 10 in the room in total, with 4 to 6 guys around each. At the front, maybe 25 feet from us, was the stage upon which a guy had been singing since we’d entered. Hindi Karaoke? We ordered some drinks and sat back to take in more details. The place, though small, was fairly well filled, with a number of guys standing against the wall looking at the stage.
The only other females in the room were four girls sitting, somewhat uncomfortably, behind the singer. ‘Made-up to the nines’ could be a description of their faces, as for their outfits –1 leopard print spandex halter dress, just beyond knee-length; 1 ‘skanky’ green cotton tank top layered over a ‘skanky’ yellow cotton tank top (thus rendering it altogether un-skanky by our standards) with jeans; 1 shimmery, ‘scandalous’, practically see-through blue sari , and, crème de la crème, scandal of all scandals, 1 tight black mini dress, no, not on it’s own, but covered by a floor-length fishnet sac dress… In North America, fashion police would hopefully have been called out, but here it appears it was the ultimate of sexy.
Shortly after we’d taken all this in, the girls came up and started to sing. Still had the feeling of karaoke, but this is when the real action began - out came the wallets. Bill after bill was thrust in the air & handed by the audience to the original male singer, now posted between audience and singers and evidently the delivery boy of money to the girls. Undercurrents swirled as some girls got more money than others, and evil looks were passed around. Men who paid more money would get more personalized singing than men who didn’t. Were we partaking in a little underground prostitution? We weren’t sure. We called for more drinks. ‘I’m sorry sir, we stop serving alcohol at 11:30pm, state law.’ Damn. We stayed a little longer, through the odd Hindi song and what appeared to be the favourites – Celine Dion, and Shaggy. I can’t recall what the Shaggy song was, but that fishnet-clad temptress on the stage did what must have been considered some very lewd moves by the crowd there, ‘cause the cash was flowing. Hands waved in the air, not with Rs10 bills as I’d originally assumed, but Rs50, Rs100, and wads of them…
Sans drinks the novelty wore off a little more quickly than it might have otherwise, so eventually we left them to it and decided to try a Lonely Planet suggestion for the following night. Our cameras returned to us, we were made to wait inside the entrance behind the security gate until the cop had walked by, and then were discreetly ushered out…
Night 2.
One of Lonely Planet’s recommendations was the Tantra nightclub. It was a Thursday night, everything in Kolkata apparently closes at midnight on Thursday’s, so we didn’t feel we could do much bar hopping – or at least that’s what we believed when we began the evening.
We arrived at Tantra, the recommended club. It seemed suspiciously quiet. They let us in, to check it out. If there’d been people there, it would’ve been a pretty sweet nightclub. But there weren’t. ‘Is there anywhere else around?’ we asked, not willing to pay the expensive cover for a club with no people and expensive drinks. It turned out there were at least 3 other options, all within the hotel building itself. We decided to check them all out. {The only reason I feel moved to describe this in detail is because it was such a weird combination of places, all in the same hotel…}
First stop, downstairs bar. Very small place, decent vibe, jam packed. Live cover singing of U2, Coldplay, etc. Nowhere to sit, so we decide to keep it as a later alternative, set-like though it feels with its painted brick walls and bland décor.
Next stop, lounge. Swanky décor, elegantly dressed people, over-the-top priced drinks. We leave.
Upstairs there’s apparently a place with an open bar. We decide to check it out. All men, music coming from behind closed doors. We go in. There’s a Caucasian girl in a skimpy black leather outfit doing a dance on stage. How do we find these functions?! From the numerous refrigerators lined against one ballroom wall, and the numerous logo-bearing signs, it appears we’ve walked into a refrigerator company convention. Some of these upstanding employees (all sans-wives/significant others) are capturing the dance with their cell-phones’ video function.
A lot of the men are standing so we appropriate some seats for ourselves. A guy comes on stage, announcing that, as exciting as that was, how would we like a similar dance with an Indian girl?! It appears we would. Out comes an Indian girl in a scandalous Indian inspired red outfit, complete with two male backup dancers. Servers come by with food and drinks on platters. Apparently it is open bar. We’re surprised we were told to come here by the hotel, to what to all eyes appears to be a private function. The drinks turn out to be extremely watered down whiskey. Not stellar, but with free alcohol who’s complaining?! We end up departing the function when the dance show is followed with some Hindi stand-up comedy – not quite our thing.
Next stop is Aquabar. This only because we catch the sign on our way back down the stairs, it hadn’t been mentioned in our original additional options. This bar is pretty sweet though. Poolside - bar with small terrace on one end, and then lining the length are large white-canopied privacy tents (with cushions and low tables inside, presumably for romantic drinks à deux, or simply a more private ambiance for groups of 3 to 6. The quiet couples here and there make the place feel ultra-high end rather than empty, and it seems very pleasant to be able to sit on the terrace by the bar. So we do. We decline the pitcher of beer (most expensive pitcher I’ve ever seen – equivalent of $70. $70 for one pitcher… crazy!), but found some more reasonable options. An enjoyable time is spent feeling successfully wealthy here.
Post relaxing poolside drink we check out the open bar (still Hindi talking) and then Tantra again – still empty despite all claims that it would fill up. We spend the rest of the evening reliving high school angst with the covers of Oasis etc. at the downstairs set-like bar. Altogether a truly enjoyable evening.
