The ironies of Kamathipura

It takes time to absorb the colours and meaning of Kamathipura, Mumbai's infamous red-light area. And of all places for a television shoot, it is probably the most explosive, says RAJENDAR MENEN.

OF all the places in the world for a television shoot, Kamathipura, Mumbai's infamous red-light area, is probably the most explosive.

Mumbai is a big city with many red-light areas. It is very easy for women from neighbouring States and districts to slip into prostitution here. Brothels mushroom all the time and have spread out to the most distant suburbs which betray even the slightest signs of human habitation. As there is a steady influx of migrant labour, the sex worker is assured of the basics for survival.

But nothing can beat Kamathipura in the heart of Mumbai. Set up long ago by the British for their troops, it was their official "comfort zone". Legend has it that the tiny area boasted the most exotic consorts. When the White man left, the Indian sex worker took over.

Today, Kamathipura is bursting at the seams with women and garbage. Every inch of space has been occupied. New brothels have come up in nooks and crannies and there are so many sex workers without institutional support that they have no option but to freelance. Since there is no space in the brothels for them to sit in, they hang around outside in the lanes, solicit customers and then rent vacant beds, if any.

The tiny lanes which slice the area into ribbons are packed with people and their belongings. While food is being prepared on a stove, a child defecates next to it. Somebody is having a bath a few feet away and yet somebody else is fornicating close by. In the midst of all this are hawkers, card sessions, goats on a tether, pimps on the prowl, customers looking for a bargain, tourists and countless sex workers. The air is thick with pollutants and decibel levels can rupture an uninitiated ear drum with ease.

It takes time to absorb the colours and meaning of Kamathipura. Despite the cultural diversities and a mood which is like a powder keg on the slow burn, Kamathipura is peaceful. There are no riots, communal disturbances or petty fights. There is a silent bonding and everybody knows that they have been roped in to share a strange and inexplicable destiny. The mood is as stoic as the parrots in some of the cages which nibble at a chilli and then look around with profundity and deep scholarship before the next bite. Even they prefer the eloquence of silence.

I have been involved in at least 50 television shoots in the area ever since HIV/AIDS and prostitution became the big media story of the decade. Life is filled with ironies and Kamathipura is replete with them. Despite the new found attention, this tiny island of chaos is continuing to choke on gross neglect. Every inch of living space is several notches below the requirements of minimalist existence and young flesh is still being traded for the price of a special cha. But who cares?

Most television shoots in Kamathipura are the "wham bang" variety. The cameraman holds the camera in one hand at about knee level and walks about as nonchalantly as he can pretending he is carrying a piece of luggage. Colleagues walk on either side ostensibly to protect him. Or the camera is wrapped in a piece of cloth and carried on the shoulder with a tiny opening for the "third eye". The walk through the area, in such cases, is like a military march past. One has to be quick and fast. If anyone catches on, there will be mayhem.

Another method is to get into a vehicle and shoot through the windows. This is comparatively luxurious and the cameraman can shoot the ambience at will. If the vehicle is moving, well and good. The chances of being attacked are remote. The vehicle can go up and down the tiny streets and adjoining roads until satisfactory shots are taken. Of course, if there is any suspicion, all hell will break lose. Then the vehicle will be stopped and broken into. The crowds will love it and every little urchin and his cousin will join in the fun. But sex workers in the cages have now grown wise to all this. If they see a slow moving vehicle they instinctively start pelting it with stones.

Then, of course, spend money and you can buy a great "story". Rent the brothel or a shop or a hotel room in the neighbourhood. And then shoot for all one's worth. Many years ago, I was associated with a BBC shoot on the return to roots of the singer Apache Indian. Money was no constraint and so everybody, even in the vicinity of the shoot, was paid well.

A large and spacious brothel was rented out and the madam as well as all the sex workers being interviewed were paid for their time. The cameramen (there were two of them) just loved it. They shot the cubicles, the decor, the narrow, long-winding staircases, the streets outside, the clutch of customers spilling everywhere, even the dull, yet enchanting, skyscape. While the shoot was on, a customer was being entertained and sex workers' children paraded about on all fours. It was late afternoon and a light breeze blew against the curtains as slivers of sunlight played with the ornate frames of Hindu gods and goddesses spread all over the brothel walls.

The shoot, I was told, was a hit in Europe and was the viewer's and critics' top of the line choice for many weeks running. The cameramen had Kamathipura in thrall. The crowds supported them and even escorted them to the choicest venues. They went about the shoot with the confidence of complete abandon. The cameras were not disguised and they had recourse to the most candid shots. They roamed the streets, shot every inch of crammed space and knew they had canned a winner. Apache Indian, though the hero of every episode including the one on the red-light area, took ill. He lost his appetite and ran a slight fever. "I thought I had seen it all, but this is something else," he muttered softly.

There have been many other shoots, and many inherent dangers. Almost like a package deal. I remember another shoot with the Hijras. This was for a freelance media house from England. They turned violent and broke half the equipment and even threatened to kill the correspondents. We escaped narrowly. Yet again, in another episode with the Hijras, I had to run a few hundred yards before I could hail a cab and escape their wrath. They had, prior to this great escape, beaten me up with slippers, torn my shirt and boxed my ears. My only hope was to run, and run fast.

The Hijras are big, violent, expansive and colourful. They are also very strong and united and wear tremendous shock value on their sleeves. Anger them and they can lift their sarees and thrust their genitals on your face. This is exactly what they did to a BBC radio correspondent who took the next flight out of India swearing never to return.

Ignorance is bliss even when it comes to television shoots. We were again shooting Kamathipura when a mob surrounded us. I was with a Japanese crew whose members did not know any other language other than their own. I was their interpreter. They saw the mob and could feel the unrest. But they did not understand the choicest invectives being hurled at them. I did not tell them anything either. They went on with the shoot nonplussed, finished it, packed the equipment and left the scene quietly.

The mob was left standing. They were ignored by the Japanese, a move they could not cope with. But the Japanese had not done this deliberately. They just did not know what was happening around them ... and the mob had not been prepared to handle non-violent non-reactions.

But times have changed and equipment has got very sophisticated. In a recent shoot for French television, we shot the Devadasis in Kamathipura with a camera the size of a fountain pen. There was no violence or fear. Just friendship, smiles, backslapping and a great shoot.

The writer has launched three AIDS journals, written three booklets and co-authored two books on AIDS and prostitution apart from making a number of television documentaries on the subject.

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