Not a Love Story
Bodhi Ray
‘Do you have a spare cigarette on you?’
‘W-h-a-t?’ Ann shouted over the blasting music.
‘C-I-G-A-R-E-T-T-E?’ I sucked on an imaginary one and blew smoke upwards.
‘Oh. Yea. Hang on.’ Anne slipped down the pole she was on, swirling while she did, her legs a bow and arrow.
‘There you go, Vid.’ She fished a stick out of her shorts and held it out to me.
In the shadows away from the roving spotlight, fair-and-skinny Anne was a silhouette. Her hand holding the cigarette to me was a bridge amongst worlds.
But, Gawd, she remembered my name. ‘Thanks Anne.’ I grabbed the cigarette and lit it. I felt great. I felt scared. The Benson smoke scorched its way down to my lungs leaving a strange after taste. Not smooth like a Marlboro Ice Blast.
But f#k it.
Anne was back on the pole but barely moving. She looked more like a forlorn Bollywood belle of the 60s, hugging a tree and looking out for her Pardesi lover who’d left her. She seemed to be waiting for someone. Not me surely. But she gave me the cigarette. That was something.
I plopped down on the nearest chair and put my feet up on the one in front.
‘F#k you bro!’ The boy frisking the girl in the seat in front hissed at me. The girl got busy pulling her jacket back in place.
‘Peace brother. Sorry.’ That calmed the brown guy-yellow girl combo. Maybe the guy was Indian. Or a Paki. Or a Lankan. Pakis and Lankans were far more forthright than us. India, an Uncertain Glory by Amartya Sen flashed in my mind. What a place and time to remember this.
Whatever.
I looked back at the poles and felt Anne’s eyes on me. I quickly moved my stare to other girls. Anne was different from the other girls not because she didn’t peddle herself aggressively or because she was the most petite, but she was apologetic. Which made her petite-ness look needy. In these shadow lines, Anne’s skin glowed like a translucent jellyfish that, if rubbed hard enough, would reveal someone else inside of her.
Prashant had rubbed hard enough many a time and I’d only dreamt of doing it. So, I don’t know if a different person had ever crawled out of Anne. I wondered who it could’ve been, someone with the sparkle of galaxies in their pupils and the confidence to make men do pole dances, the very men who ogled at her. But that also would include me then, wouldn’t it?
Whatever.
My head hurt from the eight pints of draft, five Sauza shots, three Long Island iced tea and the numbing music that hung in the stadium-sized hall like a thick curtain causing everyone to flail their arms to clear it so they could see ahead, while trying not to trip over chairs, bottles or some drunk passed out on the floor.
And then there was the smoke from the million cigarettes, a constant smog. Despite these distractions one couldn’t miss the smell that the place reeked of: A concoction of mingled sweat, cheap perfume, room fresheners, cigarettes, alcohol and too many men and their raw libido flung into the air. Was that even a thing?
Thinking wasn’t an activity that could be continued here for long.
‘Here’ was Orchard towers, on Orchard Road Singapore. A place for ‘gentlemen’ to get ungentle. A pilgrimage for those who worshipped the flesh. Providers came from far and wide and so did the consumers.
I’ve only come from a few kilometres away, dragged along by Prashant who was a regular at OT each time he was on a business trip from India. I came along because that’s what Vik would have done. I need to be Vik tonight.
Prashant, was a handful. If you were to break down his DNA, he was a simple God fearing, whiskey loving, wife beating, girl chasing, senior executive in a multi-national firm. So his routine too, was simple: drink silly before coming to OT and get his gang drunk as well. Then enter OT and run from his friends into the many dark corners hunting out the ‘working girls’.
Girls of the same nationality usually hung out together, and they had the same strategy for the night. Sometimes they’d walk around as a giggling group as if on an evening walk, inviting guys to join them. They would even try to break up couples who might be deep in action. This was the girlfriend experience strategy. On other nights, they’d dance on the poles and target the customers closest to them. Easy pickings, but the worst drunks and lechers were near the pole dance area.
And then there were pros who just sat, aloof, looking bored and saying no to all approaching, until they spotted the richest guy in OT. It was game on then.
Prashant was gone longer than usual today. I thought to go find him. But not before I finished the borrowed Benson.
I watched Anne, shaking her tiny hips on the pole. Why does she need to do this night in and night out? What did she do during the day? Sleep it off? Go shopping?
I used to shop alone a lot, especially in Kolkata Gariahat market during college days. The prices fit my budget and I could get lost in the crowd. Vik always went with a huge gang of college mates. He’d own the place he’d go to, alone or in a group. Bumping into him and his mates used to be my worst nightmare. Because often times I’d feel lonely. Not craving for real companionship, but say after finishing a very good book, like Purba Pashchim. The characters who I ran with, loved with, fought and died with, just disappeared after the book ended. I used to think this was worse than death itself. Until Vik died. And I became a single child of my parents. A long-standing dream of mine coming true through a nightmare.
‘I’m fucking lonely’ started playing in my head. Was Anne lonely too? Were the 200 odd people in this hellish den trying to un-lonelify themselves?
The song got louder until it filled my head and the hall and I saw Anne crooning, I’m F#kin’ Lonely, So F#ckin’ Lonely, Somebody Call Me, while moving on the pole. Seemed like a scene out of Once upon a time in Hollywood. Anne auditioning while Cliff Booth stood watching with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
I’m no Cliff Booth. Though I imagined myself to be; strong, handsome and aloof from the noise. Aloof from Anne.
Prashant, just like Vik, was definitely a Rick Dalton, barraging on how the world worked and how to make it big and live a grand life. He’d even act out stuff how it ought to be. Or maybe how it oughtn’t be.
Whatever.
I shook my head and tried to jerk the song out.
I looked back at the poles. Indonesians with straight black hair were the favourites of Ang Moh and swirled jauntily. Competing with them was a herd of Chinese girls with breath bad enough to wake up the dead. There were a couple of Phillipinas and the clique of international celebrities. Today’s celebs were some Columbian girls – or maybe they were posing as Colombians with shiny dyed blonde hair – and a black girl, who may have been posing as an African, but might have just been Tamil. Mixed bag, and Anne was the only lone lass. The rest had been ‘taken’ by customers, their paramours standing close by the poles, drinks in hand and clapping like ghoulish school kids at a dystopian concert.
Beyond the pole dance area were gambling tables where beer pong and strip poker were on. And right at the back was a stage where shows were supposed to be run. I don't know what shows, nobody ever saw much. Maybe the place was licensed as a circus or something of the sort, mandated to host shows.
‘I searched all around for you. Wassup?’ Prashant was back. From wherever he was, doing whatever it was.
‘Nothing. Let’s go?’
‘Go? Night is still young. Whoa, Isn’t that Anne?’ Prashant whistled, narrowing his myopic eyes sans specs.
‘You got a cig on you?’
‘Nope. Borrowed from Anne.’
‘F#k. You took a cig off a pole dancer?’
‘Don’t make me cringe. I was desperate.’
‘Cringe? This is stuff of fairy tales’ dude. Who knew you could claim such a feat?’ Prashant slapped my back.
‘Drinks boys?’ A couple of tall Russian women stopped by. I couldn’t make out their faces through the smoky darkness but I wasn’t picky when it came to Russians. Like I’d be anyone to judge – a small-town boy from Bihar.
‘We love Russians. Join us ladies.’ I said.
‘Fak you Paki,’ the women’s eyes spewed fire even in the darkness, before they huffed off.
‘Hahahaha.’ Prashant rocked with laughter.
‘What the fuck was that?’
‘They too are Ukrainians. They hate Russians. You’re such a dodo. How many years are you in Singapore again?’
‘Fuck them all. Russian-Ukrainian-Estonian-Polish, all look the same and talk the same. And why call us a Paki?’
‘Not us, you. To screw you man. Because Pakis are India’s number one enemy. But if you shoo beauties away like this, whatever we do, we ain’t gonna score tonight. And you’re a half Bangladeshi anyways, which was part of Pakistan sometime back. So yes, FAK you Paki.’
‘Wow. Such history and lineage lessons in a strip bar.’
‘This is no strip bar. Just a bar with girls and some poles.’
‘And a few random hungry souls.’
‘Nice.’
‘Let’s push off now?’
‘And miss out saying hullo to Anne?’
Prashant jumped on to Anne’s slowly turning circular podium and hugged her. She looked startled at first and then hugged him back. Too tightly. Was there a new spring to her gait?
Every few seconds the spotlight shifted till it fell on Anne and Prashant. Someone from the crowd hooted and that set off Prashant. He wiggled his butt and slow twisted his way down the pole and back up, all the while hands around Anne, who was giggling to splits. The chalk-like spotlight made even Prashant look fair.
Finally, just when it was too unbearable to watch, he got down and brought Anne with him, kissing all the while, hands around her hips.
I tried to get away but she saw me.
‘Hey,’ said Anne.
‘Hey,’ said I.
‘Whose turn is it to order now?’ Prashant asked. I tried to see where his hand was but couldn’t make out in the darkness.
‘Yours.’
Prashant left. He didn’t waste time asking us what we wanted to drink.
Anne sat down and I sat beside her.
‘You from Prashant’s place in India?’
‘Nope. Quite far from his place really. But I stay in Singapore.’
‘Aha. A Singaporean. You’re so lucky.’
‘Not a Singaporean, but yes lucky.’ I laughed. I hoped I sounded smart. The thought de-dignified me a few notches. Smart? To a pole dancer?
‘Why you come here?’ asked Anne.
‘Sorry?’
Did she really ask me that?
‘Why you come here?’
‘Same reason as anybody. He he.’
‘Then why you not touch?’
‘I do I do.’
‘Touch.’
Anne took my hand and placed it on her thighs. I jerked away. Her skin felt like a cold slab of ice.
‘See?’
‘You’re cold.’
‘Come close I show you something.’
I bent towards her, my heart fluttering. She stretched her hand in front of her, palm upwards. There was a tattoo. Wait. Was that a swastika?
‘Holy Hindu symbol.’
I touched the swastika and rubbed it. The skin was still cold but now I felt it’s rubbery-ness. I rubbed and squashed the swastika between my thumb and forefinger and slowly locked my fingers in hers.
‘This is such an a-hole place! They wouldn’t let me skip the queue at the bar even though I’m buying a full bottle of wine. Goddamm Singapore.’ Prashant stood with a wine bottle in hand panting, out of breath.
I pulled my hand away.
‘Now now, did I just see some lovey dovey stuff going on?’
‘She was showing me her swastika tattoo.’
I could have been wrong but I thought I spied a shadow cross Anne’s face like a cloud passing over the moon.
‘Swastika? Hmm. The Hitler one or the Hindu one? Ha ha ha.’ It was such a relief that Prashant laughed at his own jokes.
‘Pass me the wine,’ I reached for the bottle, eyeing Anne from the corner of my eye. Our moment was gone. Did she regret sharing so much with me? Or that I shared our moment with Prashant? This is why I never opened my mouth much. Bloody over-sharing introvert-ish nerd.
Prashant had uncorked the bottle and took two-three quick swigs before passing it to me. Only after I had downed half of what remained did I remember Anne. She shook her head and kept looking down, twitching her fingers on her lap.
‘Whaaat? Take it. It’s for you.’ Prashant visibly slurred. The wine seemed to have taken hold of him already. It was too early for him to slur. Strange.
‘The Paki got Anne.’ The Russians, sorry the tall Ukrainian women gang, was back.
‘He’s not Paki.’ Anne murmured.
The women said something in their language and they all laughed. Prashant tottered up from his seat and grabbed the arm of the lady standing closest to him. ‘I, Paki. I Lankan. I Indian. You come with me? I become what you want.’
‘Ha ha he’s cute. Come along.’ They walked off, the tall white women with a small dark man in tow.
Prashant was taken. It was bizarre how he had sold himself so well to the sellers themselves.
Anne and I were alone again, with a hundred hookers and lechers. We could be characters straight out of Pretty Woman.
‘In the Air Tonight’ started playing in my head and the din of the hall seemed to recede into the background.
I can feel it coming in the air tonight,
oh lord
And I've been waiting for this moment, for all my life,
oh lord
Can you feel it coming in the air tonight,
oh lordddd, oh lordddd
‘You a Hindu?’ Asked Anne.
‘Yep.’ It felt strange agreeing to being a Hindu in this place. So, I added, ‘I eat beef though.’
‘That’s all right I guess. You’re not a priest or in a temple city.’
‘It’s a bad thing to eat beef anywhere. Being a Hindu I mean.’
‘That’s just what they tell you. Like they tell abortion a sin in Christianity.’
‘And it’s not?’
‘To me no. I ready for pregnancies. And ready for quick abortions.’
She looked at me and squeezed my left palm, ‘I’m used to it now.’
‘Was any of … them … uh … erm … Prashant’s?’
‘Oh lord no, Vid.’
It was a relief. I don’t know why.
‘What do you think Prashant and I have done?’
My ears burned bright red, thank god for the darkness.
I thumped my pocket for cigarettes, seeing which Anne laughed. ‘No more, dear. We’re out.’
I wanted to grab Anne and kiss her. But she was dirty. Dirty for being here. Dirty for letting Prashant touch her. Dirty for letting me touch her.
What was I doing in this place anyways? I wasn’t lonely like Prashant. Or Anne. They could be in a crowd, partying, dancing, touching, feeling and still be lonely.
I could sit on the window ledge; my face pressed to the glass and watch the cars go by on mute for hours and not feel lonely.
But out here, I felt lonely.
I wanted Prashant to come back and put me out of my misery. I wanted him to never come back.
‘Prashant is sure taking his time.’ Anne observed as if reading my mind. Was she missing Prashant?
‘I don’t think he’ll be back for the night.’ My voice sounded disgustingly hopeful.
‘Yeah you maybe right. He’s found bliss today.’
‘Ghanta.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a Hindi word meaning meaning, no way.’
‘Ha ha. You’re jealous.’
‘And you’re not? You’re his lover.’
‘Huh? Lover?’
Anne’s voice drifted off; her eyes faraway. I untangled my errant fingers from Anne’s, not knowing when they had sought each other out. Now they felt out of place.
‘Hey Paki.’
I jolted back in my seat. One of the tall ones were back.
‘Your friend has called for you. Come. And zip up.’ She chuckled.
I stood up. I felt angry at her for thinking I was unzipped.
‘Sorry, I wasted your time. I should have offered to –
Before Anne could finish her sentence, I wiggled out of my seat nearly stamping on her feet and ran down the short flight of stairs behind the tall Russian, sorry Ukrainian.
We crossed two rows of chairs and walked in through a small door with heavy drapes. We were in a room with a lone overhead bulb pissing a puddle of yellow glow onto a two-seater sofa on which Prashant lay, legs sprawled in front of him, head rolling.
My heart leapt to my mouth. Was he dead?
‘Prashant? Hey Prashant.’ My cries must have been getting louder because one of the women shushed me up.
‘He’s just high on crack. Took it earlier. He come here and just crash. You his friend. You take him away. But pay us a thousand dollars as he had promised us.’
Cliff Booth or not, I was Prashant‘s sidekick in school, and maybe even now. But seeing him with his head lolling and limp, almost lifeless body stoked a fire in me.
‘I not his friend, he Indian, I Paki, remember? Keep him. But then I might call the cops. Or I may not.’
With that I stormed out, half expecting them to stop me. But they didn’t.
Anne was standing outside.
‘Is he ok?’ She was panting.
‘Yes, just drugged. Let’s go.’
‘Go? He’s inside.’
We heard a thump behind us and jumped. It was Prashant lying crumpled on the floor.
I checked his pulse. Running fine, just a bit erratic.
I stood there with Prashant crumpled on the ground and Anne trying to uncrumple him. She laid him out straight on his back and gently stroked his chest, easing the creases of his Bombay Company custom white shirt. It was a gift from his wife, now being caressed and smoothened by this girl from Ukraine.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Let’s go. Help me with him.’ She got up and started pulling Prashant’s hand in an effort to make him sit up.
‘I don’t have money. He might not have either.’
‘Just pay me 200 dollars, I need to pay a hundred to the agents and wire the other hundred to my son in Kiev.’
‘You have a son?’
‘Yes. He’s five. Are you helping me or not?’
Wasn’t this what Prashant’s wife had asked of me once when he had slipped and fallen while trying to hit her after a drunken brawl?
‘Help Vid. He’s your friend.’
‘No, he’s not. I’ve just been carrying him around for the last forty years.’
Anne stared at me but I couldn’t make out her face.
‘You want to fak me, ok you can fak me. With the two hundred dollars. But help him.’ She started pulling at his hand again.
‘I go where he goes, I drink what he drinks, I love who he loves. He’s got a wife, kids, girlfriends … you … these other tall blondes and … and I need to carry him? No, I don’t want to fu#k you. But neither will he.’
I yanked Prashant’s small dark frame and put his arms around my shoulder.
We tottered out like Vikram Betaal.
It's the first time, the last time we ever met-met-met
But I know the reason why you keep this silence up
No you don't fool me
The hurt doesn't show, but the pain still grows
It's no stranger to you and me
‘In the Air tonight’ was still playing in my head when I hailed a taxi. The drums were getting so loud that I could barely hear the driver.
*
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