My Password

It should’ve been a few minutes past ten in the evening and before marching into ‘The Whoof!!’, a reasonably good Mujra in East London, Kuppi, Kuttappayi and I must have had a few rounds of drinks and quite a few tequila shots from a nearby pub. I could feel the fire coming up from my stomach and the heat escaping through the exhausts of my nostrils and ears.

‘Elo Mate!! How aaaa youuu?’ I burped at the security guard at the entrance of the Mujra.  He searched me thoroughly before giving an all-clear signal.
‘I have a gun. You wanna see?’ I kept my fingers on the zip of my jeans.
‘Fuck off!’ came the reply and I happily accompanied my friends up the stairs to reach the club.

We weren’t shown a table because unlike a strip club nobody ushers you to a table here. The reason is that in a Mujra, the management do not expect a crowd, who know how to mind their own business and confine all the trouble within the limits of their own table.

To the people who haven’t visited a Mujra yet – It’s not like any club. There would be an elevated stage or a dance floor at the centre usually built in the shape of an amoeba. Unlike a strip-club, there are no poles. A few girls (some look good, others don’t), all dressed up in Indian costumes would be dancing with the rhythm of fast moving Bollywood music. Most girls are not Indians and they do not speak any of the Indian languages but they do dance hours together better than any Bollywood actors you might have seen.

Wherever you sit, a girl or two may come to dance near you. If you show that you’re paying attention and enjoy watching her, you would need to pay her (usually £5) at the end of every song. Unlike what you see in movies, nobody throws any money at them as the currency notes are very costly in this country. If you choose to throw coins instead, a £1 coin is pretty heavy that you can easily hurt anyone with it.

There would be colourful laser beams and lightings flashing across the tables on the girls. You wouldn’t be served alcohol on your table. You pay and get them at the counter. You can request your preferred song to the DJ who sits in a corner with his Mac book. And remember… Absolutely No Touching!!! You’re at the wrong place if want to touch the girls. This place is only to make you feel that you’re Vivek Oberoi for sometime and that you’re doing “Beedi Jalaile”* with Bipasha Basu.

Half an hour into the pub, Kuppi and I were on the stage dancing along two beautiful girls. Again that is not allowed in a Mujra. Only the girls dance. The ambience, the stupid dance moves and the cheering customers (cheerleader was Kuttapayi) let the management close an eye on it for sometime.

After half a dozen songs, Kuttapayi requested the song ‘Kajra Re Kajra Re…’ from the movie Bunty aur Babli. A girl opted to dance between us and 2 mins into the song…

“…
Aaja Tute Na Tute Na Aangdai
Ho Meri Angdai Na Tute Tuu Aaja
Ho Meri Angdai Na Tute Tuu Aaja
Kajra Re Kajra Re Kajra…
…”

…Kuppi accidently stepped off the edge of the dance floor, stumbled and on fell on Kuttappayi. Kuttapayi (weighs at least 100kgs and intoxicated) who could barely stand fell into the lap of a customer who was sleeping on his chair. Scarred and lost in the sea of alcohol he jumped out of the chair and pushed the table in front of him. A bouncer who had come running to get things under control took the impact of the falling table on his toes. The hefty 6 foot guy screamed like a baby. ‘Aaaayyyyyyyyyooooooooo……..’

I laughed and the girl who was dancing with me laughed. I laughed, laughed; I dropped down on my knees and laughed. I laughed until I threw up. I threw up at the girl’s feet. She ran away and I lied down on my puke on the dance floor. I could hear the loud music blaring in my ears. Somebody pulled me by my arms. I threw up again on his hands and my shirt. I tried to get up but my right arm that supported me slipped in my own vomit and I fell on the dance floor again.

Some time might have passed, the lights became dull and the music faded away. I could hear the honking of a car. I remember watching a tube station pass by and a few trees running away from me and then everything faded away.

I woke up due to extreme dryness in my throat. A few hours might have passed; it was still dark but I could see a street light and a signal at a distance. I found myself sleeping on the steps of an HSBC bank. I couldn’t find Kuttappayi anywhere but I saw Kuppi sitting and sleeping against the door. I crawled up and slapped him on his cheeks to wake him up. ‘Daa… Wake up. I need water.’
He groaned without opening his eyes.
I took a quick glance at every corner. It was not a place I knew but the streets made me feel that I was home still in London.
‘Wake up.’ I pulled Kuppi by the collars of his jacket and screamed into his ears. A few minutes might have passed; finally I was successful in waking him up.
‘Do you remember what happened?’ I asked.
‘I remember.’ He replied.
‘What? Tell me.’
‘I remember. My password is JackDaniels123$$’ He dozed off again.

Beedi Jalaile* - a raunchy dance item number from the movie Omkara that hit the charts and continues to be a hot favorite at parties and friendly gatherings.

Meenakshi

Today I reached my Southwark office in London at 7:30AM. I looked at the people down in the street through the plain glass window from my desk. My eyes caught this French girl who was opening and arranging the chairs in front of the Starbucks Coffee shop. And that’s when I thought about my Meenakshi again for the first time in so many years.

It looks like a long time ago now. Bengaluru was Bangalore. There was no Domlur Flyover, no Forum mall and no red Volvo buses to take people around. During the peak hours, I could get from MG Road to Madiwala Masjid in 20 mins on my motorcycle and from Koramangala to Vijayanagar in 35 mins. It was a lovely Bangalore with lots of trees, beautiful roads, fresh air and mist in the early morning. The crowd was happy and content with BMTC buses. A smiling and inviting face of an autorickshaw driver was not scarce.

The alarm went off at 6:00AM. I jumped out of my bed and peeped out of the window. She was not there yet; hoping that I haven’t missed her, I waited.

Murugan who owned a small tea shop across the road was just starting his day. He cleaned the tables, swept the floor and washed the utensils. He dusted the items displayed on his counter; arranged and rearranged the packs of toffees and bottles until he felt they all looked good. I waited…

…and there she showed up, my sweetheart, Meenakshi. She looked fresh and sexy after her early morning bath. If you ask me who she was, I would say she was Murugan’s wife’s youngest sister. I knew nothing else about her. The fact is that I never wanted to.

I flung open the two doors of my window and pulled the chair nearer. I stretched my legs on the table and opened the day’s news paper and held it in front of my face. I looked over it watching every move Meenakshi made. I never read the news paper.

Murugan owned a small house with meagre amenities right behind his tea shop. Meenakshi was probably half his age and was the princess of the house.  Everyday morning, after taking bath, she would come out of the house, in front of the tea shop, to dry her long black wet hair. There was no hair dryer. She would make a twist out of her bath towel and would gently pat her hair with it. The patting would continue for 10 to 15 minutes. She would sometimes squeeze the towel and let the excess water go. A few droplets would kiss her beautiful toes and rest caressed her skirt. I envied both.

She knew I was watching her. Occasionally, she would turn her head up for a quick glance at my window which was two stories above, across to road from where she stood. She had this feel-good satisfaction to find me there every time.

She was pretty; the prettiest face I have ever seen in my life. And she had the perfect body, the curves at its best for a girl in her late teenage. She would always wear a davani, a south Indian lady’s wear that decently covered whatever it had to but giving enough room to show me whatever I wanted to see.

Her beautiful brown eyes locked mine at least a dozen times every morning. Sometimes she gave me a smile that hit like an aboriginal arrow deep through my heart and make my day. I would smile at her and pretend to turn my attention into the news paper.

I would walk down to see Murugan a little later to have my morning tea. Mostly, Meenakshi took the liberty to draw the Kolam* while I sat there on a bench drinking my tea. As she bent down and drew, I would superimpose the blueprint of her curves and her bosom, new ones above the old, in my mind and heart.

I never asked her anything and neither did she. We only talked through smiles, eyes and body gestures. I knew she was interested in me because I still remember the day she looked upset over a minor thing. A colleague of mine, a girl, picked me up in her car one evening. Meenakshi didn’t smile at me for two days and she even abandoned drawing the kolam. The next time when she did, she didn't look at me or at the window. I found it funny but very comforting.

One day, I decided to break the ice. Thought I would ask her something… but what? What her name was? She knew that I knew her name because she’d been called home inside many times while I sipped the hot tea. I’ll ask her out, I decided. She may decline my offer but I didn't care.

I took the day off. That afternoon I sat on my motorcycle under a very big rain tree, 100 meters away from Murugan’s tea shop. The shade under the tree was perfect and romantic. To reach home after her college, Meenakshi had to walk past this tree, past me, from where she got down the BMTC bus.

The timing was perfect. She wasn’t late. The street was empty. I carefully watched every step that she took. No Bollywood actress was a better compare to her beauty. I guess I was smiling all the time and she looked pretty scared.

‘Hello Meenakshi!’ She was only a few feet away from me when I said that.  She didn’t look at me. She kept her right hand on her heart, took a deep breath and ran away, into her home. I was upset.

I couldn’t get a proper sleep that night. I couldn’t think about anything else other than having coffee with Meenakshi. I decided to try it once again. The next afternoon, I met her again under the same rain tree.

‘Meenakshi!’

‘Yes?’ She lifted her eyes for a moment to see mine. She was worried if someone would find us.

‘Why did you run away yesterday? Are you scared of me?’ I smiled.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would you like to have a coffee with me?’

‘What?’

‘Coffee?’

‘When?’ She almost whispered after a long pause.

‘Anytime you like. How about tomorrow afternoon after your college? I’ll see you in front of the Indira Nagar Methodist Church.’

‘Tomorrow is Friday, I don’t have college. Monday should be fine.’

‘OK.’

She walked away giving me a smile and I was probably the happiest man on earth.

I showed up in office next day and in the very first hour I was told that there was an urgent onsite requirement and that I am travelling to London over the weekend. I was the only guy who had a valid work-permit and the requirement was for a long term. It was a career opportunity I had been longing for and I’ll be making quite a lot of GBPs. I wouldn’t be coming back soon. I dreamt about walking along the River Thames about which I had read in many books. I didn’t think twice, I got all paper work and approvals done.

My manager and my colleagues waved me goodbye that evening. I rang home and shared the good news. Everyone was happy. I drank with my friends at Sparks that evening. The next day, I woke up late and missed my routine of peeping through the window.  I didn’t bother. I went shopping all day and got everything setup to travel the next day morning.

All packed and I checked my passport and flight ticket. I would have to reach the airport in a few hours to board the flight scheduled at 3:00AM, Sunday morning, to fly me out of Bangalore, away from Meenakshi. I was vacating my room and would never peep out of this window again. I took one last look out of the window into the street. It was all empty. Murugan had closed the shop and had left for the day.

I dragged my luggage down the stairs into the boot of the waiting cab. I looked at Meenakshi’s house. She would be fast asleep, probably dreaming about having coffee with me. I couldn’t say good bye to her. I would be miles away by the time she woke up. She would wait for me in front of the Methodist Church on Monday and I wouldn’t show up. The next morning she wouldn’t come out to dry her hair or would skip two days of drawing the ‘Kolam’ to express her anger. And when her anger had gone down, she may expect to see me at the window with the news paper in my hands.

I looked at my window, a quick glance to see how it looked to Meenakshi’s eyes. The window was closed. The next time it opened, there would probably be another bloke peeping out to watch Meenakshi dry her hair, to admire her curves. Did I care? No, I didn’t. I got into the cab and in a few minutes I was gone.

* Kolam - a tradition followed by Hindus, mostly in South India; a drawing done by female members of the family using rice powder in front of their home.