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The bright red sari with chamki all over is set off by the sharply contrasted parrot green choli with heavy mirror work. The cheap imitation jewellery and glass bangles jangle in rhythm with silver anklets as her feet tap in gay abandon. Her kajal runs in streaks down her cheeks caked with powder and cheap rouge. She looks gaudy, she looks crass, she looks the harlot she is. But today, she looks happy, carefree.
It is well past midnight but Menoka and her friends have just begun with the festivities. While she entertains all and sundry 364 nights a year, she would sing and dance to her heart’s content just this one night. It is the 30th of the Bengali month of Kartik. "The world knows about Durga Puja in Bengal. But in the red-light area, things are different. We work for a living long after decent women have called it a day. Long after the bhadralok (genteel folk) have had their festivities — Dasehra and Diwali, we celebrate our very own Kartik Puja," says Amit Das with pride in voice. This is the biggest and most important festival in the red light areas of West Bengal. Kartik Thakur, they hope, will transform their barren life and finally emancipate them. The beating of drums and plaintive peals of shehnai lead you to a comparatively modest little altar set up in a shabby courtyard. The preparation begins weeks in advance. People of a cluster of brothels decide among themselves who the fortunate hostess of the Puja will be — the hostess usually knows nothing of this since she is rarely consulted. In the early hours of the 30th of the Bengali month of Kartik (sometime around mid-November), one of the local boys sneaks up to the door of the chosen hostess, who is usually fast asleep, and leaves an idol of Kartik at her doorstep. The honoured hostess is usually a childless sex worker on the wrong side of fertility and pining for a child. Some sex workers believe that by looking upon Kartik as their child, they find an outlet for their pent-up maternal feelings. Some others believe they might actually be blessed with a child. A few look upon him as a potential father for their child. This is ironic, since Kartik himself is considered impotent. Once the sex worker finds that she has been chosen hostess for her divine, she makes hasty preparations for the festivities. Feasting, accompanied by liquor, is a must. Often, a single day’s celebration can run into several thousands of rupees. While the lunch served is an elaborate meal, the real celebrations begin after sunset. Even clients are offered special treatment — who knows, one may turn out to be the father of the child that the sex worker has been pining for! "Since it is a special festival for us, we can often persuade our clients to be extra generous. Many of them come prepared with alcohol and gifts. In fact, some of them would love to father a child on this night," admits Shefali. "Since this business is all about exploitation, and who should know this better than us, every one grabs every opportunity to make that little extra money." The festival is something they all look forward to. "This is my son`85 Two months after I was made hostess, I found him abandoned by another young sex worker. So I took him as the answer to my prayers and have named him Kartik" says Sunita, pushing a shy four-year-old in front. The loudspeakers blare all night spouting Hindi film songs, while Madames and novices, children and grownups, pimps and Babus, clients and relatives join in the revelry. "Most nights we drink and entertain our clients, but without any sense of pleasure or participation. Even though it is business, it is also pleasure, for once," says Rupali, sporting the new silver earrings one of her regulars had presented her that night. The one-day festival often extends to two or three days, after which the idol is taken in a procession to the beating of drums and cymbals and immersed in the Ganges. "Our life is hopeless anyway. At least, this gives us something to look forward to. And in our life of make-believe, we have, at least, something that we can call our very own," remarks Shefali, who has been dancing away her blues all night in clothes and jewellery gifted by her clients. As if on cue, Somen Sarkar beats a trendy, deafening beat on the dholak accompanied by his brothers on the shehnai and cymbal, drowning all other sounds and memories. For these two nights, at least, the wretched women of the red-light areas are transported to heaven.
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