A Social Chameleon

THE familiar smell of cigarette smoke wafted down in greeting, as Aryan climbed the stairs to the second floor of Leopold's Café in Colaba. Behind him, the doorman attempted to control the mob that had gathered, impatiently waiting and hoping to be granted entry. It was so packed inside that people were milling around in the stairwell. Bodies also lined the black-and-white chequered walls, and occupied the matching black-and-white chequered chairs. The crowd was diverse. Foreigners, Indians, upper class and middle class all mixed together. The year was 1990. Leopold's had evolved into one of the most fashionable bars in Bombay, as it was still called then.

Aryan edged his way through the masses to the DJ cabin, located behind the bar that bordered one side of the room.

‘How's everything?’ he smiled and acknowledged the bar staff, as they poured his usual pint of draught beer.

Joining the existing DJ behind the console, Aryan started flicking through the rows of cassette tapes stacked all around the cabin. He pulled out a tape of the Bee Gees. Not wanting to lose the energetic vibe the DJ had created, he chose to open his set with ‘Stayin’ Alive’. Retro and rock were extremely popular then. Bollywood music was still unheard of in clubs.

After putting on his headphones, Aryan slotted the tape into the cassette player. Holding down the play and rewind buttons together, he listened through the headphones for the brief silence that would indicate the end of each track. Having found the desired one, Aryan took out the tape, rewound it a little with a pencil, and placed it back in the player. It was now queued up and ready. When a break came towards the end of the current track, he stopped it and pressed play on the other cassette holder. The short but unavoidable gap in the music was enough to send the crowd screaming with longing.

Despite the crowd's enthusiasm for the music, DJing was a little known profession and certainly not a respected one. Most people associated it with seedy dance bars, where women provocatively entertained men while they drank.

There were only half a dozen reputable nightspots in the city, and barely as many DJs. Cellar at the Oberoi Hotel and 1900s at the Taj Palace were the main playgrounds of the city's privileged. The Indian economy, however, was on the brink of a revolution. The License Raj, an elaborate licence and regulation system that restricted free enterprise in India, had just been abolished. The result would produce a rapid mushrooming of chic bars and clubs in Mumbai over the forthcoming decade.

By 1995, the transformation was well under way. A growing western influence was felt, and themed venues with creative concepts were opening up across the city. An international artist had remixed an old Hindi song, spearheading the Bollywood music craze. The track was a huge hit. DJs played it over and over again to appreciative audiences. Local DJs started remixing Hindi songs and people began to take note of DJing as a profession. The nightclub culture also spread to other cities in India. Kolkata's first real disco, called Anticlock, opened up at the Hotel Hindustan International. Aryan left Mumbai to work there. When he temporarily returned to Mumbai in 2000, the city's nightlife was almost unrecognisable.

From dusk until dawn, any night of the week, pubs and nightclubs overflowed with people. The whole city seemed to be partying. Lofty industrial warehouses had been transformed into upmarket nightclubs. Standalone superclub Fire ’n’ Ice dominated the scene. The DJs there introduced trance music to Mumbai and the clubbers embraced it. New nightspots were opening up every month and loyalties were fickle. Older establishments were forced to either reinvent themselves or go out of business.

The crowd had also changed. Call-centre employees with generous paycheques became regulars on the party circuit. There were pubs and clubs to cater for everyone. College hangouts, such as Waves and Madness, were open from the afternoon. It was common to see drunken youngsters congregating in front of their entrances.

The way that DJing was perceived had also dramatically altered by 2000. With Bollywood remixes skyrocketing in popularity, DJing had become associated with the Bollywood film industry. DJs regularly attended celebrity events and appeared in newspapers alongside celebrities. Everyone wanted to become a DJ. Schools quickly sprang up to meet the rising demand. This new generation of DJs came from rich and influential families who supported their career choice. The proliferating number of DJs meant that there were more of them than there were jobs, so it was essential to be well connected in the industry. Mumbai's older generation of DJs either retired, reinvented themselves along with the clubs or diversified into music production.

I sampled Mumbai's nightlife for the first time in 2002, at the nightclub of the moment called Athena. Hidden down a dusty back lane in Colaba, it had succeeded in drawing the moneyed crowd away from Fire 'n’ Ice. The prohibitive 1000-rupee cost of admission (equivalent to around $30 or twenty curries at a family restaurant) per couple or single – for those unfortunate enough not to have a partner – made it a selective, ritzy and glitzy world. A world that was palpably surreal.

Inside, I was surprised to find myself in a place of minimalist décor and almost devoid of the usual Indian peculiarities. Except for the haze of Indian faces, bouncers and bar staff resplendent in bow ties, and Bollywood music scattered through the classic Euro trance, the nightclub could have been anywhere in the world. Stepping out from the club's slick interior and onto the road where the homeless slept, however, served as a glaring reminder of where I really was. It was India at her most extreme.

Athena later metamorphosed into Prive, an even more exclusive members' only club with an annual membership fee of almost 100,000 rupees ($2500). But those who look like they belong inside may still be granted entry if they can flash imported American designer jeans, watches, shoes and belts. And the ladies? Forget jeans. In Mumbai, glamorous women wear the shortest of dresses and highest of heels, and carry designer handbags and notable males as accessories.

When I moved to Mumbai, I quickly learned that Athena wasn't the only thing about the city's nightlife that had changed in five years. No longer was Mumbai the city that never slept. In fact, come midnight and it was beginning to yawn. A 1.30 a.m. curfew had been introduced, forcing bars and clubs that weren't part of luxury hotels to close early. It was the start of a move that would be repeated across India.

While India had broken free of the economic constraints of the License Raj, the country was still held back by stringent social constraints. Mumbai's burgeoning nightlife had become accessible to more people, but it didn't reflect the conservative views of traditional middle-class India. Politicians saw it as a great opportunity to appeal to the masses of middle-class voters. And thus, curfews were born.

Nowhere is the dual India so starkly revealed than in social situations. I was caught between extremes, requiring a schizophrenic modification of the way I behaved depending on the occasion. I felt relaxed in India's clubs and lounge bars. I'd also been at ease at the upper-class parties in Kolkata, with their distinctly western ways. Men and women openly interacted and chatted in English over glasses of alcohol. When the food was served, everyone helped themselves and ate together.

The common standard of conduct of India's middle class is entirely different however. At gatherings in middle-class homes, men and women tended to remain segregated. The women carry out their conventional responsibilities of cooking and waiting on the men. Hindi or other regional dialects are the main languages. If any alcohol is consumed, it will be by the men only.

I was honoured to be invited into the homes of Aryan's family and their friends, who openly and curiously welcomed me, but it was often an uncomfortable experience for me. I found it unnatural to be relegated into the domain of the women, where I floundered without Aryan's support. Usually, it was because of my inability to hold a conversation and understand everything that was being said in Hindi. Although I enjoyed being among everyone's happy and animated interactions, a lot of the time I could do little more than sit there and dumbly smile. Nevertheless, I respected and willingly abided by the customs. More than anything, I wanted to adapt to the culture and fit in.

One night, lifelong friends of Aryan's sister Maliha and her husband invited us to their apartment for a seafood dinner. I had promised I'd be there. They were a kind and gracious couple whom I genuinely liked. When the night arrived, I felt unwell. I wanted to go to dinner, but I didn't want to leave the cosy cocoon of our apartment and be confronted by the chaos outside. Not wanting to disappoint anyone, I made the effort to attend. Although I didn't regret it, halfway through the night I wanted to run away and jump on the first plane to Melbourne. I felt so lonely and like I didn't belong there.

As soon as we arrived, I was called into the kitchen with the other women while the men remained in the living room. Dinner was yet to be cooked, so the women set about preparing the trays of fish and prawns that were laid out on the bench.

‘Kyaa bana rahe hain? (What are you making?)’ I asked the lady of the house, trying to attempt conversation.

She happily chatted to me. Being a Maharastran, Hindi wasn't her first language either, so we shared something in common as we lurched along. Since I had to be in the kitchen, I decided to learn as much as possible about the cooking. I could only remain in there a short time though.

Despite the open window, as the fish was fried, the kitchen soon became hot and smoky. There wasn't a rangehood to remove the fumes. I gasped for breath, as my eyes stung and sweat began to blanket my face. At that very moment, the man of the house started serving beer to the male guests.

‘You'll have?’ he encouraged me.

I was surprised. Obviously aware of the western way of life, he wanted me to be at ease and enjoy myself. Appreciating his thoughtfulness, I yearned to accept his offer and indulgently grab the beer from his hands.

‘No, nahin chahiye (No, it's not needed),’ I instead replied. Knowing that the women didn't drink, I felt compelled to decline. This was confirmed by Maliha, who shook her head as I looked questioningly across at her.

Soon, the heat drove me out of the kitchen. It wouldn't have been appropriate for me to join the men, so I was shown into another living room. There I spent half an hour alone while the women tended to dinner and the men. Most of the time, I spent gazing out the window and into other people's apartments. Groups of men sat lounging around in singlets and shorts, watching TV. I appreciated that it was a rare opportunity for me to observe people and not be observed in return.

After a while, I began to feel sorry for myself. I missed the uninhibited ease of my social life at home. I missed free-flowing conversation, where I wasn't limited to understanding only 25 per cent of what was being said and giving one-sentence responses.

The man of the house kept trying to persuade me to have a beer. In India, it's customary to ask again, even if the offer has been turned down the first or even second time.

‘Take it,’ Maliha finally said to me.

Even she had started to feel sorry for me. I declined. Where's the fun in sitting and drinking alone?

I didn't have a bad night. Some parts of it were fun, and I even laughed from time to time. For most of it, I just felt very, very lost.

I confronted Aryan when we got home. ‘Why didn't you be more helpful and supportive towards me? Why couldn't you have come to check on me and be with me?’

‘I thought you were fine in the kitchen with the women. Plus, the serving of food started early and it would have been rude for me to get up and leave the room. Just like you feel obligated to behave how the women do, I also feel obligated to behave how the men do, especially when elders are around. That means staying with the men. Did you notice how none of them left the room?’

‘But I wasn't feeling well! And I can't hold a conversation in Hindi, let alone Marathi, which they were also speaking! How could I be okay?’ I shouted at him, distressed.

Sometimes I just wanted to throw aside good Indian manners. And, sometimes I thought Aryan didn't realise all the sacrifices I'd made for the sake of good Indian manners.

It wasn't only in middle-class homes where mixing with Indian men was an issue. I uncovered further perils when I went with Aryan and one of his male friends to meet a male friend of ours who was visiting from Kolkata. We planned to go out for dinner and stopped by his hotel to collect him. To my surprise, the staff at the front desk objected.

‘Sorry, but you can't go up.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, we're sorry, but we can't allow you to all go up to the room. You'll have to wait here,’ the manager singled me out.

‘What's the problem?’ I inquired.

Our friend was paying over 3000 rupees per night for his hotel room. Yet, he wasn't allowed to have other people in his room for five minutes?

‘We are sorry madam, but it's the rules.’

Ah, the rules.

‘Well, show me where it's written then.’

Dealing with India's daily quirks had continued to bolster my assertiveness, but it was an assertiveness that stemmed from irritation and injustice. I argued when there was no adequate explanation for the way things were. I became mad when there was no consistency from day to day. In the end, I blatantly defied anything that wasn't defensible in this country of contradictions.

The staff failed to produce any explanation as to why I wasn't allowed in the room, so I proceeded to go up. They did nothing to stop me.

‘Jason, do you know what a fight I had to go through to get into your room?’ I greeted him, jumping on his bed.

Seeing him brought back memories of how much fun we'd all had in Kolkata. After I explained what happened, he was so annoyed that he went straight down to the lobby and scolded the staff for their indiscretion.

It left me wondering what must have taken place in the past for the hotel to introduce such a rule. Could it be that I appeared to be a foreign prostitute, going to the room with a group of Indian guys? A further incident sometime later confirmed that it was indeed the case.

Ash, another friend of Aryan's, who used to work with him at Anticlock in Kolkata, visited from Delhi. He had become part of a prominent Indian electronic dance music group. He had a DJ gig at a nightclub in Mumbai. After it was over, Aryan and I headed back to his hotel room, along with his brother, to continue the party. Three Indian men and me. I had an idea of what was coming.

Just as the night manager behind the reception desk was about to protest, Ash intervened.

‘This is my brother, and this guy is like a brother to me,’ he said pointing to Aryan. ‘And this is his wife. I haven't seen them for a long time. The room was booked for me by the event organisers, so please don't let there be a problem.’

‘Okay, okay, go up. Everything is fine,’ the manager conceded with a smile and a wobble of his head.

As we moved towards the elevator, we were intercepted by a tubby male hotel guest who'd been lingering in the lobby. He beckoned Ash to go outside with him.

A minute later, Ash came back, enraged.

‘He wanted to know if she was a prostitute and where he could get one like her. I nearly punched him,’ Ash referred to me, as he spat in anger.

It turned out that the tubby Indian guy had an Indian prostitute and intended to take her to his hotel room. Obviously, he thought a white one would be better.

Was that how it really looked to most people? Why else would a white girl be with a group of Indian men? I wasn't doing anything wrong by western standards but in India it looked extremely suspicious. The thought lingered even when the room-service waiters entered the room. I wanted to hide myself away from assuming eyes.

Two things brought a dose of normality into my life in Mumbai: Sunday brunches and sunset parties on Juhu Beach. Lazy Sunday brunches had become a huge craze in Mumbai, with many upmarket restaurants and hotels offering unlimited buffet and drink deals. My favourite venue was Vie Deck and Lounge, right on the Juhu beachfront with a panoramic view straight out to the water. I loved it as a substitute for picnics by the bay in Melbourne, and for the indulgent sense of escapism that it gave me. We sat under a huge white umbrella, breathing in the salty air and looking out to sea. As we kept filling our plates high with Mediterranean food, the waiter kept filling our glasses with wine. My mind was happy to be distracted by this gentle and soothing side to Mumbai.

Late in the afternoon, when lunch was over, we walked along the sand towards Aurus where the regular Sunday Sundown Session would be held. The beach, devoid of the usual bikini-clad sunbathers that could be expected on a western beach, resembled a curious circus scene. Cows roamed freely. Monkeys performed tricks. People frolicked fully clothed in the water and vendors intermingled with the crowd. There were coconut sellers, balloon sellers, a guy with wooden flutes, and women peddling cheap bangles and henna stamps. An artist was hand-crafting a crocodile and scorpion out of sand on the shore. The beach came alive like this every Sunday.

The sun was close to setting when we arrived at Aurus. A little more seductive in its appeal than Vie, it was decorated with chandeliers and candles, and a canopied bed. The sun lit up the beach in magical hues of orange, purple and red as it set, drawing the crowd to the railing. The music started off chilled and built up as the evening progressed. More and more people poured in; some were people I'd met before, others were new faces I hadn't seen, all of us dancing in the warm night air. The party had started early so it ended early, returning everyone to their beds before the week began. It didn't end in the laidback way that I'd anticipated though.

Waiting in the auto rickshaw at the traffic lights on the way home, I saw a familiar shape approach. The peace in my head was about to be invaded. It was a beggar woman and she was fixated on me. I sighed. The last thing I wanted was for such an enjoyable outing to end with harassment.

‘Abhi nahin (Not now),’ I tried to discourage her politely.

It had no effect.

‘Madam, madam,’ she continued, tapping my leg with her dirty hand and revealing a disfigured limb. The sight moved me a little, but irritated me more. If my skin was brown, in this patriarchal Indian society she would be asking Aryan for money, not me. There was no point in giving her anything anyway. Beggars worked in gangs in Mumbai, with all the earnings going to the leader before being distributed.

‘Bas! Mujse paisa nahin milega (Enough! You won't get money from me),’ I spoke more forcefully.

She responded with further moaning and tapping. Any sympathy that I had felt was now replaced by anger. I can deal with beggars' whining, but I get aggravated when they keep poking and prodding for attention.

The auto-rickshaw driver also told her to stop. He moved the rickshaw forward a little. She refused to give up.

‘Naraaz mat karo! (Don't irritate me!)’ I warned, before turning away to ignore her. No longer able to reach my leg, she started tapping me on the head. The line was crossed and I finally cracked. The alcohol that I'd consumed made my mind blur.

‘Didn't I tell you not to? Now get lost and leave me alone!’ I screamed at her in English and harshly slapped her away. I reached a new low – I'd hit a beggar.

‘I can't stand this,’ I howled to Aryan. ‘Why can't you protect me from it all? You should have stopped her from bothering me. I just want one day of peace.’

Aryan, on the other hand, couldn't understand why I was so upset. He was, no doubt, just as horrified by my behaviour as I was.

He had no idea how it felt to be constantly stared at, questioned, hassled and even mistaken for a prostitute because of how I looked. I faced the same hurdles that other foreigners did, but I lacked the protective barrier of being able to wind up my car window, closet myself away in a plush apartment and console myself that I was above it all. I didn't aspire to live like that. I had chosen to be with an Indian man, and to make India my home. I wanted to feel like I was a part of India. But India, and the way people treated me, made it difficult for me to do so at times.

At my home, the neighbours eagerly awaited my presence with their door open. Even if I dressed like an Indian, talked like an Indian and behaved like an Indian my skin colour kept giving me away. Those who saw me would most likely think that I was just another foreigner in India, perhaps an expat on a well-paying contract, or the wife of an expat on a well-paying contract.

In Kolkata and most other places in India, I'd lived a foreigner's life. I felt like a foreigner, my friends were foreigners and we mostly behaved like foreigners. All that had changed now. I lived among Indians, without a foreigner in sight. I made an effort to adopt Indian customs and dress in Indian clothes where necessary. I didn't have either the money or luxuries that foreigners did, and sadly no longer felt like I had much in common with them. I lived my life in a way that was often impossible for them to understand and appreciate. I couldn't blame them either. I often found my life difficult to understand too.

I struggled to find my identity and where I belonged in Mumbai. Just as how there are many extremes to India, I felt like I was living extreme, multiple lives but didn't fully fit any of them. As tourists looked for the ‘real India’, I looked for the ‘real me’. I was determined to adapt. Perhaps the secret was not trying to be Indian, but rather, an Indian version of me. Just as the ‘real India’ had many facets, I needed to recognise that there could also be many facets of the ‘real me’ as well.