Glittering Bodies Dancing

It’s always the acridly sweet smell of shit and matted dust crossing into Hauz Khas village. I once watched a swanky video of how this place was “upgraded”, “given a new life” with the opening of boutiques in the 1990s. It would take four visits to realise that a historic monument stood patiently beyond the zig-zag of bars and cafes; always men calling, always me waving a hand in a resigned no. This place has a peculiar talent to make me feel out of place, tugging at my blouse as I pass tiny glass storefronts with clothes that look so plain, they have to be expensive.

It’s the smell of shit and dust and cigarette smoke wafting through a blistering Friday night. A procession of autos and a parade of glittering people. Shimmering cheekbones, sequined sleeves and the sheen of sweat. Electricity hums under fingernails and in voices calling to each other. I’ve never entered a bar at night; no one has ever bought me a drink. An impromptu plan and my friends and I chuckled, dressed totally un-glittery (all T-shirts and long trousers) wondering if we’d even be let in. One time, they asked for my ID at a packed bar and I slithered away furtively, wondering what it was about me that looked like a child. Of course, they were right. You see, during the daytime — which is all I know of this place — they hold giant menu cards and call out, almost begging you to enter. Even better if you’re a woman. Free shot, free starters, 50% off. Even better if you look as though other men like looking at you. But today, nine p.m. Friday, I see none of that. People aplenty, no reason to call and call and call. 

I scratch at my forearms and dart out to buy a few Ice Bursts. I already have a lighter. An exhale of camaraderie while I linger outside with the uniformed men and women. Faded logos on their chests and fatigue presses down on their limbs. Long day, I suppose, long night ahead. Cigarette smoke and the faint smell of standing water. Or sweat. I go back in.

It’s hard not to ogle other women like we’re not all in some tacit competition. With every swig of my light beer and nobody’s eyes on me, I feel my frustration boil. But you, I lean into you. The golden light of the club and you, illuminated. The stumble of small talk. We know each other. Acquaintances, friends, or whatever it means when you later reassure me, but I noticed you back then, too. Your hand gently rubbing my knee, making its way to my thigh. Your cheek and lips grazed  mine while you whisper into my ears over the loud club music. Whispering, but this was kissing. And I kissed you back with each silly sentence passing across your soft earlobes.

There are no female shopkeepers occupying the shit-stink air outside, only female waitresses that weave indoors through the night, jaws exhausted from smiling and nodding and complying. I look down to the dance floor. Bodies contort in ritual and drink. I envy their freedom. I want to dance but I want your attention more. I look around at all the pretty girls with their knobby spines, the soft crook under their knees, the curve where chin and ear meet, pecked and rubbed by men of various shapes, sizes, and ages. I turn to you and smile, forgetting which of us spoke last, and try to giggle it off. 

When we step out to buy more cigarettes, your hand presses softly against my back. Hauz Khas village, it says on Google Maps. My parents taught me that villages sleep early and rise with the sun but it’s midnight and inebriated laughter rings through the smog. Given a new life. We light a cigarette each and sit on the broken pavement. I can’t explain to you why my eyes start watering. The fear of looking unsexy or worse, looking like this means something to me, paralyses my throat. So, I don’t say anything and go on watching the ones who won’t be dancing tonight. The auto drivers with grimy towels and wired earphones slung around their necks. The dogs with tails that flick away sticky flies. The tapri wala who averts his eyes when he sees me and I sober up momentarily. Does he regard me with contempt? 

Not one sober soul looks amused on this street. Bearing witness to gaggles of glittering people — hair sticks to temples, sequins fall off, eyes sparkle with drunk bluster — every weekend. Women in the arms of men, hitching their dresses down their thighs, staggering after a night in heels. Their beauty, the halo that protects them and the liability that whips lascivious eyes around. My face gets hot again and I realise this is fury. To glitter is to costume yourself. I hate how I scrutinise every woman and then pray for her to get home safe. I hate the short skirts, the plunging necklines, the sultry makeup, and I hate this bilious envy within me. I hate how it feels as though the men are allowed to be ugly. No short skirts for them.

My ears are ringing from the music when I ask you to repeat yourself. Do you want to go to my place? Two mattresses pushed together on your sad little floor. A creaky AC but it worked well enough for you to suavely pour the blanket over us and ask me, aren’t I cosy and isn’t it so cold and don’t I want to stay the night? You say that word many times. Stay, stay, stay. Between kisses down my neck and devotional caresses of my breasts. I catch myself staring at the diffuse blue light peeking through your curtained windows. Indoors in the quiet, I tell myself, this is the irreverent, unmistakable fruit of being chosen. Tonight, I was bought a drink.

You love this body, don’t you? You love how my flesh spills out of your fingers, grabbing tight like you want to own me. You love my body, don’t you? This excuse for your wantonness. But I wanted you so bad. Bad enough to keep going, keep going deaf, and I learn to laugh away protest into silence. I learn to believe I liked it.

I leave your room every time I shut my eyes. I trace backwards into the night.

We sat in the Uber, its red tail lights dim. The one a.m. Delhi night passed us by and your arm snaked down my leg, your fingers tracing my freshly waxed calves. The only words we exchange with this man were four digits of an OTP and scanner hai, bhaiya?, then a curt thank you. He watches us kiss and I fear he hates me. I want to tell him I am not a bad woman.

When I refuse you enough, you finally let me go. You let me take a cab all alone at four a.m. I am glad to have you walk me downstairs to the car at least. I close my eyes and think of all the women I’ve prayed home safe. Do their bodies feel as battered as mine?

I think of my mother. All I’ve known of her is a battered body. I’ve never asked her if she’s gone dancing with her girlfriends, closed her eyes in someone else’s bed to float away or walked home at four a.m. A pang of guilt because I cannot imagine this of her. I try to slake off the hate rising up again like I wash away your spit along my skin. What does it matter? 

My body is supple and plenty. I am let in through the line. Enjoy your night, ladies. With the gravity of time, my curves will smoothen out. I will fall into anonymity on every street. My sharp attunement to strangers’ perception of me will wither and gather dust, gradually unused. They’ve made me afraid of growing old after rendering it synonymous with growing invisible.

I’ll remember you by the Delhi night in September, all muggy air and lazy mosquitoes. The whimpers we stifled on your shitty mattress. Stay, stay, stay. Your bargains in response to every no I dared to speak. Why be afraid of growing old when this is what my glittering body gets me tonight?

You asked me what I was thinking about sitting on the pavement, my eyes turning redder with each drag. Here it is: I’m thinking of the people who lived here before. I discover ruins and cafes but never them. 

Instead, I turned to you and smiled, everything feels so beautiful.