Mihir was used to the glances. He walked into the mist of the
bar. Inhaling every moment, every sigh. “We want more of that,” the
bureaucrat snarled. Mihir fluttered his lashes at him and went on to sit
atop his lap. His faux fur in pink lightly touched the man’s eyes, lips… and
all of a sudden, Mihir startled the man by pulling him in to a lip lock.
Mihir laughed, then demurely pushed him aside, straightened
his wig and walked on to the stage. The fat man could do nothing but wish he
was more alert and had savored the kiss just a little more. A few others tried
to pat their laps in anticipation that Mihir would mount them.
But no. He had no such plans. Mihir looked like an angel in
disguise and he knew it. The audience roared. Mihir, as light as a cat, sprang
onto the stage and took his position next to the pole, in one svelte move and
classily draped the fur over his shoulder. He then arched himself around the
pole, in another deft move to softly skateboard his body across the floor,
lifting his toe up at the end in poise.
Another round of applause, hoots and whistles echoed through
the room. How he loved the attention. He looked at each man who in turn eyed
him with hunger. They lifted their beer mugs to him and started ramming on
their tables. A noisy bunch, concluded
Mihir.
There were important men sitting there – business executives,
bureaucrats and top officials from various companies. They cheered him to
continue his act and Mihir was only there to please. He tormented each man
sitting there until they cried out in want. The speaker was belting out
"chikni chameli" and Mihir danced to its tunes, first demurely, then
a little bashfully and then cocooned himself again into the mystic form, one
that men could never get enough of. There was marijuana, liquor and smoke
flowing through the air and most were inhaling a concoction of
god-knows-what.
A couple of boy artistes joined Mihir on stage and he pulled
out his whip. He lashed the boys as they surrendered to him and behaved at his
will. Mihir laughed. He felt every bit the part of a performer enthralling his
audience. In fact he was doing things to his audience that made them the act.
He could see a few men kissing each other, someone shagging in the corner and
men crying like kids to get more – and more of the piece.
As the act drew to a close, most men were done – really done
and out. Some had to be escorted out by the bouncers to waiting cabs, the rest
were packed off in their saloons and sedans.
Mihir bowed after the final song and blew out kisses to the
men, who were no longer conscious of where they were. He went backstage, walking like a wild cat
that has beaten its prey. There was a bag full of money waiting for him,
stashed in by the contented men in stupor. This was Mihir’s tip for the night.
He zipped up the bag, a few notes stuck or tearing in the zipper.
He then sat at his table staring at the long mirror – at his
own reflection. He carefully removed his wig, the lashes and lenses. Unknown to
him, a black tear started from the corner of his eyes, down his face – to be
joined by more, smudging his small white face. He didn’t pay it much attention.
He wiped it with a cleanser in soft round motions and kept staring at what he
saw of him.
His beautiful eyes looked back without blinking and he saw
the soft edges of his face, his elegant neck, and the rounded shoulders that
could never flare. He undid his croquette top and the tight leather skirt as
they obediently fell to his feet. He lifted his left arm gracefully, and stood
up on his toes poised like a ballerina. The angel lightly sashayed and swayed
around the vanity room – bare naked. There was no music – at least there
was none to hear. But the dance had rhythm – it had soul. Mihir took strides
around, at first slow, with assured moves of a danseuse and then the tempo in
his mind became faster and faster. He went round in circles, spinning and spinning
– losing sight of space and time- to an inevitable fall.
The vision of beauty sat exhausted after the final act and
pulled out a cigarette. He saw an ethereal vision of a woman in the mirror,
spent. As the smoke enveloped the room, he could see wings of smoke around his
shoulders – a spell of magic. Very dark. Yet so clear.
A beautiful night – he surmised, puffing at the stub.
But as the night turned lighter, a little man awoke from his slumber, ironed out the creased notes, counted them methodically, put on his clothes and stepped out into the day.
