“Arre, aaja, aaja. Idhar toh aaja.” Women in bright colour-draped sarees, in rosy red lipstick, and well-kept hair casually stood in front of dilapidated doors, whose paint had washed off.
I sheepishly dug my hands deep into the pocket of my baggy jeans and adjusted my black cap, which held my long hair in a tight bun, disguising myself as a boy. I kept walking on a sunny winter day in the heart of New Delhi’s Red Light District, GB Road.
What was I thinking?
How did I get there?
Would I walk on those streets again? Maybe…
Life is about experiences. I never thought my spontaneous experiment would turn into a story I would write about.
My curiosity about GB Road made me borrow an oversized shirt, a baggy pair of jeans, a black cap, and a jacket from my roommate. I felt I could pull off this James Bond act of mine if I dressed as a boy.
My roommate suddenly transformed into a self-makeup artist. She did her best to disguise me as a boy, but still not entirely convinced, I decided to wear a face mask. Also, due to COVID-19, the mask was normalised as an accessory.
You should never take uncalculated risks, they say! So before diving into the sea, I tested the water by travelling in a metro. I hopped into the general compartment of the metro from Bhikaji Cama Place to Chandni Chowk.
After approximately 35 minutes of my metro journey, I reached my destination – GB Road. Did you know that GB Road’s name was officially changed to Swami Shradhanand Marg in 1966? But even today, it’s popularly known as GB Road.
So I walked into the not-so-narrow bylanes, where buildings were squashed together on either side of the road. I noticed that passersby were staring at me. Was my identity revealed? I kept touching my cap, ensuring my bun was still well hidden. The gaze made my walk uncomfortable, but I was warned about all this before coming here. I gathered all my emotions and decided to continue with Mission GB Road.
It was a regular business for the hardware store owners. I saw women peeping out of their windows from the upper floors. Some were leaning over the railings, and their hand gestures suggested an amount—F.I.V.E. I assumed they were referring to their rate. I kept treading ahead; I let out a squeak of excitement as my disguised work.
As I kept walking and looking around, a group of women suddenly held my hand and pulled me in. “Arre saath mein aaja. Ek Baar toh aaja.” I tried shrugging them away; I was afraid if they touched or pulled me too tightly, my identity would be revealed. I shook my head and managed to slip away. I took quicker steps. But as I walked faster, I heard one of them yell, “Ladki hai kya ye?” (Is she a girl?).
Little ahead, after I calmed my throbbing heart and jokingly told myself, “Aal Izz Well”.
I met a rickshaw driver nearby and, in my best deep, manly voice, I asked, “Uncle, yaha kya ho raha hai?” (What is happening here?). He replied, “Beta, yeh safe jag nahi hai.” (Son, this is not a safe place. You should not roam around).”
This was my cue to go home. Though I carried my phone, I couldn’t take any photos. However, all the images are clear in my head, etched in my memory.
Maybe, someday, I’ll go again. And maybe this time- I’ll be me when I do go.
