My Grandmother Took Me to the Red Light District
A few days ago, I went to see an old friend in Lahore, Pakistan.
The last time we met was in Israel, 15 years ago, when he was stationed in Tel Aviv by the Red Cross. He waited for me at the airport, while I got interrogated by the Israelis, for four hours (now that’s a true friend.) Then we drove straight to the old city of Jerusalem, and the moment I stepped on the stone-paved street, I fell in love with it. This place has power, it pulls you in. I shot a personal project there, which got me some attention, and I scored an assignment that led to my first book project, and my work got featured in the New York Times. I give all the credit to my friend, because without him this would have never happened. He’s one of my good luck charms.
I wondered what would happen this time, when we meet. He picked me up, and we drove across Lahore. He gave me a brief history of the place (he knew I wasn’t a historian, but I loved listening to the stories of the old days.) When we drove in one of the oldest parts of the city, I remembered I was there once, but it looked completely different then.
When I was 15 years old, Nani (my maternal grandmother) took me to Lahore. On day two, we explored the older parts of the city on foot, and I loved it. Nani was one of most liberal South Asian women I have ever known in my life. She was Burmese, independent, and well traveled. She inspired me to write, to create art, and to always tell the truth. I wanted to drink Lassi, a popular traditional yogurt-based drink that originated in the Indian Subcontinent. It’s a blend of yoghurt, water, spices and sometimes fruit (there’s also Bhang Lassi, which is infused with cannabis, unfortunately it wasn’t on the menu). Nani asked a few people where we could find the authentic Lahori lassi in the neighborhood, but to her surprise everyone reminded her that the sun was setting, “it’s time for you to go home,” they said. But if you knew my Nani, you would have never said that to her.
“When you’re unsure, follow the music,” Nani said.
We walked towards the south side of the Badshahi Mosque, near the Taxali Gate, and found the shop. We ordered two tall glasses with extra cream on top. The place had a charm, we were surrounded by ancient havelis with colorful balconies lit with diya (oil lamps.) The lassi shop played latest Bollywood songs, but Nani asked the owner to turn it off. “Listen,” Nani pointed at one of the havelis, “that’s classical music from the Mughal empire era,” she said. “I also have Tansen,” the shop owner said. Nani nodded.
Tansen was the legendary Indian musician in the Mughal court, known to bring down rain with his music. A local legend has it that Tansen once stayed in one of those havelis. The owner came to top off our glasses, Nani held back, but he insisted, “it’s our tradition Baji ji,” he smiled.
The music stopped playing in the haveli, but the sound of ghungroos (dancing bells) echoed our ears, and two girls came running out to the balcony. One of the girls prepped a paan (betel leaf with areca nut), and the other one looked at me and Nani. “Hey big boy, I’m so thirsty, let me taste that cream,” she whistled. “Shameless!” the owner shouted. “It’s okay, I don’t mind,” Nani said.
We sat in the red light district of Lahore. Nani told me that they were sex workers, but in older days, a tawaif was a highly successful entertainer who catered to the nobility of the Indian subcontinent, particularly during the Mughal era. The tawaifs excelled in and contributed to music, dance, theatre, and the Urdu literary tradition, and were considered an authority on etiquette. They contributed significantly to the continuation of traditional dance and music forms and then emergence of modern Indian cinema. “But the British messed up everything,” Nani said. “Yes, they turned this place into a whore house,” the owner said. “You still have to respect them,” Nani raised her voice. He wasn’t sure if Nani wanted him to respect the British or the girls in the balcony, so he turned off Tansen, and raised his arms in the air.
My Nani taught me to always question the status-quo, “don’t follow this backward mentality, you were born to be a leader, think for yourself,” she said. Maybe because of Nani I have always had a soft spot for sex workers and the transgender community, especially the ones that are forced into these circles. After traveling around the world, and exploring the underground sex world (I once did an undergrad research project in Southeast Asia about the diverse sexual lifestyles, where I met people in the red light district of eight different countries, and discovered quite a few surprises) Since then, I have had an important realization: people’s attitude towards sex workers tells a lot about the society they live in, the mental capacity of the people they interact with, and how it influences the behavior of their future generation; the children. It’s a vicious cycle, and nobody wants to fuckin’ talk about it.
I told this story to my friend, on the rooftop of an Afghan restaurant, our table was filled with Kabuli Pulao, Afghan kebab, and hot whole wheat naan-e-Afghani, the music played in the background, I drank my lassi, and thought about Nani. “You should meet my cousin,” my friend said, “his film did relatively well at the box office, and is now nominated for some big award, and him also, for best director,” he dipped the kebab in hummus and swirled it with naan-e-Afghani, “I think you should meet and talk, you guys think alike.”
We met the following day, talked about film, the business, the art, and the hope we shared for future projects, to give a voice to the unheard voices.
It’s time to tell our stories in new and exciting ways. It’s time to talk about the things nobody wants to talk about, and its time to tell the truth, just like my Nani did.
