Book Extract: Nasreen's Tragic Tryst with Fame

Book  Extract
“Off the Record”,
 Ajith Pillai,
Published by Hachette,
July 2014, pp 384, price Rs 395
ISBN   9789350097847

 

By conventional mass communication theories, media attention, to use a cliché, is a great force multiplier. But too much of it can be counter-productive and can have adverse effects on those being written about and photographed, especially if they are incapable of handling the hype that is the fallout of excessive media focus. And if it involves someone who is just 13 or 14, who till the other day walked the streets of Mumbai’s red-light areas and was being exploited by the flesh-trade mafia, being jettisoned into the limelight can eventually have a disastrous impact.

Nasreen (name changed) was all of thirteen, perhaps fourteen, but her emaciated body could well have been that of an eleven year old. She was a child prostitute who trawled the lanes of Kamathipura’s Shuklaji Street soliciting clients. On the days she did not transact any business, she had to go without dinner. To compound her woes, she was also a brown sugar addict. When it seemed as if nothing would change her miserable existence, something happened that brought her some relief, though fleetingly. Filmmaker Saeed Mirza happened to be shooting a documentary on drug addiction in Bombay’s red light area and one of his crew members noticed Nasreen and began to talk to her. Seeing her plight, he asked her whether she wanted to kick the habit, give up her profession and return to the mainstream. Nasreen agreed. So he brought her to a drug rehab centre which treated poor addicts for free.

It was there that I first met her. There was something very childlike about her which struck a chord with me, as with everyone who met her. Her impish smile literally pulled at one’s heartstrings. The other recovering addicts at the clinic also adored her for her openness and friendliness. Indeed, she was remarkably candid when she shared her experiences on the streets. It was perhaps her frankness and precociousness that prompted someone visiting the centre to tip off the media. Her life certainly made for what editors call a very good human interest story.

I wasn’t very keen to expose her trials and tribulations to the world. But when reports appeared in the press I was duty-bound to file a story. I did that, but at the Observer my seniors were good enough not to insist that we carry her picture or reveal her identity. But many publications were not so discreet. One popular English weekly (now defunct) carried Nasreen’s picture on its cover and the issue’s promos were all over Bombay. You could see her staring at you from hoardings and posters from Marine Drive to Bandra. Soon, other magazines followed suit and wanted to interview and photograph the girl. In a matter of weeks, Nasreen virtually became a child celebrity. Even the social workers who helped her became the focus of much media attention. Film stars called on her with gifts. A minister in the Maharashtra government came with flowers, promising assistance for her rehabilitation. Members of the Rotary Club and the Lion’s Club were keen to help. Given all this attention, Nasreen began to fancy herself as a VIP. The girl, who, just the other day, was the picture of humility and innocence, became arrogant. ‘Kal to Amitabh Bachchan bhi Nasreen se milne aa sakta hai (Why, even Amitabh Bachchan may come to meet Nasreen tomorrow),’ she told me, obviously carried away by all the fanfare. She had already met Sunil Dutt and Sanjay Dutt was next in line. ‘All the people who come to see me have big cars – why don’t you have a car?’ she would ask me.

The press reports literally unleashed a national and international wave of support for Nasreen. From London to Nairobi, NRIs opened their purse strings and flooded her with donations. Some on vacation in India came to meet her and hosted dinners and lunches for her at fancy restaurants. Others bought her expensive clothes, shoes, cakes, chocolates and ice cream. Nasreen, though bowled over by all the pampering, at times wondered why she was being treated like a rani (queen). Was it just because she had lived a far tougher and different life from those who came to meet her? Where were these people while she wandered the streets?

Since I was a volunteer at the rehab centre, I could figure out why the ‘uncles and aunties’ were going out of their way to be nice to her. It worked at two levels: here was this young girl whom they felt that they could help without any long-term commitment and there was always the possibility of getting publicity – a photograph or a mention in the press. Then there were those who were exorcising their own guilt at not having given enough to the world and were consumed by a momentary desire to help – exactly the sort of magnanimity that overwhelms you when you accost a beggar on the day a very big business deal has been bagged.

Nasreen was basking and enjoying the attention. But then trouble was around the corner. Her saviours and well-wishers began to chart out what she should do with her life. Some suggested that Nasreen should find employment as a domestic help – work that she was loath to do after her dalliance with movie stars and socialites. Others said she should be sent back to her parents in Hyderabad. But she was not for that since she said it would only upset her family. There were also suggestions that she should be sent to school, which the girl was totally opposed to. In fact, she hated schools. Perhaps, having tasted freedom on the streets, she didn’t want to subject herself to any sort of discipline.

Once much of the adulation evaporated and the initial welcome had worn out, some of those who came to the clinic spoke ill of Nasreen because she was, after all, a prostitute – someone they felt who could not be trusted. Parents of addicts asked her crude questions about her life on Shuklaji Street and the kind of clients who patronized her. Nasreen slowly began to feel isolated and insecure. One could sense it from her body language. ‘Uncle, this world is not my world,’ she told me once, when she was in a more reflective mood. To her all the media attention suddenly seemed meaningless. ‘On the streets they exploited my body. Out here they are exploiting my life. I know it very well. I’m no buddhu (idiot),’ she said, leaving me wondering at how insightful she was.

As the days passed, you could see Nasreen’s self-worth plummeting. From a precocious young girl who had enjoyed being pampered, she began to see herself as a liability to her benefactors. She told me she didn’t wish to be a bai (maidservant) and wash the dishes in somebody’s house – however rich they were – or cook their meals. Neither did she want to go to school where she would be treated like a street walker. ‘Uncle,’ she said, ‘I’m just an innocent girl who was sold to the streets. I know I don’t belong here.’

Some days later after this conversation, I was told she had run away from the centre. There were attempts to track her down, but it was difficult to trace someone in a city like Bombay. One presumed she may have gone back to her pimp – whose name was tattooed on her arm. He had apparently shifted out of Kamathipura and had relocated to the suburbs.

At the clinic, they forgot about Nasreen. Her name would come in passing reference to addicts who ‘slip’ (get back to the drug) and fail to capitalize on an opportunity to improve their lives. Months later came the news that Nasreen had died. The police had registered it as a case of suicide. They had found the address of the rehab centre on her person, which was perhaps why the centre was contacted and asked to identify and claim her body.

Nasreen’s earthly remains were in the morgue at the Cooper Hospital in Juhu. It was a sultry evening when the doctor at the centre and I finally got to see the charred remains of a girl whose innocent smile still lingers in my mind. I can still recall the burial ground in central Bombay that we took her body to. Everything happened in a trice. We covered her body with a sheet. A maulvi recited a short prayer and we lowered her into the freshly dug grave. With the handful of earth that we threw in, Nasreen’s journey ended.

There was no media coverage of her death. I thought of at least recording her tragic end. But her brother, who had been contacted by the centre and had come down from Hyderabad, pleaded that I do not write even a word. The family, he said, would be disgraced and insulted. I respected the sentiment. I remember saying a silent prayer in my mind that night that she should be happy wherever her soul had gone.