Bells - Kali Theatre - 2005
Bells: Takes us into the seedy world of Mujra (courtesan) clubs, a centuries old tradition in Pakistan which is now growing in Britain. A butcher’s shop by day and a brothel by night, Bells has all the sparkle of Lollywood but the glitz and glamour is tarnished by the pain and degradation of secret lives. Is love possible in a place where flesh is bought and sold? http://www.kalitheatre.co.uk/past-productions/bells.html |
PEPSI...“I’m gonna put that new belly ring in that we bought today. Talking of today, when we’re out shopping, you can stop all this bumping into blokes...customers...and chatting rubbish. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on you, don’t make life difficult.” AIESHA... (Ignoring him) “Belly ring...well in that case, Jaani, you should wax your belly ‘cos that won’t do.” PEPSI... “Do you think it’s that hairy? I though I might get away with it.” AIESHA...“Did you now? “(She pushes him softly)” Lie back.” PEPSI... “I know what you were up to today.” AIESHA...“What?” PEPSI... “Well..when we’re out, don’t try to sneak off.”(Aiesha brings over the wax strips, gets Pepsi to lay down and she starts to wax around his belly and hips.) “Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh Fuck!” AIESHA...“Pepsi Jaani when was the last time you got your bikini line done?” PEPSI...“Couple of weeks ago...aaaaahhhhhhhhh! Man! Can’t you be gentle!” AIESHA...“Like hell you did. These bastards are creeping up thick and fast. Better be careful your little soldier gets all tangled up in there. You won’t be able to pee let alone anything else.” PEPSI...“Yuck shut up. You’re gross. Sssssiiiiiiii! Aaaahhhhh! Si! I’ll go shopping without you, you know...and I’ll choose your outfits.” She examines his navel closer and then grabs the tweezers off him and starts to pluck hairs that she might have missed. AIESHA... “Really?” PEPSI...“ Ouch! Ooooh! Ouch! Be careful don’t pull my knob off.” AIESHA... “I’ll try not to. But I can’t even see it at the moment.” PEPSI...“ That’s ‘cos it’s not for you to look at.” AIESHA...“Excuse me.” PEPSI...“ Well girlfriend, my meat is destined for higher things in life.” |
Bollywood and Lollywood films frequently depict Mujra clubs - or Moslem brothels - but they stop short of the full story. Writer Yasmin Whittaker Khan sets out to deglamorise and expose their ugly reality on the basis of her research into Britain’s little publicised Mujras. Her work is paired with Azma Dar’s sharply contrasting play Chaos, running in parallel at Southwark Playhouse. The two plays share actors who take on very different and strongly acted roles. Nicholas Khan as Ashraf transforms himself into a morally bankrupt brute with vestiges of the good bloke, while Marc Elliott portrays Pepsi as a camp queen, weeping within, and Damian Asher is the oh-so-British - but also Indian - Charles. The play’s two women, who unlike the male characters do not appear in Chaos, are Shivan Ghai as Aiesha, a whore with integrity and literary taste, and Madam, played with worldly swagger by Sharona Sassoon.
The audience is part of the clientele in Madam and Ashraf’s Mujra club Bells, which is tucked away above Ashraf’s halal butcher’s shop. Similarities between the two meat markets are underlined by Matthew Wright’s set design. The clinical doors of the butcher’s fridge open to reveal the seedy, sparkly promise of the Mujra. One minute we are unnerved by proximity to Ashraf’s bloodied apron and lethal butchering knives, the next by Aiesha’s and Pepsi’s gyrating hips and bellies. The message is unsubtle and the realities to which we are exposed can seem exaggerated but they succeed in presenting a world that some people like to pretend does not exist
Published by Barbara Lewis 06/05/2000
The audience is part of the clientele in Madam and Ashraf’s Mujra club Bells, which is tucked away above Ashraf’s halal butcher’s shop. Similarities between the two meat markets are underlined by Matthew Wright’s set design. The clinical doors of the butcher’s fridge open to reveal the seedy, sparkly promise of the Mujra. One minute we are unnerved by proximity to Ashraf’s bloodied apron and lethal butchering knives, the next by Aiesha’s and Pepsi’s gyrating hips and bellies. The message is unsubtle and the realities to which we are exposed can seem exaggerated but they succeed in presenting a world that some people like to pretend does not exist
Published by Barbara Lewis 06/05/2000
Set on an empty blacked out stage. Just a mirror and Pepsi's memories. Pepsi is looking in the mirror, admiring himself in a very feminine manner. Impersonating his mother, a very nervous character. PEPSI...“ Ranjeet please e good, try not to get your father angry?Wear your pug (turban) You know it’ll please him. Why do you keep behaving like this? We’re Sikh, we are proud and would die for our people. You can’t wear a bit of fabric on your head for your father’s sake? What about for my sake? Do you like it when I get beaten for your mistakes? Do you? Ranjeet. Tell me? What have I done to deserve a son like you? Tell me Guri JI. Why me? Instead of wrapping six yards of sari around your waist just wrap it on your head? If you can’t do that for me then I have no son. I never gave birth to you. You’re a miscarriage, a miscarriage of my life, my fortune, my happiness, my health. A miscarriage.....” Pepsi sits there holding himself. Ashraf walks in smiling holding his Breast r’ Us magazine. He’s seen Pepsi sitting there, trembling. Ashraf holds Pepsi lovingly and comforts him. Lights fade. |
Set on an empty stage just a mirror and Pepsi’s memories. Pepsi is about to start setting up the club and the starts looking in the mirror admiring himself in a very feminine manner. He stops to think. Pepsi begins talking to himself in the mirror. Impersonating his father, a very butch masculine character
PEPSI : “So you think you’re a man now do you? Well...? All lanky and few bits of bum-fluff poking out of your chin...look at me you bastard. Look at me when I’m talking to you...yes you...you weed. You’re 15 and a man. (Violently slaps himself) Bitch keep out of this or do you like it when your son peeps and spies on you...when you’re changing? Do you bitch? So boy, tell me? Why you wearing your mum’s sari? Tell me? You’re dirty little fucker...ma chaud.” (mother fucker). He stares at the mirror furious and frothing at the mouth. This goes on for a minute or two. AIESHA bursts in gigging, with a bottle of whiskey and a glass. She notices PEPSI is reminiscing but doesn’t let him know. She knocks back a half glass of whiskey. PEPSI instantly jumps back into his own character. AIESHA : “Yes you look beautiful. Vain bitch. Come on Pepsi let’s go darling.” PEPSI fakes a giggle and AIESHA grabs him and they rush off stage. |
Dominic Cavendish reviews Bells at Birmingham Rep
In the event, there were no riots on the first night of Bells, the controversial-sounding play by Yasmin Whittaker Khan about the seedy world of Pakistani mujra dance clubs. Some had feared the play would drag the Birmingham Rep back on to the "free speech" frontline by prompting the sort of violent protest that forced the cancellation of Behzti ("Dishonour") in December. But, though there were lots of police officers padding around outside, not a single demonstrator was to be seen. There were a couple of walks-outs, yes, but these were the result of mild heat exhaustion probably brought on by the rather long running time of two hours. If one wanted to take offence at Khan's play, it would be relatively easy. Although there's nothing to match the provocation of Behzti, which showed predatory behaviour and physical abuse in a Sikh temple, Bells presents a hypocritical divide between Muslim worship and sexually exploitative practice.
One of its central characters, an East End butcher called Ashraf, whom we see several times at prayer, is having an open affair with one of the dancers at the upstairs courtesan club that he runs with his spurned wife; and his lover is actually a camp, cross-dressing boy. In Poonam Brah's production for Kali theatre company, which ingeniously folds a tiled shop interior out into a deluxe dance floor, we even get a bout of simulated anal sex between Nicholas Khan's Ashraf and Marc Elliott's Pepsi to make clear what's going on. By drawing attention to the existence of the mujra clubs and refusing to conceal the fact that the ornate, highly stylised dancing, with its suggestive hip thrusts and teasing, come-hither hand gestures, is often a prelude to backroom prostitution, Khan is boldly opening up a neglected area of British life for debate. Yet she draws a soft veil of relishable gentle comedy and soapish romance over the darker aspects of this twilight activity: the violence which threatens this play's principal courtesan, Aiesha (the beautiful Shivan Ghai), who eventually throws off the tiny bells wrapped round her feet as unwanted shackles, is kept to a bare minimum. And the only male client we see is Damian Asher's upright, British Indian accountant who woos Aiesha with tenderness and poetry. As theatre, it's more of a gentle tap on the door rather than a brick through the window, but that's no reason to ignore or condemn it.