Massage In The Elevator

They are like surrogate liquor ads that show models manfully sipping soda or water on the rocks. But these are more surrogate than the spirit industry. After all, there's just a thin line dividing the tactile charms of massage from those of sex. Behind the seemingly innocuous massage ads that flood 'health and fitness' classified columns of Delhi's mainline papers and magazines is a call-girl racket that runs on instant access and instant gratification. The racket is cellphone-enabled: mobile-toting pimps and call girls selling sex under the guise of massage at the client's home or any hotel of his choice. The ads promise massage or, in the flowery words of subpar copywriters, its various equivalents. Uniquely imagined stuff such as "rhythmic acupressure", "assisted stretching", "the art of giving", "the manipulative techniques of vibration and percussion", "the most natural and ancient cure" and far-out appellations like "connecting with universal energy". But in truth, they lead up to the more in-the-face "maximum satisfaction" or "fulfilling your needs and fantasies", not-so-subtle giveaways to paid sex.

Shilpa, 20, is one such girl in the racket. Straddling 'career' and studies, she lives alone in a comfortably furnished flat. She keeps unorthodox hours and goes to a prominent Delhi art college when she feels like. Shilpa also works for a Delhi-based 'massage' outfit whose curious classified, fronted by a 'Mr Sanjay' , promises a "rich variety" of men and women "waiting to satisfy your dreams and fantasies". The name of her 'company' changes every season. These days it's called Bangkok Body Massage. The men and women are also, the ad stresses, "uniquely trained in the art of massage and providing just what you desire". Shilpa is candid about what she does and how much she makes: the dough averages to a "tax-free" Rs 80,000 a month. So, the house isn't really a distant dream. The work, as she admits with a mixture of chutzpah and innocence, includes "sex and massage" or, in some rare cases, acting as a paid escort. But it's still work. "Sex with my boyfriend is different," she says matter-of-factly. Her rates, as her pimp makes clear, are Rs 2,000 to Rs 10,000 depending on the duration of the session. The "model-looking girls", however, make a heftier package. They are sometimes even asked for by name.

Shilpa's lone ambition is to buy a two-bedroom house and then live the rest of her life on rent money. She doesn't ever want to marry. "It does nothing for a girl," she says emphatically. She has no immediate family, just a businessman boyfriend and a 'rakhi' brother. There's also a man who stays with her and drives her around in her brand new Tata Indica. Her wardrobe, she boasts, is so well-stocked that she can go on without repeating an outfit for at least five months. Somewhere between telling me all this (on time that is paid for), she also mentions that she dreams of meeting Shahrukh Khan, her idol, if by some quirky stroke of luck he checks into a Delhi hotel and feels like a 'classified massage'.

The boyfriend and the brother don't know about her secret 'career'. And even if they did find out, it wouldn't change the larger plan since marriage isn't even an option. "I'll quit as soon as I buy my house," says Shilpa joylessly, as she furiously punches the minuscule keys of her Nokia cellphone, playing a game called 'Snake'. In real life, she's played more dangerous games. Risked life and limb to keep the moolah flowing. "There's no five-star hotel in Delhi that I haven't visited. I've also been to Meridien which is supposed to be very secure," she claims, half boasting. "They are all dogs. They'll do anything for a few bones." There's disdain in her voice. Disdain for what money can make people do.People like herself as also the hotel security staff whose palms she has to grease regularly.

It's an ironic liberation that Shilpa has sought. She's pretty much her own boss. There's only a pimp whom she calls sir. She doesn't pity herself. Or care about what her relatives would think. "Where were they when my parents died," she says, as if suddenly provoked. But in earning her freedom she's also become an undercover prostitute who doesn't know when she'd bump into a client. Or get caught. Or become obsolete.

Ravi and his wife also run one such classified operation, which advertises openly in the capital's mainline morningers and a slick city magazine. They have been in the business for seven years. They also have a front shop: a travel agency at New Delhi's Fleet Street, Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg. It's a joint venture where clients cross over from one business to another. Frequent fliers become frequent callers. Delhi has a surprisingly high number of visitors who mix business with pleasure. "This is very risky business," Ravi tells me gingerly. "You could be a policewallah, then we'd have to shift business to Tihar," he makes a pointed joke of his concerns.

I meet Ravi through an ad that was meant only for "5-star hotel guests". It also promised "English-speaking girls". But what he offers me is a pre-pubescent girl who he claims only looks young. "Early sex stops their growth," he tells me reassuringly. "There's a lot of demand for such girls. Last night I got Rs 10,000 for her," says his wife in between touching base with her other girls. She asks one about her visit to the doctor. Another, she severely abuses for playing truant. She barks into her mobile: "Who do you think you are?"

But the canny pimps that they are, they suggest someone slightly more mature. It's a Mumbai girl called Ritika. Nineteen-year-old Ritika is a high school dropout and claims to be a trained Bharatanatyam dancer. Her mother and two younger siblings live in Mumbai. She travels to different cities to give 'performances'. She says she's been brought to Delhi on a 15-day Rs 50,000-'verbal' contract by the 'massage agency'. Her fortnight in the Capital is rather packed. Her 'contract' entails that she go for three 'short sessions' and one night out daily. The 'short sessions' set back clients by Rs 3,000 and whole nights cost Rs 10,000. In the cryptic parlance of massage operators these sessions are called "programmes". There are also a few unpleasant surprises thrown in. Like when she's called over by some Delhi "bastards" who extract their money's worth through a gang bang. Abuse is also not ruled out. It's more like an occupational hazard that may someday turn fatal.

A similar contract took Ritika to Ahmedabad recently. "Can you believe it, they made me work through the riots," she says suddenly turning pensive. "One woman was raped by 65 men close to where I was staying during the riots.... Can you imagine 65 men?" She wonders more to herself than to me. Do you remember how many times you've been had? "I don't even want to. But you can calculate if you want to." She starts to talk about other things. More pleasant things, like her fear of flying. And how she met a nice Maharashtrian client who even dropped her to the taxi stand. Such largesse is rare in the career she has opted for.

What is it then that makes such a career option so attractive to girls like Shilpa and Ritika? "It's the money," says Ravi with a very pimp-like sensitivity. As if he has no part in the luring process. Perhaps, he's forgotten his offer of recruiting me in the course of our single 20-minute chat. His wife too pitches in to say there are many "frustrated" weekly widows who routinely ask for the services of young men. "They all need money to have a good time," Ravi quips."Where else will they get money so easy and so fast." Ritika's reasons, however, are less frivolous. She says she's clearing her bank-manager father's debt. "We had to give up our flat when he died. Now only Rs 4.5 lakh remains to be paid off, and I'm trying to do just that by working like this." Shilpa, on the other hand, is just saving herself from certain penury.

Be that as it may, it's a highly competitive business. "If we don't supply, someone else will. There are enough people in the trade," says Ravi's wife. But it's also a fairly easy enterprise to start. All you need is a couple of cellphones with cash cards to avoid being traced back, an ad budget of Rs 1,000 to Rs 3,000 per insertion (there's even a discount for bulk bookings in newspapers), a suggestive ad that sends out the right message and a few girls bold or desperate enough to bite the bait. Some operators even accept credit cards. "We show the income as garments sold," says Mona, a male voice, from Monalisa Massage Centre. Another called Best Body Massage does business in greenbacks. One Aliza beckons "forners (sic) only".

Most of the operators are ordinary-looking couples and the recruitment is usually done by the woman. Shilpa started out as a beauty parlour receptionist until a client took her aside and told her of the unlimited possibilities of the classified massage industry. Funny thing is, none of the possibilities included sex. Of course, that was then.