Real change happens inside me as I do my make-up.
Picture this.
I am sitting at the dressing table, my mind focused on my role. The moment I put on the petticoat, something begins to shift inside me. When I fix the breasts to my chest, I start feeling strange—half of me is still Chapal Bhaduri but the other half has become Chapal Rani. As I put on the rest of the outfit, piece by piece, the blouse, the sari, the necklace, the bangles, Chapal Bhaduri starts to recede and Chapal Rani comes to life. The lips are the last touch. When they are done and my wig is fixed, it’s hard to think of myself as a man any more. If that thought even crosses my mind, I will never be able to do justice to the role.
Physically, everything about me remains male, yet I am also female in that moment. What I have below my waist no longer matters. I am no longer a man, not even a man who dresses as a woman. I forget that I was a man when I sat down at that dressing table. Now I feel shy to even look at men, but I can understand full well from their gaze what they are trying to say, what they want, what they desire. And I like it. Of course I like it. I liked it that very first time when I dressed as Morjina and that boy gave me a rose. I remember the electric current that went through me as if it was yesterday.
Becoming a woman, even if it’s just on stage, definitely had an effect on me. I swear, at that time, for three or four days every month, I would feel ill the way women do when they have their periods. For a few days, I would be weak and listless, and then I would be consumed by an intense sexual hunger. The men around me would feel incandescent, creatures made of fire. And if I could not satisfy the hunger raging inside me, I would feel agitated and physically ill. Luckily, as long as I was in a relationship with my friend, he could take care of my needs. Even now, in my 80s, I feel desire burning inside me but I have learnt to control it better.
When I worked at Nabaranjan Opera, they would hang a curtain in the middle of the dressing room. The men dressed on one side, the women on the other. I would dress with the women but they complained that made them uncomfortable.
Kshitish, the manager, had once also acted in female roles as Kshitish Rani. I told him, ‘Please do something. I can’t dress in peace with them constantly complaining. Should I dress with the men instead?’
Kshitish went to the hero and proprietor, Swapankumar.
‘Hmm, I can understand their concern,’ said Swapankumar. ‘But we can’t let Chapal dress with the other men either. There is an element of secrecy that is part of the transformation from a man into a woman. Preserving that is vital. If Chapal dresses as a woman in front of all these men, then the whole beauty of it will be ruined. He needs his privacy. I have an idea. My dressing room is large enough. Why not make some space for him there?’
From then on, I always used Swapankumar’s dressing room, though I had to hear many dirty insinuations—but such is the world of jatra. I realized that Swapankumar really understood what it meant to turn Chapal Bhaduri into Chapal Rani. It was so much more than a simple costume change.
Yet it was all an act. At the end when I took it all off, I was back to being Chapal Bhaduri.
Once, though, I was in an utter fix. In 1969, Nabaranjan Opera put on NotunProbhat[New Dawn]. Swapankumar came to me and said, ‘Chapal, there isn’t really any part for you in this production. Most of the characters are young modern women and our actresses are playing them. But there is one role that’s a possibility. It’s Paribano, wife of a poor Muslim farmer, mother of a six-year-old boy. It’s a good role, even though it doesn’t have many lines.’
‘I’ll do whatever you tell me,’ I said.
But there was a problem.
Swapankumar said, ‘You can’t use heavy make-up. Or elaborate costumes.’
‘But how can I pull this off without make-up? After all, I need to shave every day. There’s a dark tinge to my chin now. I will need to mask that.’
Swapankumar shrugged, ‘I have full faith in you. Figure out something and show women that you can go head to head with them.’
I was confounded. A woman could have pulled it off easily. But how could a man do this without heavy make-up? I went to my sister, Chhordi, for help.
She was amused by my predicament.
‘What kind of clothes has your Swapankumar said that a poor Muslim farmer’s wife should wear?’
‘A torn blouse, a torn sari. My hair does not need to be anything special.’
‘Wear a black blouse,’ she said. ‘I have one. Use that. Tear it a bit in front and a bit in the back so you can see a bit of skin. You are fair. It will look good against the black. And a torn sari.’
‘And what about my make-up? What should I do about that?’
‘Use Number 9.’ Number 9 was a reddish colour, like brick. ‘Put a little coconut oil on your face, no Vaseline, then use a bit of that Number 9 and blend it in well. Don’t use powder. But dab your face with a puff, so that the oiliness is gone and the skin seems smooth, no any dark patches. Do your hair up in a loose bun and wear a silver nose ring.’
I added black glass bangles. Later I swapped them out for plastic because I was afraid they might break on stage. I could wear women’s bangles because I knew how to bend my wrist and slide them on.
After I played the poor Muslim farmer’s wife, everyone was stunned. Swapankumar’s wife, the lead heroine, said, ‘Why were you not born a woman?’
When she said that, my mother’s face flashed before my eyes.
Publisher: Seagull Books
Pages: 520
Price: 999
This excerpt has not been edited by queerbeat.