Opinion Kali and the Colour Red

What do you think of?

Red.

There are some boxes that have to be ticked – learn to twirl fire (done),throw a brick through a window (done),go paragliding hung-over (done) and so forth. There was one box though,a box containing debauchery and misdemeanor,one whose vacuum would be filled,fuelled through the excessive consumption of scotch,water and honey concoction. This one was inspired by a movie I saw when I was legal,at the age of 18: Coyote Ugly.

For those unfamiliar with Coyote Ugly,here’s a quick synopsis: pretty shy girl with big ambitions trying to make it in a big city finds herself working at a bar with stunning women (read: Tyra Banks and her ilk). The UPS of the bar are its dances atop the bar counter by women in barely there,yet surprisingly tasteful clothes.

I’d walked passed the Moulin Rouge,the bouncers were laying out the carpet,it was nearing 11,and on a Monday night there were a few seats available for 92 euros. Opposite the street was a quintessentially French café,with heaters in full bloom in the smoking section.

Scotch and smokes it was. People chatted,women in indie gear,the ones with casual chic style bounced effortlessly around,the men smoked and brooded. It was all terribly French,so French that the person sitting opposite me was “three generations French”,he had no connection to Tunisia – none. He’d read about the revolution in Le Monde and that was the extent of his engagement,and of his corresponding entrenchment to Paris. As said,it was all tres tres French.

This must be contrasted with the cab that drove me from Avenue George V,the most luxurious avenue in Paris,to Pigalle. The driver was from Haiti,he had Haitian music that I was introduced to through large speakers wedged behind the passengers seat,he wanted Wyclef Jean for President (this despite all the controversy that surrounded him,apparently Mr Fugee had stolen Haitian money) and said the hawkers at the Eiffel Tower – them from the Ivory Coast,Senegal,Gabron – where “here without papers.”

They weren’t so French.

In search of more,consumed by over ambition,and the desire to discover everything and anything on my last night in Paris,I traipsed the seats,entered too many cafes,got sidewards glances (perhaps I was slightly paranoid) and exited.

A friend then stopped for a cigarette outside a bar on the corner of Pigalle and Montmartre.

She lit the temptation stick outside what I thought was yet another café but it had writings all over its wall and then I heard The song: “I. Will. Survive.”

Now most people in the know will know that not singing to that song is sacrilegious. From the cold outside I could just about make out what seemed to be a cosmopolitan crowd (Paris is after all,and indeed,a cosmopolitan city). A woman in blue butt shorts and a pink bustier belted the song,she did the hang gestures,her accomplice,a woman in military pants and a tight black top served drinks,sang and beckoned me in.

Was it because I was singing on the streets late at night or were these the only people in the world who thought I could sing? I had to go in to investigate.

Turns out the women in the butt shorts and the bustier,Gita,(formerly Gitanjali Delrieux) is from Bombay,from Colaba married to a Frenchman. “I had to get away. I’m dark. People just kept calling me Kali,” she screamed over the music. The words had just escaped her mouth,her fingers had just turned the dial on the iPod when Ek,Do,Teen,(Yes! Madhuri Dixit’s Ek,Do,Teen) blasted out from the stereo and travelled out to the cobbled Parisienne street.

gWill you get on the counter with me?” she asked. Hell yes. Hell yes,I will be on that counter – I will own that counter,for God put me on this earth,in that moment to just dance on that counter,and so I did.

But Gita,bleached blonde,a historian in ancient Indian history,the owner of the xxx,owned the counter. She’s 40 and she was definitely no longer Kali.

I got served free curry at the end of the night; the place was packed with émigrés who are now locals. Some walked in and took straight to the counter; a self-declared writer did the moonwalk,the shy DJ from Audio Bullies kept to himself. A man whose name is now Alex complimented me on my hair (I confessed: A few hours earlier on that very day I’d been to Christophe Robin,the colorist who does Carla Bruni’s hair).

I don’t know what time I have left. I don’t quite know why my sim card is broken into two pieces. I know I missed my train to Amsterdam.

My mother was right,it was trouble. The sort you want to get into.

PS Mom: I wore a Nirvana t-shirt,grey hoodie and track pants. I tried to look “safe”.