The Bandra Girl

At 14, I went to a ‘vocational conference’ for teenagers who wanted to become priests or nuns. (Yes, save that for ridiculing me in the future.) But yes, there I was, being gently probed for my predilection to a habit. (No slanderous gestures in the back rows please.) At the dreaded lunch-break, I tried making conversation with some Malad girls, one of whom asked where I was from. Before I could answer, another one said, “Bandra”. They all nodded, “You look like that. You dress like that.” I was impressed with their insight; and surprised when they ignored me after.

Five years later, sitting in the St Xavier’s canteen, the big scary girl from Literature with the golfer’s forearms and rumours of a father in the underworld, cast her shadow over me. Lothar-like she sneered, “Sandra… from Bandra,” which was also the name of an annoying short film last year. Never mind.

The Bandra Girl makes Bandra what it is. We have a long tradition of being ‘judged’ for being Bandra Girls. But there you have it… we live the good life.

Fall asleep on the train, miss your stop and wiping the drool from the left of your mouth, you step out blinking into Andheri; it’s another world. Walk through Dadar and you are Ms Sore-Thumb-Stuck-Out. All over the city, man-masses mill around while women side-step them steeling themselves against odd comments, weird looks, noxious gesticulations. But not in Bandra. They don’t dare. The shorts are short on the girls from ages 15 – 55, the spaghetti straps don’t raise an eyebrow at the grocers’ and you can walk home with a cantaloupe in each hand and get no double-entendre worth your rage.

The Bandra Girl Club gets lovelier every year. My Spanish/French P., supermodel tall, striding home with her bhaji; sexy A., in her animal print top and ballet pumps waiting for a rick to go to Zenzi; gorgeous T., with her Bengali bosom and creamy shoulders on Hill Road; the lovely G. sisters, out at all hours at work, or play, and the hundreds of ladies (laaadieees) shopping, eating, doing the Saturday-morning-walk-of-shame, smudged mascara and glitter on the collar bones… all Bandra girls, if not by birth, then by definition.

As it turned out, I didn’t join a convent; but some weeks ago, I saw five young nuns, crosses glinting in the winter sun, giggling and running into Cheap Jack and I thought – someone needs to write a song about the Bandra Girl.

– Genesia Alves Tahilramani