“Basanti in Mumbai”

Rohan had just completed his hotel management degree from a modest institute in a small town. He was passionate, well-trained, and exceptionally skilled in all areas — from gourmet cooking and elegant serving to handling guests with charm and courtesy. Yet, despite his talent and credentials, he found it hard to land a job. Opportunities were scarce in his town, and the few that existed preferred candidates with connections or experience in big cities.
His close friend Hari, who had moved to Mumbai a couple of years earlier and was now working as a waiter in a prestigious hotel, often encouraged him over phone calls.
“Rohan, if you really want to do something big, come to Mumbai. There are more chances here. You can’t let your talent rot in that dusty town,” Hari had said one night.
Rohan gave it serious thought. After talking to his parents and convincing them with a blend of determination and dreams, he packed his bags and boarded a train to Mumbai, carrying nothing but clothes, certificates, and aspirations as big as the city’s skyline.
Upon arrival, Mumbai hit him with its chaotic energy — a whirlwind of honking taxis, towering buildings, and an unstoppable crowd that seemed to be going somewhere important. He met Hari near Andheri, and Hari warmly took him to his small rented apartment.
The next day, Hari took Rohan to meet his hotel manager. The hotel was grand — glass walls, polished floors, and a reception desk that looked like it belonged in a movie. Rohan’s heart swelled with hope. But when the manager glanced at his résumé, he sighed.
“There’s no opening right now. Maybe later,” he said, politely but firmly.
Days turned into weeks. Rohan tried in other hotels. He waited. He followed up. But the answer was the same: no vacancy. Slowly, hope started to turn into frustration. Hari tried to cheer him up, but Rohan began doubting if the city of dreams was only a city of struggle.
After two and a half months of rejection, Rohan finally made up his mind. He would return home. His bags were packed, and he was about to step out to buy a train ticket when his phone buzzed.
It was Hari.
“Rohan! Stop! The hotel just called. The manager wants to meet you. Come now!”
Heart thumping with a strange mixture of excitement and nervousness, Rohan rushed to the hotel. The manager was waiting in the lobby.
“One of our waiters has fallen sick,” he said. “We need someone urgently. It’s temporary — one month as an intern. If we like your work, we’ll confirm you.”
Rohan’s eyes lit up. “Yes, sir! I’ll do my best.”
“Great. Be here tomorrow morning. And be on time — we’re running a theme night,” the manager added.
The next morning, Rohan arrived 20 minutes early, dressed in his best formal wear. But as he walked in, what he saw made him freeze.
The entire staff was dressed in Bollywood costumes.
Yes — Bollywood.

The theme of the day was the cult classic Sholay, and everyone had a character. One man walked by wearing a bandolier and fake mustache as Gabbar Singh. Another strutted across the lobby in a police uniform, clearly pretending to be Thakur.
Rohan’s eyes frantically searched for Hari. From behind, he spotted a woman in a white saree, with flowing black hair — she looked graceful and haunting at the same time. The woman turned, waved her bangled hand, and called out:
“Rohan!”
It was Hari.
Hari had been assigned the role of Thakur’s widow — the character played by Jaya Prada. His eyes were lined with kajal, his lips painted, and his voice had taken on a deliberately soft pitch. He looked like a dream... or a nightmare — Rohan wasn’t sure.
Before Rohan could react, the manager appeared again.
“Rohan! You haven’t changed yet? Hari, didn’t you tell him?”
Hari chuckled and took Rohan by the arm. “Come, I’ll explain.”
They hurried to the staff changing room. There, lying neatly on a bench, was Rohan’s costume — a bright orange Basanti outfit, complete with a flared skirt, blouse, dupatta, and accessories.
Rohan’s jaw dropped.
“You can’t be serious,” he said.
Hari grinned. “Oh, I’m dead serious. This is Mumbai. People love entertainment. Gender roles, dressing up — it’s all part of the game here. Just think of it as acting. You want the job, right?”
Rohan stood there, frozen. The idea of dressing as Basanti — Dharmendra’s feisty love interest — was both hilarious and horrifying.
But then, he thought about his long journey. The rejections. The sacrifices. The dreams he didn’t want to let go of. Slowly, he nodded.
“Fine. Let’s do this.”
Inside the staff changing room, Rohan stood frozen. Laid out before him on a neatly pressed white sheet was Basanti’s costume — bright, bold, and unapologetically feminine.
The outfit shimmered in rich mustard yellow and orange hues, stitched with delicate mirror work and gotta-patti embroidery. The skirt was wide and flared, with layers of soft fabric that would twirl with even the slightest movement. The blouse was a short-sleeved choli with a modest but clearly feminine cut, tied at the back with strings. The dupatta was light, sheer, with golden tassels at its borders.
Beside the outfit were the accessories:
A pair of jingling bangles, orange and gold.
A pair of dangling jhumka earrings.
A beaded necklace.
An anklet that would chime with every step.
And finally, a long, wavy black wig tied in a braid with small plastic flowers pinned in.
A small transparent pouch held essentials: a bra, petticoat, and orange panties.
Rohan stared at the items, his heart thudding so loudly it echoed in his ears.

Hari leaned in with a grin. “Need help, Basanti?”
Rohan gave him a deadpan look.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he murmured.
“You want the job, right?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
With a long breath, Rohan picked up the orange panty, turned away, and slid it on. It felt strange already — snug, smooth, unfamiliar.
Then came the bra.
He fumbled a little at first. The elastic straps tangled in his fingers. After a small war with the hooks, he managed to fasten it behind his back. The feeling was alien. It held him in place like a snug chest harness, pressing against his ribs. He could feel its band tighten every time he breathed.
“This is real,” he thought, staring down at his reflection in the locker’s mirror.
He paused before reaching for the skirt — the heart of Basanti’s attire. With slight hesitation and a lot of internal swearing, he stepped into it and pulled it up. It was heavier than it looked, richly embroidered, and flared like a bell. With every shift of his hip, it moved and swayed — so different from jeans or trousers. He felt oddly exposed, even though he was fully covered.
Then came the blouse. As he tied the knots at the back, he noticed the way it clung to his body — tight across the shoulders, a little loose at the chest, hugging the arms. It didn’t hide who he was — it emphasized the contrast.
Hari handed him a small pair of foam pads to tuck inside the bra.
“Just to complete the look,” he winked.
Rohan gave him a death stare but did it anyway.
Then came the dupatta. It was the final layer — draped across his shoulder, flowing down his back. A symbol of femininity. Of softness. Of grace. And yet here he was — a man, breathing awkwardly, standing in front of a mirror, adjusting his fake boobs.
Then the makeup artist walked in.
He said nothing — just motioned for Rohan to sit. As he started, Rohan closed his eyes. He felt the cool brush of powder, the tickle of eyeliner, the careful shaping of his brows. Lipstick, a light pink with gloss. A tiny red bindi placed right between his brows.
When it was over, he looked at himself in the mirror — and froze.
The face staring back at him wasn’t Rohan.
It was... Basanti.
And not just any Basanti — a shy, trembling, nervous version, with long hair, earrings, bangles, and the deep fear of being laughed at. He moved slightly and the anklet chimed. The earrings swayed. He heard his bangles clink when he nervously wiped his palms on the skirt.
He whispered, “Oh god... what am I doing?”
And then — like a switch — he straightened up.
“No. You wanted this. You came here to prove yourself.”

He remembered his mother’s hopeful eyes when she gave him the train fare. His father’s proud silence. His town’s dusty bus stand and his dreams of making it big.
He took one last deep breath.
And then he said under his breath

“Chal Basanti… ab Rohan ki izzat ka sawal hai.”
With shaky steps and a pounding heart, Rohan — now fully dressed as Basanti — emerged from the changing room.
The moment he stepped into the corridor, he became intensely aware of every sound his body made.
The anklets chimed.
The bangles clinked.
The earrings tapped against his neck with every step.
Even the swish of his skirt as he walked made him feel like he was echoing through the walls.
He saw Hari — or rather, Thakur’s Bahu — standing ahead, gesturing with dramatic elegance. Hari had clearly embraced the role. Rohan envied that confidence. He felt like a clown. A joke. Like someone everyone was waiting to laugh at.
He hesitated before stepping into the hotel lobby.
And then the manager appeared, clipboard in hand, looking up and down at him with quick efficiency.
“Good. You're ready,” he said. “Remember, it’s a special event today. Guests are expecting drama, fun, photo ops. Act in character. Smile. Serve well. And don’t look like you’ve been kidnapped.”
He smiled faintly at his own joke and moved on.
Rohan swallowed hard.
He took a breath, plastered a smile on his face — the kind where the lips go up but the eyes scream for help — and stepped into the glittering hotel lobby.

The lobby had been transformed into a set straight out of Sholay — haystacks, posters, even a cardboard cutout of a train. There were guests everywhere, laughing, clicking pictures with staff dressed as Gabbar, Thakur, Sambha… and now, Basanti.
And when Rohan entered, a few heads turned.
A child pointed at him.
A woman nudged her husband.
A group of college students giggled and whispered, “Look! Basanti’s a guy!”
Rohan kept walking. Head up. Chin firm. Feet awkward in borrowed sandals.
He reached the table he was assigned — a VIP corner where an old Parsi couple and two NRI families were seated.
“Good afternoon, sirs and madams,” he said in his softest tone, trying to imitate Basanti’s high-pitched innocence. “Would you like to begin with our welcome drink — or shall Basanti bring you something cold and thanda?”
The Parsi uncle clapped in delight.
“Wah! Basanti in full mood!” he laughed. “You’re better than Hema Malini!”
Everyone giggled — but it wasn’t mocking. It was amused. Enjoying. Kind.
And something inside Rohan shifted.
He realized they weren’t laughing at him — they were laughing with him.
He smiled. A real one, this time.
He swayed his skirt dramatically and did a little twirl.
“Basanti ki service mein koi kami nahi honi chahiye!” he declared with flair, mimicking the movie dialogue.
The guests clapped. One of the kids took a selfie with him. An older woman complimented his eye makeup. And somewhere in the back, Hari gave him a discreet thumbs-up.

menus, clicked photos, and greeted guests with playful one-liners.
“Basanti ke ghungroo toot gaye hote, lekin service kabhi nehi rukti!”
“Gabbar ke darr se zyada bill ke darr hoti hai, hai na?”
“Basanti on duty, madam. You relax!”
The manager, watching from the side, nodded approvingly.
What started as humiliation was slowly turning into applause.
But it wasn’t all smooth.
At one point, Rohan accidentally dropped a tray of mocktails. The glasses shattered, and he froze in panic. A hush fell. But before anyone could react, he dramatically bent down and whispered, “Basanti ka haath kaanp gaya, thoda pyaar chahiye!”
The guests burst into laughter.
One of the supervisors even gave him a pat on the back.

By the time his shift ended, Rohan was exhausted — emotionally, physically, and spiritually.
He changed out of the Basanti outfit slowly. When he removed the wig, it felt like shedding a second identity. He unhooked the bra, peeled off the skirt, and washed the makeup off his face.
Looking at himself in the mirror — just Rohan again — he felt... oddly proud.
What he thought would break him had become a strange victory.

Hari waited for him with a water bottle.
“Well?” he asked.
Rohan smiled and said, “I don’t know what I became in there… but I think I survived.”
Hari laughed. “You didn’t just survive. You killed it. Manager said you were the best character of the night.”
Rohan shook his head. “I was Basanti for four hours, bro. And I don’t think I’ll ever look at dupattas the same again.”
They both laughed.