Guest guest Posted November 7, 2006 Report Share Posted November 7, 2006 [The beauty business mushrooms in Bombay's slums. It's a chance for women to chart a new life. By Payal Kapadia. (Link for accompanying photo essay below.)] MUMBAI (November 6, 2006): Like lotuses flowering in pools of green slime, beauty parlours are sprouting in the bowels of Dharavi, Bombay's and Asia's largest slum. Amidst tightly packed rows of shanties are dozens of dimly-lit 6x6 rooms, their walls painted bright green or pink. The reigning goddess of these parlours is undoubtedly Aishwarya Rai. From posters pasted on the lurid walls, she pouts winsomely down at mirrors chipped at the edges, scarred tabletops covered with cut-'n-paste formica, and stacks of bottles and jars—mostly unlabelled. Outside, a proud signboard announces your arrival at Prasanna Beauty Parlour, Roza Beauty Parlour, Nikhar Beauty Parlour, Sunita Beauty Parlour .... Sunita, owner of the eponymous parlour ("why you want to know my husband's name — he's good for nothing"), is busy taking appointments on her mobile phone. She dreams of expanding her business by training more slum girls to work in her parlour. And even of attracting a steady stream of smart clients from the nearby IT hub at Andheri East. Across town in South Mumbai's Colaba slums, a path made slippery by soapsuds and overhung with gnarled cables leads you past cats scrounging in the garbage to a flight of rickety metal steps. If you know where to go, you'll climb up, making the leap of faith across the chasm of a stairwell to enter the tube-lit one-room tenement that every woman in this slum knows as Eshan Beauty Parlour. The interiors reek of the sweet odour of hair-removing wax, a battered two-in-one plays Pehla Nasha, and black ants circle a torn patch on the linoleum floor. In one of the two rickety chairs sits 22-year- old Pushpa who gave birth to her first child only a month ago and still made the time to come and get her eyebrows threaded. Staunch feminists may scoff at the 'beauty business', but these modest slum parlours are giving wings to the aspirations, big and small, of a motley lot of women from the jhopadpattis — bais who have keenly observed their memsahibs dress up for years; housewives who find this a good way to earn from home; college students who want to ape their hipper South Mumbai counterparts; and young office workers who want to look like career women. For Pinky, who's training under Tamanna didi at the Eshan Beauty Parlour, a beautician's job offers an exit from the slums and an escape from the drudgery of washing vessels for rich people, as her mother did. "I want to do work that is more respected," she says. At the Femina Beauty Clinic, in a slum overlooking the historic Banganga Tank, five young girls attend an afternoon training session. Two of them are maids in private homes. Once they've completed their course, they can earn around Rs 2,000 a month at one of the slum parlours—and up to Rs 7,000 a month if they get into 'self-service' — going from house to house, waxing legs and giving facials at well-to-do homes. For now, they practise on Suvarna, daughter of a government peon, who will wash off all tell- tale traces of powder, blusher, mascara and kohl before she goes home. Running a parlour in the city's poorest areas is challenging. The rate list must be kept modest: only Rs 10 for threading eyebrows, a basic haircut for Rs 50. Competition is cut-throat, calling for savvy marketing through mobile phones, and strategic undercutting of each others' prices. Anu Salunkhe, owner-proprietor of Diksha Beauty Parlour, does eyebrows for Rs 7 to lure away customers from other parlours in Dharavi. Thrift and recycling are a way of life here: freshly cut hair makes its way, not into garbage bins, but — at a price — to other women who make braids and hair-switches for a living. There are thugs to ward off too, the taporis who harass parlour owners. With all of that, parlours manage to make at least Rs 5,000 per month, their average intake of 10 clients a day, trebling during the wedding and festival seasons.And so, there's no limit to dreaming. Many parlour owners are saving towards renovating, renting or buying a small place "in a better-off area where clients have more money, and can pay more." They are boning up on banks and business loans— and yes, even aspiring for political careers. In Shankarwadi slum, Vaishali Salve hopes her clients will help her get elected in next year's municipal elections. Lata, 40, has turned dreams into reality. Twenty years ago she sold dhania mirchi on the pavement. Now she owns a 9th floor flat and a 300 sqft parlour in Chembur, an East Bombay suburb. "I'm worth Rs 80 lakh and it's all declared income," she laughs. Paisa by paisa, Lata saved up for a beautician's course, became a parlour-owner, and even travelled to London for a Vidal Sassoon diploma. Now she's acquired a 1,000-sq ft plot for a swank new parlour. Meanwhile, Tamanna didi dreams, and in the slow interim between the dreaming of dreams and their fruition, she keeps a tube of St Ives Apricot Scrub on her shelves. It is empty—none of her customers can really afford to use it—but it's a symbol of better days to come. PHOTO ESSAY: http://tinyurl.com/y52oyf SOURCE: Outlook India Magazine URL: http://tinyurl.com/wwvgy Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted November 17, 2006 Report Share Posted November 17, 2006 Pranam, Devi Bhaktaji. This is a really good article. It just shows the strength of women. Beauty which is hardy and grows in the most unexpected places. Bravo to these women and a big thank you for posting it. Thank you. With Love Shankaree Devi Bhakta <devi_bhakta > wrote: [The beauty business mushrooms in Bombay's slums. It's a chance for women to chart a new life. By Payal Kapadia. (Link for accompanying photo essay below.)] MUMBAI (November 6, 2006): Like lotuses flowering in pools of green slime, beauty parlours are sprouting in the bowels of Dharavi, Bombay's and Asia's largest slum. Amidst tightly packed rows of shanties are dozens of dimly-lit 6x6 rooms, their walls painted bright green or pink. The reigning goddess of these parlours is undoubtedly Aishwarya Rai. From posters pasted on the lurid walls, she pouts winsomely down at mirrors chipped at the edges, scarred tabletops covered with cut-'n-paste formica, and stacks of bottles and jars—mostly unlabelled. Outside, a proud signboard announces your arrival at Prasanna Beauty Parlour, Roza Beauty Parlour, Nikhar Beauty Parlour, Sunita Beauty Parlour .... Sunita, owner of the eponymous parlour ("why you want to know my husband's name — he's good for nothing"), is busy taking appointments on her mobile phone. She dreams of expanding her business by training more slum girls to work in her parlour. And even of attracting a steady stream of smart clients from the nearby IT hub at Andheri East. Across town in South Mumbai's Colaba slums, a path made slippery by soapsuds and overhung with gnarled cables leads you past cats scrounging in the garbage to a flight of rickety metal steps. If you know where to go, you'll climb up, making the leap of faith across the chasm of a stairwell to enter the tube-lit one-room tenement that every woman in this slum knows as Eshan Beauty Parlour. The interiors reek of the sweet odour of hair-removing wax, a battered two-in-one plays Pehla Nasha, and black ants circle a torn patch on the linoleum floor. In one of the two rickety chairs sits 22-year- old Pushpa who gave birth to her first child only a month ago and still made the time to come and get her eyebrows threaded. Staunch feminists may scoff at the 'beauty business', but these modest slum parlours are giving wings to the aspirations, big and small, of a motley lot of women from the jhopadpattis — bais who have keenly observed their memsahibs dress up for years; housewives who find this a good way to earn from home; college students who want to ape their hipper South Mumbai counterparts; and young office workers who want to look like career women. For Pinky, who's training under Tamanna didi at the Eshan Beauty Parlour, a beautician's job offers an exit from the slums and an escape from the drudgery of washing vessels for rich people, as her mother did. "I want to do work that is more respected," she says. At the Femina Beauty Clinic, in a slum overlooking the historic Banganga Tank, five young girls attend an afternoon training session. Two of them are maids in private homes. Once they've completed their course, they can earn around Rs 2,000 a month at one of the slum parlours—and up to Rs 7,000 a month if they get into 'self-service' — going from house to house, waxing legs and giving facials at well-to-do homes. For now, they practise on Suvarna, daughter of a government peon, who will wash off all tell- tale traces of powder, blusher, mascara and kohl before she goes home. Running a parlour in the city's poorest areas is challenging. The rate list must be kept modest: only Rs 10 for threading eyebrows, a basic haircut for Rs 50. Competition is cut-throat, calling for savvy marketing through mobile phones, and strategic undercutting of each others' prices. Anu Salunkhe, owner-proprietor of Diksha Beauty Parlour, does eyebrows for Rs 7 to lure away customers from other parlours in Dharavi. Thrift and recycling are a way of life here: freshly cut hair makes its way, not into garbage bins, but — at a price — to other women who make braids and hair-switches for a living. There are thugs to ward off too, the taporis who harass parlour owners. With all of that, parlours manage to make at least Rs 5,000 per month, their average intake of 10 clients a day, trebling during the wedding and festival seasons.And so, there's no limit to dreaming. Many parlour owners are saving towards renovating, renting or buying a small place "in a better-off area where clients have more money, and can pay more." They are boning up on banks and business loans— and yes, even aspiring for political careers. In Shankarwadi slum, Vaishali Salve hopes her clients will help her get elected in next year's municipal elections. Lata, 40, has turned dreams into reality. Twenty years ago she sold dhania mirchi on the pavement. Now she owns a 9th floor flat and a 300 sqft parlour in Chembur, an East Bombay suburb. "I'm worth Rs 80 lakh and it's all declared income," she laughs. Paisa by paisa, Lata saved up for a beautician's course, became a parlour-owner, and even travelled to London for a Vidal Sassoon diploma. Now she's acquired a 1,000-sq ft plot for a swank new parlour. Meanwhile, Tamanna didi dreams, and in the slow interim between the dreaming of dreams and their fruition, she keeps a tube of St Ives Apricot Scrub on her shelves. It is empty—none of her customers can really afford to use it—but it's a symbol of better days to come. PHOTO ESSAY: http://tinyurl.com/y52oyf SOURCE: Outlook India Magazine URL: http://tinyurl.com/wwvgy Let my every word be a prayer to Thee, Every movement of my hands a ritual gesture to Thee, Every step I take a circumambulation of Thy image, Every morsel I eat a rite of sacrifice to Thee, Every time I lay down a prostration at Thy feet; Every act of personal pleasure and all else that I do, Let it all be a form of worshiping Thee." >From Verse 27 of Shri Aadi Shankara's Saundaryalahari Send instant messages to your online friends http://uk.messenger. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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