Show Business

  “I think she was at the muhurat” the director says, “but I remember you made only a fleeting appearance.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s possible.” I am slightly embarrassed. The muhurat of any film, the auspicious moment when the opening shot is canned, is not an event its star is supposed to miss. But Subramanyam had, bless him, “given dates.” Not that I minded too much. Muhurats are packed with oversize individuals in undersize clothes, their eyes and thighs gleaming with a synthetic sheen. When they are not emitting raucous cries of recognition (while looking, in the midst of each embrace, for the next famous face to recognize) their tendency is to drape refulgent garlands on every available tripod, clapper board, or neck. I’m happy to avoid them. In any case, marigolds make me sneeze.

  “OK, the signs up,” says The Boy. “Let’s go.” The cameraman takes up position. So do the rowdies. A sound man crouches behind the car, holding a mike on a fishing rod.

  “Start sound! Camera! Action!”

  The rowdies start their harassment. The girl in the straw hat looks helpless. I march in, upbraid them. They are not much impressed by my invocation of their mothers and sisters. They are more impressed by my fists. This is not a choreographed stunt scene, merely an impromptu thrashing. One or two of my blows almost make contact, but I manage to stop them just short, knowing from prior carelessness how painful sore hands can be. They turn tail and flee. I turn to the damsel I have rescued from distress.

  “That takes care of them,” I begin. And then I dry up completely.

  For the car door opens, just as it is supposed to, and out steps the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She takes off her straw hat, and I am at a complete loss for words.

  “Cut!” says the director. He strides into the frame. “What happened?” he demands. “You’re supposed to say, can I help …” He stops, because it is apparent I am not listening to him. Nor is the girl. She is looking directly at the expression on my face, and an intuitive smile is playing at the corners of her mouth.

  “Oh,” says The Boy, taking this in. “Ashok Banjara, meet Mehnaz Elahi.”

  “Hello,” she says. Her voice reaches deep inside me and strums a responsive chord. An echo emerges: “Hello,” I say.

  “Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way,” says the director impatiently, “can we try that shot again? Only this time, you’re supposed to say …”

  I get through that shift in a trancelike state. At the first opportunity, when Mehnaz has disappeared for a costume change, I ring Subramanyam.

  “Change my dates a bit this month,” I instruct him. “I want to give priority to this young director’s film. Give him whatever shifts he wants.”

  “I am doing, sir,” Subramanyam confirms disapprovingly, “but many producers not being happy with you. I just warning you, sir.”

  “Good man. Now give The Boy all the dates he wants, OK? And one more thing — find out all you can for me about Mehnaz Elahi.”

  Why did I marry Maya? This is probably a hell of a time to ask myself that question, with her expecting our first child in eight months. But as I sit next to her in our living room, answering intimate queries posed by a gushingly sympathetic reporter from Woman’s World (“Filmdom’s Dream Marriage”), I find myself asking it all the time. I look at her, hear myself talking about her to the public, gauge the disarming impression of mutual love and affection we are projecting so effortlessly, and wonder what it would be like to interview myself. Off the record, of course.

  What did you see in her? A lovely face, a pretty smile, a gentle vulnerability that made me want to reach out and hold her, protect her against the world. Simplicity, too, of a kind I’d never come across in Delhi. A simple girl, good-natured and kind, with simple tastes, modest, unassuming, soft-spoken. A girl everyone loved.

  Everyone loved her, so you thought you did, too? Well, that wouldn’t be fair. Everyone loved her, so I began to take more notice of her. And when she returned my attention, I felt terribly flattered that the girl everybody admired, admired me.

  And love? Where did that come in? The first time I held her in my arms. It was actually on camera, a scene from Ganwaari. She looked up at me, and there was a kind of light in her eyes. I felt all sorts of emotions run through me that I couldn’t explain or define. I decided it must be love.

  And her? Oh, she loved me. There was no doubt about that.

  Did you want to take her to bed? Yes — and, oddly enough, no. I wanted to take her to bed, once. Very badly. I wanted to be the first man in her life, that way. Introduce her to that world, seal my possession of her. Sort of exercise the rights of a husband. But once I had that, once I was a husband, the need cooled very rapidly. She’s not a very sexy type, really. Small, and thin, and let’s face it, not much of a figure. Looks great in a sari, less great in a salwar-kameez, awful without either. I can’t say I married her to improve my sex life.

  So were you the first man in her life? Funnily enough, I don’t know. I guess so, I mean it’s almost inconceivable that Maya … But there was someone she was close to before me, a minor actor, an inconsequential villain type. I can’t imagine that she’d have gone to bed with him, but then I can’t imagine he’d have not gone to bed with her. The devil of it is, I can’t ask her. I can just see her lip trembling and her eyes watering at the very thought of my doubting her. But …

  And how’s it been? Your sex life? With Maya, not terribly good. It didn’t take me long to realize I’d married someone who reminded me of my mother. After that it was difficult to summon up much desire for her. I mean, I admire the girl, but how can you feel passion for someone you put on a pedestal? I think we’re both relieved she’s pregnant now. Production launched, rehearsals can be suspended.

  And apart from Maya? What kind of question is that? I’m a married man.

  Did that ever stop you? Not really. Well, yes, for a bit. But a man has his needs, you know, and God knows I have the opportunities. Everyone seems to want to bed an actor. You should see some of the fan mail Subramanyam has to process every day. Traditional housewives in Jabalpur write to describe in loving detail what they’d like me to do to them. We just send them a printed postcard in reply, but Subramanyam shows me some of the more extraordinary propositions. And that’s long distance. Here in Bombay, it’s actually worse. Or better, depending on your point of view. It’s always more difficult to turn the girls away than to simply enjoy what comes my way. I mean, come on, no one takes it seriously.

  What about Maya? Well, yes, I suppose she’d take it seriously, if she found out. So a certain amount of discretion has been necessary. I’m not sure how effective it’s been, though. This industry’s full of rumors. Word gets around.

  Why don’t you tell her, directly? Ah, well, yes. But no, not really. I couldn’t do that.

  Why not? I couldn’t. She has a fiery temper, you know, which I never suspected existed. Shows you how premarital appearances can be deceptive. She would erupt. She might just walk out, leave me.

  So what? What do you mean, so what? It was the marriage of the decade, for God’s sake. Not just in the film press — we made the front page of the Times of India. And I don’t want to give her up. It’s not as if I want to marry any of these girls, for Christ’s sake. My marriage to Maya is important to me. If it ends in disgrace, it’ll destroy me.

  Nonsense. The public doesn’t care all that much. Look, being Maya’s husband is part of my image now. People see me not just as Ashok Banjara, but as the guy Maya saw enough in to marry and give up her career for. To go from that to being the guy Maya walked out on — it would finish me, really. And what about my father? He’s grudgingly accepted my profession, now that it’s made me more famous than he is. But one of the first things he said to me about it was, “Son, you’re now a public man. And a public man has public responsibilities. Make sure you live up to yours.” How do you think he’ll react to having his son the centerpiece of a scandalous divorce? Forget it. The costs are too high.

  So
you’re scared. Perhaps, but it’s not just that. Where else would I find a wife like Maya? She’s ideal, man, the nation’s ideal bahu. Half these women I take to the bedroom I wouldn’t be caught dead with in a living room. Maya’s all right. I just wish she’d ease up a bit, stop complaining so much, be a bit more fun to be with.

  And let you sleep with other women. (Silence.)

  Well? I have nothing more to say. This off-the-record interview is over.

  Naw. It’s much easier to deal with Woman’s World. “I was saying all these romantic things to Maya on screen when I realized I meant every word of the dialogue,” I say to the interviewer joshingly, “and which Hindi film actor can afford that? So I had to marry her, before someone changed the script.”

  The woman journalist laughs. When I see her to the door she presses a piece of paper into my hand. After she has left, I see that it contains her private phone number and two words: “any time.”

  For a long moment I look at it, recalling the woman’s skimpy low-cut blouse and readiness to laugh. I push the piece of paper into a pocket. Perhaps some time.

  Cyrus Sponerwalla bursts in while I’m with Subramanyam. His three chins are flapping about as excitedly as the magazine in his hand.

  “Listen to this,” he declaims.

  Darlings, Cheetah is so impressed by Ashok Banjara these days. All of you pets know that I haven’t always thought very highly of our tall-fair-and-handsome hero. But in his recent films the Hungry Young Man has really polished up his moves. In Love in Paris he really brought a certain je ne sais quoi to the hackneyed role of the Indian lover abroad. And reliable sources whisper in my ear that he has a highly developed taste in champagne, Cheetah s favorite drink. No wonder the industry is bubbly over him, eh? Grrrowl …

  He looks up, breathless from reading. “So how about that, hanh? Should do you some good, faith-wise.”

  “Sure, Cyrus,” I grin. “Faith fully restored. Only, next time there’s a bottle to be presented to the lady in question, you go. OK?” He turns to leave. “And Cyrus …”

  “Yes?”

  “Before you do, get some exercise, OK? You’re in no sort of shape for scientific inquiry.”

  Exterior: Day/Night

  JUDAI

  (The Bond)

  “What!” The villains face rises to fill the screen as his voice resounds through the hall.

  “Yes, Thakur. It is written in the stars and in the palm leaves handed down for generations that foretell your family’s destiny. Your sister’s son will bring about your downfall.”

  “Never!” screams Pranay, a short, angry figure in jodhpurs and black boots, a riding crop in his stubby hand. “This shall not come to pass!” He flicks his whip at the pandit who has brought him the news, scattering the learned man’s papers. The Brahmin bends in dismay to pick them up as the feudal Thakur strides purposefully down the immense chandeliered hall, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor.

  In a bedroom of considerably less elegance, the Thakur’s sister, Abha, in the throes of childbirth, heaves and moans. Her blanket is modestly drawn up to her neck, but a few beads of sweat stand on her forehead like the pearls she has been used to wearing in her earlier films. A kindly midwife, Amma, murmurs encouraging words of solicitude. Soon a cry is heard, a baby’s response to the world he has just entered. Amma smiles beatifically.

  But something is wrong — Abha is still in pain! Amma’s saintly brow creases in puzzlement and worry. Abha moans again, gasps. Her body arches under the blanket. “What is happening, beti?” Amma asks anxiously. The answer comes soon, but not from Abha’s lips. A second wail is heard, louder than the first; the two wails form an unmusical duet.

  “Twins!” exclaims Amma. “Abha, you’ve become a mother of twin boys!”

  Abha smiles exhaustedly. Two babies, miraculously clean and umbilicus-less, are placed on her pillow on either side of her. She turns her head from side to side. The babies (somewhat too large to be convincing, but then where can you get newborns to be Junior Artistes?) gurgle happily.

  Outside the bedroom Amma summons a family retainer, Raju, a thin man in a khaki shirt, a brown Nehru cap, and a dustcloth draped over one shoulder. “Abhaji has had twin sons. Go and give the Thakur-sahib the good news.” Raju brings raised palms together in an obedient namaste.

  “Wonderful,” says the Thakur insincerely as Raju, hands still folded in supplication, conveys the glad tidings to him in his chandeliered hall. “We shall distribute sweets in the village. Tell my sister I shall come and see my new nephews tomorrow.” Raju nods, does namaste, and is dismissed.

  He has not gone far, however, when he hears the Thakur summon his sidekick, Kalia, an immense black bald-headed man instantly identified by the audience as a villainous sidekick from scores of other films. Raju stands near a convenient window and listens.

  “Kalia,” Pranay announces, twirling his evil mustache, “the astrologers have forecast my downfall at the hands of my sister’s son. I don’t know which one of these two is destined to oppose me, but the only way to be safe is to kill them both. See that it is done, Kalia — tonight.”

  The swell of background music paints an aural exclamation mark on Raju’s horrified forehead. He gasps in shock, then sets out at a fast clip for Abha’s home.

  “No!” screams Abha, clutching her infants to her considerable bosom. “This cannot be!”

  “It is true, Abhaji,” Raju says sadly, tears in his rheumy eyes.

  “There is only one thing to do,” Amma opines. “You must flee with the babies, somewhere where they will be safe.”

  “But where?” asks Abha in desperation. “Where can I go?” She looks directly at the camera. “If only my husband, the boys’ father, had not been jailed for a crime he did not commit,” she declares for the audience’s benefit, “he would never have let my evil brother do this to me.”

  “What is the use of thinking about him now?” Amma asks impatiently. “You must go soon.”

  “I have a cousin who works in a factory in Bombay,” Raju says. “We can go there. He will get me a job in the factory, and the boys will be safe.”

  “You have no choice,” Amma confirms. “Quick, let me get you ready.”

  Soon they are prepared to leave. Abha removes from around her neck a black string necklace with two talismans hanging from it.

  “Your father gave this to me,” she whispers to the babies. “Now you must have it, for luck.” She snaps the string in two, then ties each half to a baby’s wrist. A close-up reveals a single talisman dangling from each baby’s pudgy arm. The two are identical.

  Exterior: twilight. Raju and Abha are seen running down a path toward a river. Each carries a basket. Thick foliage abounds on both sides.

  “I shall take one basket across,” Raju says, “and then come back for you.”

  He wades across the river, baby and basket aloft. Abha stands at the water’s edge, looking helpless, her own basket heavy in her hand. The music on the sound track is dramatic, suspenseful.

  “There she is!” a voice cries out as the violins explode in a heart-stopping crescendo. Kalia it is, with another bandit by his side, both on horseback. “The babies must be in the basket. Come on, let’s get her!”

  “No!” Abha screams as the horses canter down the path. Raju, three-quarters of the way across the river, looks back in uncertainty. “Go on!” she instructs him. “They haven’t seen you yet. Go on, quickly! I’ll manage on my own somehow.”

  Raju hesitates, hears the horses’ hooves, and wades on. He soon disappears into the foliage on the other side.

  Abha steps into the water, trying to hold the basket high. The current swirls relentlessly around her. “Stop!” cries Kalia, charging onward. “Stop!”

  Abha takes another step forward, stumbles. A shot rings out, then another. She screams. A red stain appears on her blouse. She falls, and the basket slips out of her grasp. With a last despairing wail, she reaches out for it, but the basket is caught by the current an
d floats rapidly downriver.

  “No!” she screams again (her dialogue was easy to learn). The basket disappears, and Abha sinks under the water as Kalia and his accomplice draw their horses up to the rivers edge.

  “Too bad,” says Kalia as Raju, panting, gapes at them through a gap in the jungle shrubbery that he has hidden in. “All drowned, for certain. Well, that’s what the Thakur wanted, wasn’t it?” His partner nods: he has a nonspeaking part.

  “Well, let’s get back to the boss and give him the sad news,” Kalia laughs. “He won’t be too upset: she was only an adoptive sister anyway.” The two wheel their horses around and canter back up the path.

  Raju is seen running, the basket in his hand. The camera cuts to the other basket floating safely on the current. Inside the baby cries, waving a pudgy fist with a black string talisman dangling from his wrist. The waters swirl, Raju runs, the basket floats, the baby cries. And the opening credits fill the screen.

  As the director’s name fades from the screen, the camera pans to a pavement scene in Bombay. A man and a monkey are performing tricks, and they seem to have attracted a larger crowd than such exhibitions usually do in a blasé city. The reason is soon apparent: the man in the lungi, sleeveless shirt, and dirty cap, waving an hourglass-shaped tambouret that clicks rhythmically in tune with his patter, is none other than Ashok Banjara. The crowd that inevitably gathers to watch open-air film shootings is therefore doubling as the monkey-man’s audience.

  “Performing monkey! Come and see!” Ashok calls out, as if to attract even more custom. “Tricks you’ve never seen before!” He rattles his tambouret. “Performing monkey!”

  The monkey hops about on the hot concrete sidewalk. “Come on, Thakur!” Ashok calls out to him. “Do you like these people?” The monkey nods his head. “Are they bad people?” The monkey shakes his head. “Is this lady pretty?” The monkey nods vigorously, sending titters through the crowd and provoking an embarrassed giggle from the extra playing the lady in the throng. “Would you like to marry her, Thakur?” The animal nods again, its eyes opening lustfully wide and eliciting a louder laugh from the spectators. The lady now looks decidedly uncomfortable. “Do you think she’ll marry you?” The monkey slowly, sadly, shakes his head. This time the lady joins in the appreciative laughter.