Show Business

  Ashok dutifully echoes his guru: “Sa-ri-ga-ma-pa-da-ni-sa.”

  “Not bad,” says the maestro. “But there is something missing.” He taps his belly, producing a percussion note like a cork being pulled out of a bottle, and resumes. “Sa-ri-ga-ma-pa-da-ni-sa.”

  Ashok also tosses his head. “Sa-ri-ga-ma-pa-da-ni-sa.”

  “You’re getting it,” says the maestro. “See, it’s simple:

  Sa, sambar, a Southie dish,

  Ri, what the Frenchies call our rice;

  Ga, gaga, as the Bongs are about fish,

  Ma, mother, ain’t her cooking nice?

  Pa, the man always served first,

  Da, daal, the food for healthy chaps,

  Ni, nimbu pani for our thirst,

  and that brings us back to sa—saag paneer perhaps?

  Ashok’s brow unfurrows in comprehension. “You’re hungry,” he says.

  “I thought you’d never get it,” sighs the maestro. “Music may be the food of love, but the love of music requires food. Let’s eat.”

  As they wrap themselves around the contents of a thali served by uniformed menials, Ashok asks the maestro how good he really is. “Really, not bad at all,” replies his instructor, professionally noncommittal. “What made you want to take up singing?”

  The camera lingers in close-up on Ashok’s poignantly inexpressive face. “A friend left me once, some years ago,” he says, a faraway gaze in his eyes. “When she left, I felt she had taken the music out of my life. I decided to replace her somehow within myself.”

  ”Wah, wah,” responds Asrani heartily. It is not clear whether his appreciation is for the sentiment or the food.

  There follow a couple of scenes that establish Ashok in conventional domesticity: scenes involving his dutiful wife and beautiful children. (Note: to be fleshed out if Mr. Banjara accepts the role.) Meanwhile, Mehnaz goes from success to success. She is shown dancing in overflowing halls to standing ovations, receiving prizes and awards, and being featured on posters and in neon lights. (Note: at least one very good song here showing Ms. Elahi dancing, with five costume changes to mark her progress and establish different occasions.)

  In some scenes Mehnaz is accompanied by her manager, Pranay, an energetic operator who is seen organizing backstage, berating auditorium managers, arranging for Mehnaz to be garlanded. One day, as Mehnaz emerges fresh from a stage triumph, Pranay clasps her in a joyous embrace. “Wonderful!” he exclaims. “I say, Mehnaz, why don’t you and I do something?”

  “What?” she asks innocently.

  “Get married.”

  Mehnaz averts her exquisite face so only the camera can see the pain in her eyes. “I am sorry, Pranay, but I cannot.”

  “Why not? Do you have a better friend than me in the whole world?”

  “No, of course not, Pranay,” says Mehnaz. “You’re a wonderful friend, and a great manager. It’s not you. I shall never marry—anybody.”

  Pranay is bewildered. “But why?” “I gave my heart once to a man, many years ago,” she says. “I cannot love anyone else ever again.” “Who is this man?” asks Pranay angrily.

  Mehnaz does not answer. But in the very next scene the man in question is about to give his first public performance as a singer. And he is introduced fulsomely to a large audience by none other than his own father, Old Mr. Anti-Entertainers himself, Seth Godambo.

  “As you know, my son’s profession is business,” Godambo orates. “And in this domain he has worked with me to create a place for himself in this community as an upstanding citizen. But what is not so widely known is that he also has a musical soul. And he has kindly agreed today, under the able guidance and instruction of Pandit Asrani”—the maestro, his mouth full of paan, takes an affable bow— “to sing for you today, all in the cause of charity, of course.” Godambo nods, and on cue, the extras break into thunderous applause.

  His aesthetic inclinations thus rendered respectable, Ashok launches into his lament:

  Where are you, my love?

  I wait for light from the stars above.

  You have taken my heart

  And hid it from view,

  They have kept us apart

  And rid me of you.

  Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

  Where she is, is right there, for, unnoticed by the singer, Mehnaz Elahi has slipped into the audience, and she listens to him sing with tears glistening in her eyes.

  The show is over, and Ashok is standing, palms joined in respectful namaskar, as a succession of elders and strangers congratulate him on his performance. Abha and Godambo are in another part of the hall, conversing animatedly. Suddenly the look of distant politeness on Ashok’s face vanishes as a soft voice cuts through the hubbub near him. “You sang beautifully, Ashok.” Our hero looks up in shock at Mehnaz standing among the throng, which considerately melts away.

  “You! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m supposed to be dancing on this stage tomorrow,” she says. (Note: perhaps we ought to give her a stage name as well, to explain why Ashok hasn’t heard of her coming.) “I got here early and thought I would look at the auditorium. And I heard you.”

  Their eyes meet, and it is obvious even to the villagers in the twenty-five-paisa seats that nothing has changed between them. “Why did you leave me that day, without even a word?” he asks urgently. “Because you were getting married to someone your parents had arranged and you didn’t even tell me,” Mehnaz replies. “Me? But—that’s not true!” Ashok exclaims. “You mean you’re not married?” she asks. “To Lala Chhoturmal’s daughter?” Ashok admits he is, “but only because you left me …”

  Before they can go much further, Abha calls, “Ashok?” She walks up to them. “Ashok, some people there are waiting to see you, friends of Daddy’s,” she announces. “Come along now.” There is time for the women to exchange a formal namaskar before Abha drags her husband away. Mehnaz stares after them for a long moment, then turns and leaves.

  The next evening: another Mehnaz dance, another song with a familiar echo:

  My heart beats for you,

  I’d perform feats for you,

  You are the landlord of my soul;

  My eyes light for you,

  I’d gladly fight for you,

  Without you I don’t feel whole.

  At the end, as the rapturous audience files out, Ashok battles his way backstage. Mehnaz is in her dressing room removing an earring when Ashok enters and shuts the door behind him. “You dropped a piece of jewelry, Mehnazji,” he says quietly. He stretches out his hand; in it sparkles the silver bracelet with the dancing goddess rampant at the clasp.

  Mehnaz looks at it for a long time, her hands frozen in their earlier position at her earlobe. “So you really did keep it for me,” she says at last.

  “All these years,” breathes Ashok.

  She reaches out a hand to take it from him, and his own closes on hers.

  “Mehnaz, I have waited so long for you.”

  She doesn’t move. “You haven’t waited,” she says. “You’re a married man.”

  “That—that was for my parents,” Ashok pleads. “For society. Besides, you had left me. What could I do?”

  “I only left you when I learned about your marriage,” she says.

  “That couldn’t be,” Ashok responds. Then it strikes him. “Who told you I was getting married?”

  “Your father, of course,” replies Mehnaz. “Wasn’t it you who sent him to me …?”

  And then, as the enormity of the deception, and of their own mistakes, dawns on them, explanations give way to a clinging embrace. Mehnaz tries to resist, but Ashok is insistent. “So many wasted years to make up for,” he says. She succumbs, and as they fall upon the bed the camera focuses on the ceiling fan whirring rhythmically above.

  The next few scenes show the progress of the relationship, including one more flowery song in a rose garden. But gardens are public places, and their chlorophyllous clinch is seen by Pranay, wh
o grits his teeth in jealous fury. “Can’t give her love to any man, huh?” he snarls. “We’ll see about that.”

  It is evening at Ashok’s home. Abha confronts him quietly, with all the deference of the traditional Hindu wife. “You are not home very often these days, my husband,” she says. “Daddy says you are not at the office much either. Is something the matter, Ashok?”

  “It doesn’t concern you,” Ashok replies disingenuously.

  “I believe it does,” Abha insists. “It is that dancing girl, isn’t it? You’ve been seeing her.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Does it matter? But it is true.” Abha sobs.

  “Look, Abha, I don’t mean to hurt you. But this is a woman to whom I gave my heart before I married you.”

  “I am the woman to whom you gave your vow. What about me and our child? If your heart was already pledged, you had no right to plight it to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ashok says, looking it.

  “This came for you today.” Abha extends a scrap of paper. “Oh, Ashok, please stop what you’re doing. I’m frightened.”

  On the paper, in a minatory scrawl, are the words “KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY WOMAN OR YOU’RE A DEAD MAN.”

  “There must be some mistake,” Ashok says. “Mehnaz has no one else.”

  “Oh, Ashok, please stop it,” Abha pleads tearfully. “Promise me you won’t see her again.”

  “I can’t.” Ashok looks miserable. “I’m sorry.” And two faces, one tear-stained, the other anguished, stare devastated into the camera.

  Another performance by Mehnaz: this time Abha is in the auditorium, defiantly by her husband’s side. Pranay stands in the wings and glowers alternately at his star and her lover. As Mehnaz, payals jingling, describes her feelings with fluid, circular motions of her arms, she trills:

  So we have loved, why be afraid?

  We have loved, we haven’t robbed a bank.

  For our love, we’ve just ourselves to thank.

  It’s ours, not for others to trade.

  So we have loved, why be afraid?

  So we have loved, where lies the shame?

  We have loved, we haven’t hit and run.

  Our love’s as natural as the sun.

  Just the two of us need breathe its name.

  So we have loved, where lies the shame?

  Abha, stony-faced, nestles closer to Ashok in her seat. Mehnaz addresses the song directly to him. Pranay takes time off from gritting his teeth to take generous swigs from a bottle of Vat 69 in the wings.

  After the show the inevitable occurs. (This is, after all, a Hindi film.) Overruling Abha, Ashok goes to greet Mehnaz. Pranay, his speech slurred, accosts him. Ashok tells him to sleep off his drunkenness. Pranay lashes out. There is a fistfight, the only one in the film. Ashok shows his stuff, and Pranay is left considerably the worse for wear. “Next time,” he whispers as the blood dribbles down his chin, “next time I will use a gun.”

  The following day: Abha goes to Mehnaz, who admits her in courteous surprise. “I am his dharampatni,” Abha says, his eternal wife. They have a child, Ashok has a future in his father’s business. The lives of so many are at stake, above all the happiness of an innocent infant. She earnestly pleads with Mehnaz to relinquish her husband.

  Mehnaz is moved. “I have been selfish in seeking to extract a small bit of happiness for myself and Ashok. But I now see that it is at your expense, and that of your child. Never fear, Abha. As a woman I know what love means. I will do the right thing.” (If there are still any dry eyes in the house, the strains of violins on the sound track should be enough to produce tears in them.)

  The climactic scene: Ashok and Mehnaz are on stage, performing together. Our hero sits on a dhurrie, singing, while Mehnaz dances around him. The song is familiar, but the lyrics have changed:

  ASHOK:

  Where are you, my love?

  Of you I can’t have enough.

  You have taken my heart

  And kept it with you,

  Now no one can start

  To part me from you.

  Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

  MEHNAZ:

  Where are you, my love?

  You float away like the clouds above.

  You have taken my heart

  And made my life new,

  But now we must part

  For Í must give you your due.

  Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

  Ashok looks troubled by this departure from the script, but Abha, in the audience, understands the sacrifice Mehnaz will make, and her eyes fill with tears.

  But it’s not yet over. As the song goes on, Pranay appears in the wings, his eyes bloodshot, his feet unsteady. He is carrying a gun.

  The audience of extras cannot see him; the movie audience can. Ashok, his back to the wings, cannot see him either; nor at first can Mehnaz. But as she turns in her dance, she realizes to her horror that Pranay has raised his weapon and is aiming it directly at Ashok. She throws herself directly on her lover as Pranay fires—once, twice, the bark of the revolver punctuating the music and bringing the sound track to a screeching halt.

  There are screams, Abha’s the loudest. She rushes up onto the stage. Mehnaz lies in Ashok’s arms, blood oozing from her wounds. Pranay breaks down, crying, “Oh, Mehnaz, what have I done?” He is promptly handcuffed by two culturally inclined policemen. Ashok cradles our heroine’s head in his hands. Abha kneels by her side. “Call a doctor!” Ashok shouts. But Mehnaz smiles poignantly and shakes her head.

  “It’s too late,” she says faintly. “I don’t have much longer. Give me your hand.” Abha obliges. With difficulty, Mehnaz moves Abha’s hand toward Ashok’s and joins them. Close-up: husband and wife’s hands linked forever, smeared by the blood of the Other Woman.

  “Mehnaz,” Ashok pleads, “don’t leave me.” She smiles sadly. “I would have left you anyway,” she breathes. “Be good to Abha.”

  Then the light dies in her eyes, and a drop of red blood drips onto the medallion of the dancing goddess at her wrist. Ashok and Abha look at each other.

  “She was,” Abha says, “a truly noble woman.”

  Closing shot: Ashok stands with his arm around Abha, a child by their side, as the flames from Mehnaz’s funeral pyre lick up to a bloodred sky. The long notes of “Where are you, my love?” fill the sound track and on the flames appear the words

  THE END.

  Interval

  EXTRACTS FROM “CHEETAH’S CHATTER,’ SHOWBIZ MAGAZINE

  DARLINGS, nothing can really shock your worldly Cheetah, but shouldn’t we draw the line at bigamy? Rumors have reached our scalded ears that one of our more irrepressible shooting stars, who used to be called up-and-commg for more reasons than one, has been going around whispering about a secret marriage to a megastar! The libel laws don’t allow Cheetah the dubious pleasure of purring their names, sweethearts, but the hitch is, the hero in question is already hitched!! Of course, if you want to give his ladylove the benefit of the doubt, he could have converted to Islam for the purpose, since that considerate faith allows a legal escape from the monotony of monogamy, but Cheetah has seen no evidence of that — and believe me, wicked ones, Cheetah knows where to look! Grrowl…

  MORE, DARLINGS, on the mysterious marital goings-on around Bollywood. Remember Cheetah told you last week about the star who’d allegedly put his light into eclipse by “marrying” one of his satellites? To be honest, little cubs, your Cheetah didn’t take it all too seriously, because the uninhibited source of the story isn’t exactly famous for needing a wedding ring before making the bedding sing. Why would anyone, let alone the straying superstar in question, need to marry her? Or so Cheetah thought, and that was fair enough, wouldn’t you say, darlings? Well, the lady (and we may as well call her that, until the mystery man says, “that’s no lady, that’s my wife!”) is deeply offended by Cheetah’s suggestion that she has been playing fast and loose with (among other things) the truth. The newly respectable Mrs. say
s she can even name the temple where the ceremony actually occurred! Can you believe it, darlings, a temple! After all, God only knows what goes on in Bollywood, eh? Grrrowl…

  PARDON MY BREATHLESSNESS, darlings, but things are really hotting up in Bollywood’s Bigamous Boudoirs! Remember the trail your Cheetah has relentlessly sniffed out over the last few weeks? Well, it certainly seems that there’s some fire beneath the smoke, after all. The jungle tom-toms tell Cheetah that a garland was indeed draped around one of the screen’s more swanlike necks, though it’s other portions of her anatomy that usually need draping! The suhaag story is only marred by the fact that the man is already married. And that his original dharampatni is far from amused. Bollywood’s know-it-alls speak in hushed whispers of her righteous fury when the Other Woman’s name is even mentioned. Which is more than slightly awkward, since the three of them are actually doing a movie together! What a set of tangled vines for Cheetah’s little cubs to figure out, eh? Just put two and two together and you’ll come up with a ménage à trois! Grrrrowl…

  TO MOVE to more mundane matters, darlings, what is arch-villain Pranay doing making so many trips to the land of Araby? Cheetah’s invariably well-informed sources speak of many a flying visit to the modern souks of Dubai, which of course is better spelled “Do-buy.” So villainy must be paying! It seems the man with the evil mustache is much seen in the company of an expatriate desi businessman, Nadeem Elahi, who is reported to be in “import-export.” Now there’s a phrase that conceals a multitude of sins, eh, darlings? But it wouldn’t be fair of Cheetah to point out that the principal export of Dubai, at least until oil came along, was gold to our own ill-protected shores, would it? No, Cheetah much prefers some more innocent explanation. Really, with our filmi smuggler’s thinning hair, it would be too too boring if life imitated art so baldly! Grrrowl…