“And where do you think you’re going?” he asks sardonically. The red stains on his lips look like blood.
It all happens very quickly. Abha pulls out her revolver. Pranay’s whip cracks, and the gun clatters harmlessly to the floor. She cries out, holding her hand in pain. He laughs and again cracks his whip. This time it is Ashok who screams. Pranay is enjoying himself. He advances, the whip snaking out repeatedly, with a noise like a pistol shot. Ashok is hit once more, but then dodges, jumps. Pranay is unperturbed; he enjoys the challenge. “Dance, Inspector Ashok!” he snarls with each flick of his weapon. Ashok sidesteps him nimbly. Pranay strikes, the look of arrogant cruelty on his face turning to one of surprise as Ashok catches the cord of the whip in midlash.
Our hero grips the whip and wraps it around his hand, drawing his tormentor toward him. Pranay tugs at the whip handle, but in vain. Ashok pulls him irresistibly closer. As he nears Ashok, Pranay flings the stock of the whip viciously at our hero. Ashok dodges it. Pranay lunges for the gun on the floor. He is about to reach it when the whip strikes him across the hand. He looks stupidly at a red weal rising on the back of it. Now it is Ashok who has the whip. “Dance, villain!” he barks. The whip descends again, and a streak of red appears on the villain’s cheek, competing with the gash of red across his narrow mouth. Pranay dances as the whip swishes repeatedly through the air, catching him on the legs, the arms, the behind. (The moralists in the twenty-five-paisa seats really enjoy this bit. You should hear them laughing and cheering in the aisles.)
Abha picks up the revolver and tosses it to Ashok, who flings the whip aside. “Come on,” he says to the whimpering Pranay. “You lead us out.” Pranay, clutching his arm, hobbles down the corridor with Ashok’s gun pointing at his back. They reach a doorway guarded by two Black Cheetahs. A control panel embedded in the rock next to the doorway glows red. “That’s the way out,” Abha breathes. “The switch is on that panel.”
“Go on,” Ashok orders Pranay with an ungentle dig of the gun into his back. “Tell your goons not to obstruct us, or you’ll end up with more holes than a Calcutta road.”
Pranay hoarsely obliges. “Let them go,” he instructs the commandos. “Open the door.” Reluctantly the Black Cheetahs move toward the control panel.
“Stop!” There is no mistaking the voice. It contains enough gravel to resurface even Calcutta’s roads.
The group spins around. Godambo stands there, huge and hairless, his cape swirling round him. There is no sign of the cheetah. “Don’t touch that panel,” he instructs his commandos.
“B-boss,” Pranay bleats.
“Open that door, or Pranay gets it,” Ashok shouts.
“That incompetent? Who let himself be captured this way?” snarls Godambo. “Shoot him. You’d be doing me a favor.”
The group is frozen in indecision. Godambo advances.
“If they try to move anywhere near the control panel,” he tells his Black Cheetahs, “shoot them. Even if you have to shoot Pranay first.” Pranay winces; his master laughs gutturally. “Drop that gun, Inspector Ashok,” he says. “Nice try, but it’s all over for you.”
Ashok tries to look defiant, but the truth of Godambo’s conclusion is evident. The gun wavers in his hand.
“Let me do it for you, mighty Godambo.” This is Abha! Ashok and Maya stare at her in shock. She pulls the gun out of Ashok’s surprised hand. “You didn’t really think I’d deserted you, did you, mighty Godambo?” she asks as she walks over to him, the gun in her hand.
Godambo laughs with pleasure. “Agent Abha … ,” he begins, then stops as the barrel of the revolver presses into his ribs.
“You were saying … ?” Abha asks.
(Maya smiles in relief, and the twenty-five-paisa seats erupt in cheers.)
“Don’t be silly, Abha,” Godambo growls. “Think of your parents. Your home.”
“I do,” she replies. “And I’m just trying to make sure you will no longer be in any position to harm them.”
Godambo’s eyes turn round with rage.
“Tell them to drop their guns.” She gestures at the Cheetahs and presses her revolver in more deeply.
“Do what she says,” grunts Godambo.
The black-clad commandos drop their submachine guns. Ashok picks them up, slings one over his shoulder, and holds the other one. “All right, Godambo,” he announces. “You’re coming with us.” He turns toward the switch on the control panel.
Suddenly, with a swing of his cape, Godambo knocks Abha’s hand aside. A swift blow to her wrist and the revolver falls to the ground. Godambo, clutching Abha like a shield, backs away toward the interior. “Now try and shoot me!” he laughs, as Abha flails helplessly in his grip. Ashok raises a gun, realizes it’s hopeless: he would hit Abha. Godambo breaks into a run. Ashok follows. “After him!” shouts Pranay, waving on the disarmed commandos in hot pursuit. Maya, alone and neglected, cowers near the doorway, her hands to her mouth. “ Bhaiya!” she screams in warning. Ashok looks briefly behind him and pauses to release a burst of semiautomatic fire at his pursuers. One of the commandos falls.
Ashok resumes his chase. Godambo is running into his cavernous throne room. This time the pillars are unprotected, but the fountains still play and the pool gleams dully in the neon light. Godambo drags Abha toward his throne. Ashok enters the room and runs across the marbled floor. Pranay and the surviving commando are hot on his heels.
Godambo reaches his throne and stretches a hand toward the armrest.
Abha screams, “Ashok! The floor!”
Godambo jabs a finger on the button. Ashok is still running when the floor opens up beneath him.
He jumps.
In a glorious, fluid leap, immortalized by the camera in poetic slow motion — a leap that would comfortably have won India its first Olympic gold medal in athletics were it reproducible without special effects — Ashok flies over the yawning chasm under his feet, as his weapons fall discarded into the abyss. Ashok’s pursuers are not so fortunate. Pranay and the Black Cheetah, with despairing yells, make their fatal splash. The shark fin dives, and as finale the subsidiary villain is accorded only a few glugs of farewell.
Ashok lands on his feet on the other side of the pool. Godambo presses another button, and a loud siren wails through the complex. Red lights flash and blink along the walls. Doors open, corridors fill with the scudding feet of Black Cheetahs.
“You’re finished now, Inspector Ashok,” Godambo declares emphatically.
As soon as she hears the siren, Maya presses the switch on the control panel. The red indicator on the panel turns to green, and the door slides open. There is the clatter of booted feet from the outside.
“Shabash” says a deep voice. Yes, it is the stern and slim Iftikhar, complete with pencil-line mustache! As a truckload of khaki-uniformed policemen trot into the cavern, assault rifles at the ready, he has a brief word of explanation for Maya. “Your Amma called me,” he says. “We followed Ashok’s motorcycle tracks here, but were unable to get in.”
The policemen take positions and a shoot-out follows, five minutes of meticulously choreographed anarchy. Black Cheetahs emerge on high walkways, spray bullets from their submachine guns, and plunge gorily to their deaths. The celluloid policemen, using weaponry unknown in the armories of their real-life counterparts, shoot indiscriminately, shattering flashing red lights and blasting rock off the rough-hewn walls, but miraculously bring their enemies tumbling down. Grenades are thrown, and little bursts of flame add color to the occasion. The bloodthirsty rural cinemagoers get their twenty-five paise’s worth.
Meanwhile, inside the throne room Godambo curses as his henchmen are clearly getting the worst of the raging battle. Ashok stands poised to attack, but he is weaponless now and Godambo holds Abha tightly.
“This is all your doing, Inspector Ashok,” he snarls.
“I thought you said you could crush me with one hand tied behind your back, Godambo,” Ashok retorts. “But I see you still prefer to shelt
er behind a woman.”
Godambo’s pride is stung. Uttering an oath, he viciously flings Abha aside. She falls to the floor with a stifled cry. “Abha!” Ashok shouts.
“Don’t worry about me,” the heroine breathes. “Get him.”
Ashok has no time to express concern as Godambo, eyes horribly wide and teeth horrifyingly bared, leaps on him with both hands. They fall to the floor. Godambo’s powerful fingers are at Ashok’s throat. Ashok brings his knee up and into Godambo’s midriff: that relieves the pressure. Both men rise. Fists encounter flesh: dishoom! dishoom! Bodies crash into furniture. A right uppercut from Ashok sends Godambo smashing into the console. A left hook from Godambo puts Ashok head first through the screen. Miraculously unharmed by these calisthenics, the two men expand the locale for their fisticuffs. Godambo leaps over the throne, cape flying. Ashok follows. Godambo reaches a door, kicks Ashok, and opens it. Ashok recovers, follows. The two men are now on an outdoor ledge, overlooking the sea. (Why? Because it would make for a more spectacular climax, that’s why. More demanding viewers may assume Godambo was hoping to escape that way.) More dishoom! dishoom! follows. Both men fall, pick themselves up, hit again.
A growl is heard. A grrrowl, in fact. Abha screams: “Ashok! The cheetah!” Ashok, his hands at Godambo’s throat, looks back in horror. It is Godambo’s pet, now grown almost to full size. The villain’s wide eyes gleam. “Cheetah, come!” he commands. The animal takes in what is happening and growls menacingly. Then, with a single powerful bound, it leaps toward its master and his attacker.
Ashok steps aside.
“No-o-o-o!” cries Godambo, but it is too late. The animal lands squarely on his chest. Godambo reaches out to try to save himself, then with a last gravelly cry of despair, topples in slow motion into the sea. His confused pet follows him.
The camera lingers lovingly on Godambo’s falling torso, the cape swirling around him like a defective parachute. At last he hits the water, with a satisfying splash. The camera stays long enough on the spot to convince the viewer that he does not come up again. Only then does Ashok turn to Abha, a new light in his eyes.
She runs into his arms. He clasps her in their seventh tight embrace.
They are outside now, where a few lugubrious Black Cheetahs are being energetically herded into police vans.
”Shabash, Ashok,” says Iftikhar. Ashok smiles, hugs Abha, and reaches out an arm to Maya. The sound track swells with the theme song, this time sung by the two women:
You are the long arm of the law,
You always show villains the door.
By day or by night
You handle any fight
And put all the bad men on the floor!
They look like one small happy family, smiling for the camera until the words THE END fill up the screen.
[Note: this is an abbreviated version of the story. For reasons of space and stamina, we have omitted one puja, two tearful scenes before Ashok’s father’s photograph, an entire comic subplot featuring a domestic servant in a Gandhi cap and a fat woman in a nightdress, and four songs.]
Monologue: Night
PRANAY
Your first hit. Godambo. Your first big hit, in only your second film. You always had it easy, Ashok. Just had to open your mouth sufficiently to move the silver spoon to one side, and producers scrambled to say yes. Actresses too.
Who’d have believed it? None of us took your chances very seriously, not even when Jagannath Choubey cast you in that first film, Musafir with Abha. OK, Abha’s was still a name to be reckoned with in the industry, but mainly for those with good memories. She wasn’t the hottest property around by any means, no longer ranking beside the likes of Sharmila Tagore and Raakhee as a crowd-puller, but you could have done worse. I mean, you could have ended up with a fresh graduate from the Film Institute, or one of those desperate starlets who’ve done the unimaginable to get a lead role but who’ll never convince anyone, least of all the audience, that she is heroine material. That would have condemned her and you to permanent eclipse. Which, frankly, was what everyone expected. Especially me.
But it worked, or worked well enough to keep you in business. There was that “I shall always chase you” song, which became a hit even before the movie was released, with every street corner mastaan and Eve-teaser in India singing it to accompany and justify their unwelcome pursuits. The film itself didn’t do as badly as the industry thought it would, so by default it was seen as something of a success. Some of us thought you were pretty wooden, frankly, and your dancing was embarrassing. But it was obvious that the experts had got it wrong. None more so than that harridan Radha Sabnis, the dreaded Cheetah of Showbiz:
Darlings, does the name Ashok Banjara ring a bell with you pussycats? [How would it? She’d called you Anil the last time.] That’s right, he’s the long-legged type with the political connections who came with the tablecloth at Bollywood parties. Can you believe it, darlings, this would-be abhineta with the looks of a second-rate garage mechanic actually made it into the passenger seat! Yes, he has a starring role in Jagannath Choubey’s latest masala movie, Musafir, opposite Daddy’s old favorite, Abha Patel. Rumor has it that the evergreen heroine has had more face-lifts than her hero’s had dance lessons. Not very promising, pussycats! Choubey seems to have a maha flop on his hands. And where will that leave his poor twinkling little stars? Banjara, of course, can always go back to light up the corners of the party circuit, but what will poor dear Abha do? Nothing military about the lady, but she should know that dimming stars are like old soldiers — they just fade away. Grrrowl!
Well, it didn’t work out quite like that, did it? Cheetah didn’t chatter too much about you after that. Musafir didn’t lose money; in fact, I believe it made some. And then Choubey went and cast you with Abha again in Godambo, and the rest, as they say, is history. His story. Your story.
Lucky bastard. Never again will you need to play the hero in a movie named after the villain.
What do you know, Ashok Banjara, of what it’s really like to try and make it as an actor in Hindi films? I’ll tell you, I should know. I grew up in the bloody industry. My father was an assistant to a big-name director, but he never graduated beyond being an assistant director. He had work, but never much money. In school I tried to drop names about the stars we knew, but that never impressed the kids for long when it became obvious that there wasn’t any money to go with the glamour. I was always the kid who didn’t throw a birthday party, because quite simply my parents couldn’t afford to pay for one. Ma made rice kheer for dessert, sometimes Papa bought a cheap toy in the bazaar or took me for a pony ride at the Bandstand, and that was the extent of the celebration. In my entire childhood I never had a birthday cake. But I was growing up in a world where every other kid I came in contact with got to choose the flavor of the cake and had his name written on it with icing. That became my great aspiration: to have a birthday cake one day, with my name on it. It took me a while to fulfill that ambition. The moment I could afford it, on my twenty-fourth birthday, I ordered the hugest, most expensive chocolate cake I could find and had “Happy Birthday Pranay” inscribed on it in letters an inch high. There were glazed-icing flowers and marzipan rosebuds and little silver balls you could bite into. I had everything put on it, everything. And then I took it home and ate it all by myself. I hated it. I was sick for days afterward. But I really felt I had achieved something, that I had arrived.
I grew up in a two-room flat in Matunga, you know, in the unfashionable suburbs. Slept on the floor. That wasn’t so bad; the real problem was the bathroom. We shared one filthy bathroom with eight other families on the same floor. Everyone wanted it first thing in the morning, so you had to keep getting up earlier and earlier in order to beat your neighbors to it; otherwise you were bound to be late for school or work. By the time I did my matric I was getting up at 4:30 just to be able to use the bathroom. I’ll never forget what it was like to grope my way in the dark, stand on that slimy floor, and feel some nam
eless creature slither across my feet just before I switched on the light. To do that every day, day after day, week after week, with no prospect of anything ever changing. What did you know of that, hanh, Ashok Banjara?
Sometimes, thanks to my father’s work, we would be invited to some star’s house for a special occasion — Diwali, or a wedding or something. That was the biggest event in our lives. I would spend every day looking forward to the visit. It didn’t matter if nobody even noticed my existence there, just stepping into a house like Raj Kapoor’s or Sunil Dutt’s made life worth living. At the first opportunity I would go into the bathroom — one of the bathrooms, because they all had so many in their homes — and just stand there, on the marble or mosaic-tile floor, just breathing in the reality of being in a bathroom like that. I would run my stubby hands along the chrome towel racks, caress the porcelain sinks, open the shower just to imagine what it might be like not to have to dip stagnant water out of a plastic bucket each time you had a bath. I would sit on the commode even when I didn’t need to go, unravel the toilet paper — who in Matunga had even heard of toilet paper? — and roll it back again.
And I would wash my ugly and callused hands. Incessantly, obsessively, wash them. I would make repeated visits to every bathroom in the rich guy’s house and wash my hands, running creamy soap over the rough skin, over fingernails I had nervously bitten down to the very edges. I can’t remember very much else of what I did at those places, but I would always come home with the cleanest hands in Bombay, the skin of my palms white-dry and wrinkled with all the water I’d poured on them, fragrant with the delicious, unattainable, unplaceable smell of imported soap.