When Strangers Meet (50000 ebooks sold): 3 in 1 Box Set

by K. Hari Kumar

  He had to be strong and act wisely, swiftly. He closed his eyes, and started raising his hand to stab her.

  ‘… and CUT!’ came the order from behind. The baritone carried the sharpness that could cut through the hardest of rocks. Manav Gandhi had the best decade of his life and with every blockbuster he delivered, the sharpness in his voice only intensified. However without giving a glance back on the monitor he got up from the director’s chair and started walking out of the set. Anirudha Shah, the cinematographer pulled his face off the camera’s interface and turned around to see the look of satisfaction on the face of the acclaimed director, an expression that was very rare to find after the first take. All he could see was the backside of the 6 feet inch frame fading into the fog that was created artificially for the scene. The other technicians on the set had their feet moving again upon hearing the term cut from the director. The first assistant director was busy cross checking the continuity of the shot with the spot-editor. Nobody took note of the Director leaving the set except for Anirudha, but he knew his director very well for this was the fifth time the two were collaborating for a Hindi feature film. Manav Gandhi would not say cut until he is sure by a hundred and twenty per cent. Besides, Anirudha knew Manav was going through something more serious at the moment. He passed a gentle smile and announced on behalf of his director, ‘Pack up! Well done guys!’ The switch for chaotic joy was pressed.

  Far away from the commotion, Manav alternated with holding himself tight and letting loose, reflecting the instability surfacing out of his mind. The mind that was responsible for 5 back to back blockbusters was now tying itself into a dead knot. The set was created in the middle of a jungle in the hill station of Ooty to resemble an ancient alien cave. The feeling of isolation and a horror that tasted Goth was what Manav had in his mind and that was exactly why he decided to shoot it there. He twisted his feet over the narrow pathway paved by footmarks; he closed in towards the cliff, very commonly tipped as ‘The suicide point’ by the locals. He walked towards the edge; he could see the mist and horror of depth down below. He closed his eyes. All those scenes from his movies that depicted death flashed in front of his mind, as if there was a screen inside his eye lashes where the scenes were being projected at an extremely low frame rate. They were all scenes from his movie, but here he was standing at the suicide point. He opened his eyes while his left hand went straight for the kurta’s pocket. He garnered an awfully pouched pack of Marlboro and a steel body lighter. In the spark of a moment, the cigarette was lit and the celebrated filmmaker stood there watching into the nothingness projected from the suicide point on the Doddabeta peak. He smoked in and then puffed out warm smoke into the chilled air of the hills.

  He stood there… reflecting into the wilderness of his mind. The fear of being exiled by true love had captivated his thoughts and his conscience had a raised a question that outnumbered his very existence. He wanted to end it all. He wanted to face his conscience again. He had run quite far only to be fooled by the belief that running away from his conscience would save him from facing it again. Every time he ran away, he would stop at a point to look back if it was there, and he wouldn’t see it. With a mild satisfaction his mind would turn back again only to find his conscience standing right in front of him, stronger than before, imposing a heavier feeling of guilt. It was time to face it.

  ‘Pack up!’ he said to himself as he exhaled a heavy line of smoke. He had decided to call off his stint as a filmmaker with those words.

  He heard that voice again.

  The quaint voice of a child... an infant... soft as a kitten...haunting as a spirit!

  2

  Mumbai, 26 November 2017

  ‘The entire Bollywood fraternity was taken by shock last night when acclaimed filmmaker Manav Gandhi announced his retirement on a micro-blogging site.’ The young female reporter spoke in her highly piercing voice, reflecting off the surface of her cylindrical spectacle lenses were the bright light from the halogen source, she adjusted her glasses to avoid blinking of her eye and continued, ‘He had tweeted last night from his handle these very words, It is high time… bidding goodbye to #cinema… for good… for bad… for the unknown between and beyond… thank u all for ur love… Alvida,’ she paused to give away a derivative puncture to her narration and continued, ‘this is exactly what he had tweeted last night from his verified profile and the only question that arises in our mind is… why? Why would a person who gave five blockbuster movies in a short span of ten years give up cinema when he’s only thirty five years old! What could lead such a dynamic young man to make such a baffling decision? Many people believe that he is sick, while others believe there could be the involvement of the Mumbai underworld. Whatever may the reason be, the validity of this statement has surely stirred a huge row in the Indian film industry and will be a huge loss for all of us. With cameraman Narendra Prasad, this is Pakhi Dutta for Mumbai Today.’ The reporter quickly packed the microphone into her bag and threw it into the backseat of the news van. The cameraman undid his camera and placed it gently on the backseat along with Pakhi’s bag pack and climbed into the driver’s seat, his alternate job.

  Pakhi got into the side seat and shut the door hard, the entire van trembled to a metallic thud, ‘This is not the end, there’s something very fishy about such a decision and I am going to get to the root of it!’ She declared to herself.

  ‘Chill! Why are you so worried? The editor wants you to cover America’s counter-terrorism operations in North Africa, it will be your biggest story, why waste time on some Bollywood guy?’ Narendra poised.

  ‘How would you know, you hardly watch films,’ she accused him, ‘this man my dear, is perhaps the most successful director in the history of Indian cinema itself and if he is quitting at this age, there must be something terribly wrong. His last film with all new faces grossed a stunning₹400 crore worldwide! Can you actually believe that? Even Salman Khan’s films haven’t touched that score yet.’

  ‘You’re such a fan of this Manav guy! Like teenage girls… you are obsessed, simple as that!’ Narendra smirked as he turned the vehicle key. The rusty van came into motion and they slowly started moving through the thickly crowded SV Marg near Andheri Station.

  ‘You don’t appreciate good cinema or I guess you are simply jealous that someone younger than you has achieved so much in his career while you are still here, holding camera for a news channel run by presstitute that only leftists and shopkeepers watch these days!’ She spat back.

  The chubby man driving the vehicle sighed mildly and spoke ‘I just want you to stay focused on things that would help you grow. I have been holding this camera for almost a decade and half now, I have seen some rise and the rest falling into pits dug by themselves. I am just trying to stop you from digging that pit.’

  ‘Oh how nice of you, Mr. Narendra Prasad’ she mocked him arrogantly, ‘Shut up and drive the damn van, its creaking’s getting louder with every passing second. Can’t you get it fixed or something?’ She banged her fist on top of the dashboard and a nut got lose and fell down on her feet. She picked it up and showed it to the man driving the vehicle, ‘see? Just a fist and it goes down! The whole thing! Instead of caring for me… could you please care for this old piece of crap?’

  He ignored her complaints and concentrated on the road ahead.

  ‘What would you know how much I care?’ He whispered to himself. She didn’t hear him.

  The traffic kept growing and if they didn’t cross the Junction in five minutes, they would be stuck in a traffic deadlock that would strand them there for hours! He pushed on to the accelerator and the vehicle puffed out smoke heavily as it moved ahead scratchily as the Grand Taj hotel slowly shrank into a nothingness which couldn’t be observed tangibly.

  3

  Taj Palace, Mumbai

  ‘He isn’t picking up his phone!’ said Khalid Abdullah throwing away his Galaxy note on the luxurious bed with white satin sheet neatly stacked over the feathery foam
beneath.

  ‘Try that other number, the private one.’ Suggested another man, with thick yellow skin and neatly kept French beard.

  ‘It is switched off god damned! Every time I call on that number, it gives me the same status!’ Khalid yelled at the other man in the room. He kept puffing out thick fumes of grey from his royal cigar. Khalid irritation was further fueled by the attitude shown by the industry’s biggest superstar towards the richest producer. Khalid yelled at the superstar, ‘Rohan Kapoor, you might be the reigning superstar in Bollywood, but remember this, I took you up from a fallen piece of crap to a higher than the star superstar status, you owe me everything and that includes the shitload of respect which you are not giving me right now!’

  Rohan looked up at the producer’s reddened face, ‘Khalid Bhai, take a deep breath, I know a kind of Yoga where you can control your Blood Pressure. Do you know how bad it is for you?’ he enquired in his usual cool dude attitude.

  ‘You son of a...’

  Khalid was interrupted by a lady in glittering silver gown, who gushed inside through the open door, slamming it behind her. The makeup on her face was as fresh as the creases on her sparkling gown, perfect! She panted into the room and burst out at the two men who were already there ‘Is this fucking true? For God’s sake tell me it is not! Please!’

  ‘Couldn’t you knock on the door before coming in?’ Khalid complained.

  ‘Party? At this time of the day?’ Rohan asked the lady as he checked her sparkling attire from top to bottom.

  ‘Inauguration of an art gallery in Juhu,’ She loked back at Khalid and inquired, ‘now please tell me, what is going on. I have heard things that I didn’t want to hear from the regular circuit.’

  Khalid ignored the lady and she looked at Rohan for an answer. Rohan nodded his head laterally affirming her enquiry. The lady burst into a tearful curse ‘Son of a bitch, he has shown his middle class attitude once and for all!’ she dropped down on the bed.

  ‘Calm down, Miah!’ Rohan spoke, ‘He is just doing this for some freaking publicity. Remember… this is his biggest venture, the one that he wrapped up couple of days ago. He is just trying to get that extra attention.’

  ‘Of all men, you think, Manav Gandhi needs to do something as freaky as that to garner attention of the masses? Are you freaking kidding me? He is the Manav Gandhi, he simply sneezes on twitter and the twitverse prays for his health!’ Miah spoke sharply, with an eyebrow raised higher than the other one.

  ‘Exactly! That is what he doing now. This is the most expensive Bollywood film, and a science fiction, a huge risk in a country where the majority still people prefer to digest spicy masala. He had to do something like that to drag all the attention with a tinge of sympathy,’ Rohan explained and then looked towards Khalid who was standing near the closed window, ‘I have been trying to tell this freak husband of yours the same thing, but he doesn’t understand either.’

  ‘It is three hundred crore rupees that I have spent on this so called dream venture of Manav! Three hundred fucking crore rupees, do you even know how many zeros come in this big a figure?’ Khalid blasted at the superstar once again.

  ‘Why are you both throwing up on me? I am not the one who gave up, am I? Just give the guy some time.’ Rohan surrendered.

  ‘Darling, if the jerk doesn’t come back, and for the worse, the film fails at the box office, we are doomed... forever!’ An anxious Miah reminded her husband, Khalid.

  ‘He can either come back, or he is never going to come back anywhere again... ever!’ There was a clear indication of a threat in Khalid’s last word. He had money and he had power, he was surrounded by the richest men and women of the industry and the most notorious ones they were.

  The smartphone on the bed started ringing.

  4

  The phone was answered on the spot, the tense journalist spoke into her cellular phone ‘Hello, this is Pakhi Dutta from Manorma 24x7. May I speak with Mr. Khalid Abdullah please?’ she requested.

  There was slight shift in voices as if a minute group discussion was being held at the other end, Pakhi awaited for the person to answer. Finally, a shrill voice answered ‘Yes, tell me what do you want?’ There was a clear sign of irritation in his question.

  Pakhi had already expected such a reaction from the big shot producer, she stayed calm and said ‘Good afternoon Mr. Abdullah, I am covering Manav’s story for Manorma 24x7 and wanted to do an exclusive interview with you as part of the story. Could you give me some time?’

  Khalid Abdullah didn’t like young people like Pakhi addressing him as Mr.Abdullah or Khalid, it melted out his ego. With a nonchalant tone he refused ‘Go away, you little pest. Don’t bother me with your crap!’

  Pakhi had two options, either she could do what Abdullah just said or fight it out. In a splurge of a second’s thought, she poured, ‘If you give me an interview, I will tell you where Mr. Gandhi is at this very moment!’

  A blackmailing bargain. Narendra, who was still driving the rusty vehicle, was taken by surprise. His eyes popped out because even he had no idea that of all the people Pakhi knew about Manav Gandhi’s whereabouts. Same was the facial reaction on the other side of the phone. Abdullah had his eyes wide open in surprise. He ordered her, ‘Tell me where he is…’

  ‘Uh... uh! Not like this. Interview first,’ Pakhi demanded like a terrorist who had taken an aircrew for hostage, ‘then I reveal where he is.’

  Abdullah’s voice again shifted, Pakhi could hear some discussion going on and finally Abdullah came back on line and said ‘Fine! Hotel Taj Palace, ask for Miah Abdullah. 5 pm!’

  ‘I will be there, 5 pm, sharp!’ Pakhi confirmed.

  Abdullah had already hung up the phone, Pakhi didn’t mind. This was exactly what she would expect from a filthy rich Bollywood producer. She smiled at her little victory and then turned her face towards Narendra who was still looking at her like a statue.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘You actually know where Manav is?’

  ‘Not really.’ She replied.

  ‘Then why did you tell Khalid Abdullah that you knew?’ Narendra asked, tension growing in his speech.

  ‘Well, I needed an interview to build this story, so...’

  ‘... so you lied to Khalid Abdullah?’ He stressed, ‘Do you even have the slightest of hints what he could do to you when he finds out that you had exchanged a lie for an interview with him?’

  ‘Well, I will tell him where Manav Gandhi hides when he wants to get away from the crowd.’

  ‘Oh Really?’

  ‘Yeah! In a sappy wooden cottage.’

  ‘And where would that be, madame?’ Narendra asked.

  ‘Matheran.’ Quick was her reply.

  ‘Are you fucking serious? You are going to give him this crap?’

  ‘Oh no! This is not crap. It’s true, hundred per cent. Manav has a wooden cottage in the Konkan forest. He would go there everytime he wanted to find solace. Nobody else in this world knows about such a place apart from him. That’s his safehouse. Away from the world... away from the noise... the applause... the critics...’

  ‘And how do you know about this safehouse?’ He queried curiously.

  ‘Uh... err... I ... I was there once...’ she stammered.

  ‘For?’ He asked.

  ‘An interview!’

  ‘You took Manav’s interview and I never knew of it? How can this be possible?’

  ‘Oh! This was long before we joined. I was a stu... student then; the interview was part of my university cur... curriculum.’ She stammered with every recurring word.

  ‘Well, and how are you so sure that he would be there?’ Narendra’s interrogation continued.

  ‘Uhm... I am sure they will at least find his pen and pairs of underwear inside the room. I guess technically I would not remain a liar in that case. Would I?’

  ‘Oh brilliant! Damn you are going to be one of the best journalists ever, girl! Write that down somewhere! Better than your bos
s.’ He declared. Pakhi passed a mild smile. She knew she was going to get somewhere. Narendra poured out again ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘Believe what?’ She asked.

  ‘You were with Manav Gandhi when you were in college at his secret lair! Maybe that’s how you got that little crush on him.’ He grinned.

  ‘You don’t know anything about me, dear. You will know soon. For the time being, would you mind concentrating on that creep heading towards us?’ She said pointing towards the road ahead, as a milkman on bicycle dashed across the vehicle’s path, Narendra quickly steered towards the right, missing the bicycle by an inch.

  The rider on the quaint bicycle cursed on top of his voice, but the van moved ahead without paying any heed to the man’s curses. They had to move ahead.

  5

  The luxurious room was aesthetically illuminated by candle lights and low power halogens which gave a classy feel of aristocracy to the place. However for the trio of Miah, Khalid and Rohan, the room was nothing but a dull place of tautness and grimace. Miah, who was recently voted by a fashion magazine as the most graceful diva in Bollywood, had lost all her grace at the moment. Her face carried negativity and soreness of confronting her worst fears.

  ‘Why did you give in so easily?’ asked a frustrated Miah.

  ‘Of all people, you are the best one to know the reason, Miah. You spend maximum time with him… on bed.’ Rohan jerked into a sarcastic tone.

  ‘You were no exception, butthead,’ an angry Khalid shouted at the superstar Rohan Kapoor, ‘you, like all those freaking flies, rode on me to get a shot in this industry,’ He leaned into the superstar’s face and warned, ‘Don’t forget that I created you out of shit. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Cool down man, you are literally spitting on me now!’ Rohan blurted.