by Shobhaa De
“That’s the way the industry functions, dear girl, and whether you like it or not, you are now a part of it,” Girish said.
“Heavens no! I’d rather opt out right now,” I said in a panic.
“Too late for second thoughts now. Brace yourself—chin up.This is only the beginning.”
And so it was that I was sucked into a ruthless world without any scruples as I knew them. I saw a side to Girish that was both fascinating and frightening. When he cut deals, he was like a cold-blooded killer. He could be so emotionless and steely. I hated it. “You’ll toughen—everybody does. Think of some of the other women in the industry. The ones who are in the spotlight constantly. There’s nothing they can do which doesn’t get around. Even some of the things they don’t do are invented by the film press—it’s all a part of showbiz, dear girl. One develops a thick skin sooner or later.” I wasn’t so sure. I agonized over Anjana’s cheap comments for weeks. Each time I stepped out into the street I would wonder whether people “knew.” I felt ashamed to meet my acquaintances, imagining they’d be condemning me.
Another item appeared soon after. This time in Varun’s paper. While the first few mentions had been blind ones (no names) this one identified me as the new woman in Girish’s life. It went on to talk about Kunal’s involvement with the ad scene, implying slyly that I was having an affair with both, Father and son, and that I should make up my mind who to go for. My hands were shaking while I read this piece of filth. Just then the phone rang. It was Anjali. “What’s going on? What on earth are you up to? Have you seen Hits? Are you really having a torrid affair with the Sridhars? I can’t believe it, just shows how out of touch we’ve been. What are you doing today—let’s meet up for a quick lunch.”
I couldn’t speak. My voice refused to emerge.
“Are you there—heh? Hello.” I put the receiver down and rushed back to my room, flung myself on my bed and sobbed. If even Anjali could buy that bilge, what about the others? How was I going to face the agency people? I had an appointment to see a new client tomorrow. It was an important brief. The creative director was going to handle the presentation himself. How could I walk into the conference room and face all those people! I didn’t even feel like phoning Girish. I couldn’t talk about it to Mother—she wouldn’t have understood.
As my weeping subsided the incessant drumming of Ganesh worshippers began to filter in. It was the tenth day of the festival, and the immersion of the elephant God had already begun. I could hear the raucous cries of “Ganpati bapa morya” and the rhythmic clanging of cymbals as the processionists made their way to the sea.
I felt like drowning myself with the deity. My mind came up with increasingly morbid images. Would I end up at the bottom of the ocean? Or continue to float, belly-up, at low tide like the plaster images of the rotund God? I stood at the window watching a small family negotiating its way through the throngs, carrying their little Ganpati carefully, a small white handkerchief on his head to protect him from the sun. A large group of rowdy mill-workers were accompanying their idol—a mammoth Ganesh straddling the globe—on its final journey with a motley brass band playing the theme from Come September. Right behind them was another crowd from a cooperative housing society. Their Ganesh belonged to the 21st century. He was dressed like an astronaut. A tall cardboard rocket was fixed behind him. To go with his space-age image, these people had dispensed with the brass band. They’d hired a rock group with a Moog synthesizer.Their choice of music was also very au courant—George Michael and U2!
The noise, the bustle, the energy eased the sorrow from my mind as I recalled Ganesh Utsavs from the past. From the age of five till my days of trying to be a sophisticate I had participated enthusiastically in them. It was my favorite festival, even more special than Diwali. Though we didn’t bring the moorti to our house, it didn’t really matter since it came to my father’s older brother’s home. We were expected to be present for the aartis, which took place twice a day. I loved the rituals that went with the puja. I enjoyed watching my aunt arranging the gleaming silver and brass thalis alongside the altar, heaping one with flowers, one with fruit, one with prasad, and one with diyas. The smell of incense combined with the aroma of sandalwood paste and coconut oil. Wonderful. I’d watch with fascination as the potbellied priest chanted the “Sukha karata . . . dukha harata . . .” and the elders joined in the chorus. I’d be given tiny cymbals of my own to beat to the tempo of the prayer. It was almost hypnotic.
I felt in a trance once again as I watched the believers from my parents’ home. I wanted to join them downstairs and go to the beach to perform the farewell aarti where dear Ganapati would be given a tearful send-off. Back to his watery home he’d go on the head of an urchin willing to wade into the sea for ten rupees and all the coconuts he could retrieve from the waves. I stood at the window for a long time, gazing at the various images of the Benign One, wondering what the hell to do with my life. Then I saw a familiar figure elbowing his way through the crowd. He stuck out because of his trendy cap and the Nikon around his neck. It was Kunal.
Soon I heard the doorbell go. I didn’t feel like meeting Kunal, or anyone else for that matter, right now. But it would have been mean to get Mother to lie that I wasn’t in. Kunal looked so sweet and sad as he stood at the door, pleading with his eyes. I held out my hand and took him in. “Baba asked me to come for you. I’ve parked miles away since the street is blocked, or I would’ve got here earlier. Are you OK? He asked me to bring you home. He said to tell you to get your things.”
“Get my things?”
“Yeah—you know, all your stuff.”
“Why?”
“He thinks you should come and live with us.”
“Well, now, does he really? How come he didn’t think about asking me how I felt about it?”
“You mean you’d rather not?” he asked in consternation. What a sweet boy, I thought, my voice softening. Sometimes it was easy to forget he was still a child.
“It isn’t that, Kunal. I just haven’t considered the possibility. I can’t shack up with you two guys. That’s crazy!”
“He doesn’t expect you to shack up with us. He wants to get married—he told me so.”
“Thanks a lot, pal. But don’t you think he should have consulted me before making all these plans?”
“He felt shy or maybe he was scared.”
“Of what?”
“I think he was afraid you wouldn’t agree. Actually, he’d made up his mind long ago. Remember the night both of you went off to drink champagne? He told me the next morning.”
“He didn’t tell me anything of the kind. Don’t you find that funny?”
“No, I don’t. I understand Baba.You will, too. He is like that—very sensitive and afraid of rejection.”
“I still think this is no way to propose—or proposition. How can any man do it via his son?”
“Why not? I am the one he trusts the most. He knows I will represent him correctly. And he knows that you and I understand each other. That’s very important to him.”
“This is a very major decision, Kunal. I can’t make it so lightly. Besides, are you sure it doesn’t have something to do with that awful gossip in Varun’s paper? Is your Baba feeling guilty? He isn’t obliged to make an honest woman out of me, you know.Times have changed. I can handle it on my own.”
“Don’t say things like that. It has nothing to do with that muck. He was worried you’d take it very badly—which I can see you have. But, apart from anything else, he loves you, he really does.”
“That’s news, Kunal. He hasn’t ever told me so himself. That’s carrying reserve a bit too far, don’t you think—at his age? Do I have to hear even his declarations from you?”
“Don’t judge him so harshly. He is a wounded man. I am not playing on your sympathy, believe me. I’m only trying to explain a few things. After Ma died, he went into a total tailspin. He became so uncommunicative and depressed, spending hours locked up in his room, liste
ning to music and drinking. I never thought he’d pull out. I wasn’t much help either, being in a state of shock myself. I didn’t want to see Baba in that state. I wanted to escape, get away from the scene. Forget about the whole thing. I should have stayed with him but I ran away to California. I want to make it up to him now. We are friends, he and I. We discuss everything freely—one to one. I know how deeply he cares about you.We will both try and make you happy. I promise you. Please give us a chance.”
I tried to stop the tears, but they kept rolling down my face. I felt confused and happy at the same time. But was this what I was looking for? Did I want to take the line of least resistance? Wasn’t all this far too pat and easy? Did one marry on the basis of a gossip item? And how could I convince Kunal that I liked his father too—and him, but that this wasn’t reason enough to get married. Not now, at any rate. Living with my parents had opened up a new dimension for me. I felt like a responsible, caring daughter for the first time in my life.They needed me. And I needed them.We had arrived at a happy situation. They didn’t have a son to look after them in their old age. They had the enormous burden of an invalid daughter to cope with. Each day in their life was a major struggle to just get on with the living that remained. How could I abandon them at this point? It would have been a callous, cruel thing to do. Walk in. Walk out. No. There was just no way I was going to stride into my room, fling my few belongings into a suitcase and take off.
CHAPTER 19
GIRISH DIDN’T REACT BADLY. FORTUNATELY. I SUPPOSE HE UNDERSTOOD or at least tried to. The gossip continued and soon I began receiving calls asking for “my version.” It didn’t take me long to figure out that this was nothing more than a cheap trick designed to prolong a controversy. I consistently refused to talk to any of the reporters, which surprised Girish a bit. “I know you aren’t like other women, but most of the girls I’ve known have not been able to resist the lure of publicity—good or bad.”
“That’s what separates the girls from the women, Girish. Perhaps I would’ve fallen for it too ten years earlier. But now I don’t need to mess up my life. This kind of exposure is foul and destructive. On a practical level—what am I going to get out of it? I’m not an aspiring actress looking for a break. I don’t wish to be a household name. My living does not depend on publicity and I don’t get cheap thrills being featured in the glossies. On the contrary, I value my privacy and wish to guard it. All this must sound very schoolmarmish to you—but I’m really not in the market for scandal.”
“Neither am I. It’s just that I’ve taught myself to regard it as nothing more than an occupational hazard. I refuse to react to all the garbage these people print. A lot of things hurt deeply—you cannot imagine what I’ve been through in the past. But now, well, you might say I’m immunized. My life is more important to me than what I read about it.”
“How could Varun do this to you? I thought you said he was an old pal.”
“I didn’t want to prejudice you at that point.Yes—we have known each other over the years—but there’s no love lost between us. He can be a vicious son of a bitch.”
“But what have you done to him for him to be such a brute?” I was beginning to add that Kunal had told me about the film that Varun had wrecked and why he’d done so when I caught myself. Kunal had sworn me to secrecy. Girish was saying pensively, “I really don’t know why he dislikes me so much. I’ve been told he was in love with my wife in college and that he never forgave her for preferring me. But I couldn’t say how true this theory is for neither of them ever spoke to me about it. She used to behave very normally when he was around—as he used to be in the early days.”
“But didn’t you ever ask her anything directly?”
“The matter didn’t arise. I didn’t want to give this stupid story any importance. And I think you should learn to ignore gossip too. Remember, if it doesn’t hurt you, the gossip writers get deflated. If you react, victory is theirs.”
“I am a long way from being that mature. To me, gossip is a very painful reality. It haunts me. I feel marked. I also feel a sense of outrage—why should I be dragged into all this dirt? I am not a movie star. For them it may be an inescapable part of their business—but why should I get caught in the quicksand? I refuse to get sucked in and dragged down.”
“Take it easy. Where is your usual cynicism? How come it isn’t there when you most need it?”
“I reserve it for bigger things, real things.”
“I suppose I should apologize. Had it not been for your association with me, you wouldn’t have been in this situation. Now why don’t we cut out this discussion and get down to some work.”
What made up for the personal anxiety was the fact that things at work were beginning to really perk up. Besides Girish’s script, the firm I worked for bagged the Ad Club award for the Best Ad of the year, and I got an individual citation as Copywriter of the Year. My market was up and other colleagues kept urging me to go full time and professionalize—whatever that meant. I decided to find out.
“Set up your own shop,” I was advised.
“Start your own boutique agency. Fork out the jobs. Hire other freelancers and get your show on the road. Keep your overheads down by doing most of the stuff yourself, including visualizing.There’s money to be made—don’t blow it. Capitalize on your award—now is the time.”
Even though I could see the common sense in which all these suggestions were rooted, I still resisted them. I suppose my real concerns were different. It wasn’t money or success I was looking forward to in my life at that point—it was the freedom to do what I wanted. My part-time job gave me that. Running an agency, however small its size, would involve a major reorganization of my priorities. It would increase my tensions, responsibilities and headaches. I didn’t care enough for the big time to tie myself down this way. It would also have cut into my theater activities—and Shakuntala of course.
When Girish finally arrived to meet “The Original One,” as we had both dubbed Mother, he was on tenterhooks. I’d laughed and assured him that my parents didn’t really notice or care anymore about most things.Whether he wore his kurta pajama, jeans or a Savile Row suit, I was sure they’d barely look up or take notes. I was wrong. Mother commented later that she liked his shirt and his neat appearance. “He has nice hands, clean nails.”
“Mother! How did you notice all that.”
“I’m not blind yet and he was sitting right next to me. He didn’t smell of coconut oil either.”
“Why? Did you expect him to?”
“Yes, most men from that background and community smell strongly of coconut oil.”
“But what about the rest of him.”
“He is all right. Doesn’t have a big stomach or anything. Isn’t too hairy either. Color is all right also. Not too dark. His boy is fairer, must have taken after the mother.”
“You noticed him too?”
“He was in the house for nearly fifteen minutes. Isn’t that long enough to make out his complexion?”
“You astonish me sometimes. But what did Baba think of Girish?”
“Well, you know your father. He doesn’t talk very much: He doesn’t understand people who do not work for the Government. Or who are in different professions. He can understand doctors, officers, engineers, chartered accountants—even certain types of business people. But all these fellows acting in films, television—he is not sure how stable they are.”
“Girish doesn’t act in films or television. He makes films. It is a very creative field.”
“Yes, but your father feels suspicious of these sort of men. Can they be trusted? Do they make enough money to support a family? Do they keep their families happy? Are they steady people?”
“But Baba and you watch television all the time—surely, you know how much work goes into each program? And that it requires a director to direct a serial?”
“Yes—but these people do not belong to our world. They are different from us. We are not used to their wa
ys. Does this man drink?”
“Well, no more than other people. I know of several doctors and engineers who drink much more.”
“Does he bring home money regularly?”
“I have not asked him such a personal question—but his home seems to run well enough.”
“As long as you know what you are doing.”
“But I’m not doing anything. Besides, I don’t even know why I am defending the man.”
“Well, we thought, your father and I, that you were planning on getting married again.”
“I don’t really know about that. I am happy here and I hope you feel happy having me at home. I haven’t yet made up my mind about marrying—him or anyone else.”
“A woman cannot live alone. It is not safe. We are here today—but who knows about tomorrow? A woman needs a man’s protection. Society can be very cruel. Today you are still young enough to get a good husband. A few years from now it might be too late. You will regret not having your own home and family.You must not feel that you have an obligation to look after us. We can look after ourselves. Look at your poor sister. Look at her miserable condition. I am not saying that will happen to you—God forbid it! But we would like to see you settled in our lifetime. Your father and I both feel a woman’s real place is in her husband’s home—not in her parents’.” But I’m not saying that you should marry this man. You can wait for two more years and then decide. Nowadays you girls are lucky—you can choose.You meet so many men.Take your time, but marry. And marry the right one—that is important.You cannot repeat the earlier mistake. This time it will be far too costly—and you won’t be able to afford it. Even if you decide to marry—what is his name—Girish—we will not oppose you—it is your life now. You are old enough and more experienced in these matters. But we also believe in parents’ instincts. Nobody else in the world can have your well-being at heart in the same way—remember that. Before we die, we want to see you secure and at peace.”
