Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  ‘Come back here,’ hissed Saya.

  Bindu shook her head.

  ‘Arre don’t worry, I won’t do anything. Come.’ Saya bared her teeth to prove her good intentions. ‘Come, come.’

  Bindu shook her head.

  Saya had to laugh. Her assistant looked so funny, standing there, one foot half-raised, ready to run, duck, whatever. She shifted to English, knowing it would amuse Bindu. ‘Sorry, man. I’m just, like, tired. You know, man.’

  ‘It’s okay, man.’ Bindu returned to her side, started a gentle neck-massage. ‘Just relax, baby. General Dorabjee sent you some flowers and a nice note. Do you want me to read it to you?’

  ‘Is it in English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then no. He wants to meet again, I suppose.’ She grimaced. ‘I will say no to that as well. I wish I’d never met him at the racecourse.’ Dorabjee was getting increasingly persistent. She would have to make it clear she had zero interest in him. Perhaps she could raise the spectre of some disgusting womanly condition. She cursed her beautiful body. ‘Where is Biswas? Is he in my trailer? You know I don’t want anyone in there.’

  ‘Stop worrying. Your neck is all lumpy. Worry, worry, worry. This is why you get these migraines. I’ve locked the trailer. Here’s the key. See? Besides, why do you think Biswas would dare to touch anything without your permission? He wouldn’t dare. Why is that so hard to believe?’

  Because there was less disappointment that way. She could believe she had power, but it was only an illusion. She had soft power, but Dorabjee had the real thing. She only had the power to distract, but he had the power to compel. His power wasn’t dependent on the whims of idiots. His power wouldn’t sag and wrinkle with time. His power couldn’t be domesticated by putting up a poster, masturbating to his video or copying his hair style. His power was iron power. Mughal power.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ said Bindu, looking up. ‘I’ll get you some chai.’

  Saya acknowledged Biswas’ smile with a curt nod. Such a sincere smile; the best actors were those not facing the camera.

  ‘I was looking at the setup shots, madam. There is no need for any concern. Siddharth-ji has proved the camera never lies. You look ravishing.’

  Unpacked: putting up with your bitchy attitude and the asshole director’s pretensions are barely worth the seventy-two thousand rupees I’m getting for this assignment.

  ‘That’s very nice of you Biswas-ji, but we both know you’re putting lipstick on a pig.’

  ‘Are we discussing Kavita Vohra, madam?’

  She laughed. Kavita was the new actress, and therefore arch-enemy number one. The skinny NRI bitch couldn’t act but had scored two superhits last year. She was on all the covers, flashing her stupid dimples. My favourite actor is—hee-hee. Nothing to talk about. Given the right time of the day even midgets could cast giant shadows. A passing fancy, the public would get tired and send her back to the American factory where they made their insect-women.

  Biswas took advantage of her good humour to remind her of the Love Ka Logic offer. He had been pressuring her to sign Johar’s movie for the last two weeks. True, it was a big banner and therefore big stars and therefore lots of money. It would be centred entirely on her.

  Her gut still wasn’t sure. Was the public really ready for a romcom based on a modern Draupadi? A modern woman juggling five husbands was bound to create controversy. Controversy meant the Lokshakti’s involvement. And the director was Karan Johar. If it had been Bhansali, she’d have said yes, no questions asked. Karan Johar was another matter. Then again, a woman-centred movie! There were so few roles where she wasn’t expected to do little more than gaze adoringly at the hero. And she was thirty-two years old. Of course she could pass for twenty-five but still. Let there be controversy. A little controversy would be useful at this stage in her career.

  ‘Hrithik-ji has agreed to play Arjun’s role.’ Biswas had never taken his eyes off her face. ‘He told Johar only you could play Draupadi. Only you.’

  ‘Hrithik said that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why lie, Biswas? Why do you lie?’

  ‘Madam, Johar told me so himself. On my son’s head. And Mir-ji has signed on to do the script. You know he will give you zabardast lines.’

  ‘Hrithik’s very kind.’ It was kind. Hrithik could pick anyone he wanted. A Hindu actress, for instance. It would be much less controversial. She yawned, stretched. ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘There are a lot of actresses—’

  ‘But none of them are me. Let me think about it.’ She turned her head, ending the conversation.

  Bindu arrived with a thermos of chai and asked if she was ready to meet some fans.

  ‘Why are you even asking!’

  She loved her fans. But it was a pleasure to be kept on a short leash. Had to keep them at a distance precisely because she loved them so much. It wouldn’t do to let fans know how much she needed them. The public never appreciated needy women.

  The first group was sweet. School kids. Probably in the seventh or eighth standard. A trip to the film studio. It was a big day for all of them. She signed photos, autographs, posed for photos, was extra kind to the group’s teacher, made a show of protesting Biswas’ refusal to let people linger, joked, teased, flirted, linked arms with a couple of the nerdier boys. They lit up like Diwali.

  Couple of the girls began to cry, which wasn’t uncommon. She patted their cheeks, drew them close, complimented their complexions, made them smile. The girls were fine. The guys sometimes tried to leave a mark on her, lay claim. Own her. For example, Biswas’ predecessor Jitesh had been caught masturbating into her shampoo bottle. Women didn’t do things like that. Her head again began to ache. But there were more fans to deal with. A mother wanted advice on getting her daughter into the movies. An NRI entrepreneur, fat and sweaty, tried to thrust roses upon her. Some yokels, their cellphones held out like antennae, begged her to repeat lines from her movies.

  She loved her fans. Thankfully, Bindu got rid of them.

  Siddharth’s assistant came over. ‘Madam, we’re ready for the shot.’

  Razia, her make-up assistant, came over to do a touch-up, shape a curl, damp away sweat, check the reflectance of her skin. Only Razia and Bindu could touch her for free. And Mir.

  ‘How’s my tongue?’

  Razia took a careful look. ‘Very beautiful.’

  Sweet girl. The rumble-jumble in her stomach was climbing upwards. She was going to throw up, sure of it. Had one of the fans given her something? She felt contaminated. The wretched creatures liked to leave a mark. She touched her forehead, it was hot. Maybe she had cancer. The slight scratchiness in her throat when she swallowed didn’t bode well. She walked over to the set.

  Focus, focus. Focus on the role. Saya could feel a resistance in herself, something that rejected the woman she was playing, her desperate need for a particular man. Never mind, film only. She had to show the woman desired, and since that was impossible, she had to work with the next best thing. She had to be desirable. The public wouldn’t catch the substitution. But it had to be sensual, not sexy; Madhubala, not Zeenat Aman. There couldn’t be anything sly or coy about it. No raising the spatula to simulate an erect cock. No sticking her tits out. No sultry expressions. Focus.

  ‘Action!’

  She raised the spatula, held it for a second near her open mouth, sampled the chutney with a flickering lick. Smiled absentmindedly.

  ‘And cut!’ Siddharth’s face was wreathed in smiles. ‘Saya, my goddess! That was beautiful. Just beautiful.’

  She nodded, smiled, but glanced at Ganpat, the light boy. They were the ones who really knew if a shot worked or not. Two thumbs-up from Ganpat. Okay Ebert-ji. If it worked, it worked.

  ‘Mir is waiting in the trailer,’ whispered Bindu. ‘Don’t be angry, he told me not to tell you until the shoot was over—’ She cringed, half-expecting an attack.

  ‘I understand, I understand.’ Saya patted her
assistant’s cheek. ‘Why do you act so afraid of me? It’s unseemly.’

  As she entered the trailer, Mir rose to his feet. His achkhan’s long vertical lines made him look even taller. She gazed upon his refined features with pleasure. Such a man. A perfect man. Who could doubt women made the best men?

  ‘Salaam alaikum, Saki.’

  ‘Alaikum salaam, Mir Alam Mir. It’s so good to see you.’

  Mir’s habit of looking away whenever he revealed an emotion was as endearing now as when she’d first noticed it. She made a move towards him, he completed it. He kissed her on the lips.

  ‘Were you happy with the scene?’ he asked.

  ‘Why didn’t you let Bindu inform me you’d arrived? I would have hurried.’

  ‘That is why I didn’t.’

  She smiled, seated herself on the divan. ‘Sid-ji isn’t aiming for an Oscar.’

  ‘All the more reason to make the scene perfect.’ He took the chair across from her. ‘Our public has much higher standards. I watched your performance, by the way.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You seemed distracted. Was it deliberate?’

  ‘No. Aren’t women always slightly distracted?’

  He laughed. She was never sure what exactly it was that he’d found amusing, but she liked to make him laugh. She stashed away in memory the way he threw back his head, clutched the hems of his embroidered pockets, bent his bony knees, a gross over-investment of energy given the small burst of sound that followed. It struck her that he laughed so as to make her feel better.

  ‘And aren’t you distracting me now,’ she continued, refusing to let him off the hook, ‘with all these questions when what I really want to know is why you’re making all these public statements on Durga-ji’s death. I can’t turn a channel without hearing you bray about murder, conspiracy and what not. All my peace of mind is gone. What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘It is as much a crime to stay silent in the face of a crime—’

  ‘Leave the filmi dialogues for your films, Mir-sahib. You’re playing with fire. If they could haul him away, consider what they can do to you.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  He could always make her laugh. She knew haranguing him further would be counter-productive. He was an artist. He thrived on oppression. She would have to assume he would not stop his idiotic gestures of resistance and act accordingly. In time, he would find some other cause, forget his grief, let go of his guilt. A few more wrinkles, one more drink too many; things would work out. ‘Actually, I came to ask you to consider something.’ Mir touched his pocket, glanced inquiringly at her, ignored her frown, withdrew his stash of tobacco. ‘I’m hoping you’ll sign Johar’s film. He asked me to approach you but I would have approached you even if he hadn’t. I need the money.’

  He paused, as if he hadn’t expected to be able to say it. ‘It’s a nice project but it will be even nicer if we can do it together.’ ‘I can lend you money, if money is the problem. I’m flattered by Johar’s enthusiasm but frankly, I have my doubts. Will the public accept me, a Muslim, as Draupadi? That too in a screenplay by a Muslim? Remember the fuss over Jodha Akbar?’

  ‘Yes, but that was historical fantasy. This is a realist reinterpretation of mythology. A very different animal.’

  ‘I don’t care. Fantasy, science-fiction, mythology, I detest the entire goat-fucking family. You’ll have to try harder.’ He retreated into silence.

  The reprimand amused her. He disapproved of her swearing. Naturally, it only intensified one’s need to do so. She began plaiting her hair. So many hands touched her head during the day, it wasn’t possible to feel clean until she styled it herself.

  ‘That scene of yours,’ he said at last, fingers expertly rolling the cigarette, peeping at her every now and then. ‘The woman, the one you were playing, is she vain?’

  The matter about Johar’s movie seemed to be closed.

  ‘Not yet. She added a drop of the love potion to the chutney but forgot the tantrik’s warning to give the first taste to the fellow she loves. She tasted the chutney first, so she falls in love with herself. It’s a comedy. Was I terrible? What did I do wrong? I was feeling very feverish and Siddharth—well, what can you expect from a hack?’

  ‘No, no. Nobody will notice anything.’

  ‘Then why bring it up?’

  Mir hesitated. ‘That lick. It was somewhat too red.’

  ‘Too red?’

  ‘Corrupt.’

  ‘Corrupt?’

  ‘Beloved, you were already in love with yourself.’

  Saya sank back into her seat. Devastated. Mir was right, she saw that now. That lick had been too eroticized. She’d played a woman who already knew her effect on men. A woman who knew she had no need of love potions. She had undermined the entire movie. She watched him give the joint a sealing lick.

  He got up, tucked the joint into his pocket, came over to sit by her side. He smelled of old bookstores with an adjacent paan shop. He put his arm around her.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said consolingly. ‘Perhaps your interpretation was the right one. Like Durga said, everything is improved with a little corruption.’

  ‘What rubbish. If Durga had said less, perhaps he would be alive now. I miss him too. But the dead can’t take care of the living. Mir, I’m begging you, please do not begin a war we cannot possibly win.’

  ‘Speaking about Durga, I met Dodda Gowda. He wants to release the movie. I’m tempted.’

  ‘What movie?’

  He gave her an exasperated look. ‘Our greatest work. What other movie?’

  She shot to her feet, arm raised, fist clenched—a knock on the door. She paused. Another knock. The timidity of the sound lit the short fuse of her temper.

  ‘We are busy!’ she barked. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Saya-madam, so sorry to bother you.’ Bindu sounded nervous. ‘It’s a gentleman from the Lokshakti.’

  Mir shrugged. He went and opened the door, muttering to himself. Then he stood to one side, essayed an ironic bow.

  ‘Come in, come in afsar-sahib.’

  She heard the officer say something in a calm low voice to his assistant before entering the trailer. She’d expected to see the Lokshakti’s uniform but the man wore a well-cut, even stylish, black Nehru suit with no adornments other than a clipped-on silver badge. Later, she couldn’t remember whether he’d said he was the Associate Director-General or Assistant Superintendent-General. He was in charge of Culture something or the other. A Hindu, of course. He had a compassionate face but that only aroused mistrust.

  As a child, it had been important to be adept at this game, to figure out which adult would help, which one would hurt. Staring at his face, she wasn’t surprised that her childhood skill had survived intact, but she resented that this unremarkable man, or rather, what he represented, had returned her to childhood with its frantic decisions.

  ‘We are busy, Vyas-ji.’ She took a deep breath, calmed herself. Her expressive face, such a gift as an actress, was a liability in real life. Her face also wanted to glare at Mir, who looked as if he had every intention of joining the conversation.

  ‘Please forgive me for disturbing you, madam.’ The officer’s Hindi was fluent. ‘I won’t take too much of your time. Just one or two questions.’ He glanced at Mir. ‘This is a private matter.’

  ‘That means it’s sure to be about somebody’s privates.’ Mir emptied a packet of supari into his mouth. He gestured the officer to the trailer’s only other chair.

  ‘You are, sir?’ The officer sat down.

  ‘A poet, a threshold and a lover in pursuit of a concrete ideal.’

  Saya hid her smile.

  ‘Oh, were you asking about my given name?’ continued Mir, untroubled by the officer’s unsmiling face. ‘Afsar-sahib, I find that particular question troublesome. Some call me Mub-ham, the clouded, the obscure, the unclear. I could endure if they called me Ib-ham, for a poet is cursed to be allusive, but Mub-ham, now isn’t t
hat unfair? For one thing, that honour belongs to another, the Lahori poet and chronic masturbator, Miraji. For another, insult my worthless poems, bastards fathered by many inspirations, and not me, their helpless mother. My chequebook addresses me, rather familiarly, as Dewalia; that means ‘bankrupt,’ afsar-sahib. The woman who graces this room as attar does the air, why, she calls me an ingrate. You may call me anything you please, we both know that. Such is the intimacy of your office. That reminds me of a joke—’

  ‘Mir,’ began Saya warningly.

  ‘It’s a short joke, he’ll like it, he’ll like it. Don’t be fooled by his stern face. His chest hides a lover’s heart, I can tell. Afsar-sahib, here is the joke. A Nazi officer sees a Jew approaching. As the Jew walks by, the Nazi says: Gaandu. The Jew lifts his cap and says with a nod: Cohen.’

  Saya laughed. She’d heard the joke before, but the officer had to see it was just a joke.

  ‘Gaandu,’ said the officer, a melancholy smile playing about his lips.

  ‘Mir Alam Mir.’ The poet bowed his head, got to his feet. ‘Salaam Alaikum, Vyas-sahib.’

  Mir pushed open the trailer’s door, ventured a few general comments about meeting up later, stepped out.

  ‘Is he always like that?’ asked the officer.

  ‘He’s harmless.’ The officer’s quiet economy of motion made her nervous. ‘Now afsar-sahib, what is this about?’

  ‘Of course, I do a little writing myself,’ he said.

  The way he said it, it was as if the admission had been strangled on its way out. Just as swiftly, he regained his calm demeanour. ‘Please accept my condolences regarding the untimely and tragic death of your friend Durga Dhasal. Needless to say, we will find the perpetrators behind the attack.’

  ‘Thank you. We weren’t friends as such, though we had some friends in common. I occasionally ran into him at this or that function.’

  The officer looked confused. ‘But he was staying in your apartment.’

  ‘Oh that.’ She smiled. ‘Somebody told me Dhasal-ji needed a short-term place. I felt like helping. I had a Gurgaon apartment I wasn’t using. It’s too small for my needs but I keep it for foolish womanly reasons. Dhasal-ji offered to pay rent but I have never fancied being a landlady. I really don’t remember all the details; you can speak with Biswas—Oh, you have? Well, then I have little to add.’