by Anil Menon
Bilkis said she’d been putting out fires. She sounded cynical. Or perhaps it was just weariness. The student riots had largely been contained and most of the student radicals had been taught relevant lessons. But she was tired of spanking rich, spoiled kids.
‘Vande Mataram, Vande Mataram,’ said Bilkis, her face pink with outrage. ‘How dare they use the words Bhagat-ji died for! They’re not fit to lick his boots.’
‘Better they shout slogans than shoot bullets.’ I was delighted by her outrage because this was more like the Bilkis I knew. I could do cynicism all by myself. ‘Why didn’t you shout the words back at them?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Every use of a word alters the usage. If they cry freedom, you cry freedom. So if they shout Vande Mataram—’
‘We shout Vande Mataram.’ Bilkis laughed. ‘Yes, I should have. At least I have a right to the words.’
‘No Bilkis, you have ownership. You have all the responsibilities of ownership, that’s what you have.’
She sighed. ‘Panditji, I thought I missed your fundas. Now I remember how complicated things get when you are around. Truth is, it’s not so complicated. Our country is going to hell.’
She used the Arabic word—jehannum—and it made her judgment more menacing. Still, I had no worries about Bilkis. She’d just had a tough week. Were I to start dissing the motherland, she would have been the first to launch into a multi-finger listing of the nation’s many achievements, including the invention of zero and other items in Manoj Kumar’s declamation in Purab aur Paschim.
When the SUV arrived, I told the driver we were going to Connaught Place. Bilkis had grown up in Delhi but had led a highly sheltered life and knew little of the city. So it was my decision.
‘There’s a nice kabab place in CP,’ I explained. ‘Kohinoor. You’ll like it.’
‘Okay. Then later we’ll have a burji.’
I hid my smile and asked about Balbir’s girlfriend, Kannagi. How had it gone? Was she the goddess ‘Bilbo’ had made her out to be? Bilkis’ face lit up.
‘I will tell you in detail in the restaurant.’
Since she wouldn’t yield any more details on her meeting with Kannagi, I had to tell her what I had been up to. Much of it had to be fictional because of the circumstances of my task, and I thought I was doing a good job until she said with a small embarrassed smile:
‘Vyas, yaar. Stop telling me stories.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I confessed. ‘The truth is I’m also putting out fires. Difference is, I’m sometimes required to be an arsonist.’
She gazed at me in sympathy. ‘Don’t blame yourself. We’ve just seen what these radicals can do. They’ll stop at nothing, not even killing a Vice Chancellor. Somebody has to control them. Sometimes you have to become a shaitan; the world is like that. In any case, you can’t remove ghee with a straight finger. However, it is good you feel bad. Means you have principles. You’re the most principled man I know.’
‘I wish you’d said handsome.’
When she laughed, I realized I’d missed that laugh.
As we approached Connaught Place, the traffic began to coagulate. I was tempted to tell the driver to use the siren—the Lokshakti siren had a peculiar howling quality guaranteed to terrify—but Bilkis had just given me a gold star for integrity. So we inched along.
‘Mian, don’t you have a siren?’ inquired Bilkis.
When we entered the Kohinoor, I was recognized by Kasim, and though he had been in the middle of taking an order from a white tourist, he immediately flipped to a fresh page on his notepad and turned to us.
‘Afsar-sahib!’ shouted Kasim. ‘You seem to have forgotten us. What did we do?’
‘I got a cook, Kasim. I have to eat where she prefers to work.’
Naturally, Kasim laughed uproariously at my comment, and mistaking Bilkis for the wife, showered her with such flattery that I became worried we’d have to pay the price with extra spit in the kababs. Kasim started to lead us towards the private air-conditioned room but I stopped him and pointed to a seat by the window. When I was with Tanaz, there was always the weight of inspection, but with Bilkis it was different.
‘Does the table suit you, Begum?’ I asked.
Bilkis’ high false laugh was priceless. I’d expected her to say something impolite but she went along with the charade.
‘Yes, yes.’ Bilkis made herself comfortable. ‘The table could be cleaner.’
Kasim bowed and left before we could find more ways to be difficult.
The kathi rolls arrived in short order, along with a complimentary— or so I assumed—set of gol-gappas. We ate slowly, interrupting the spicy burn with sips of ice-cold mineral water.
‘When I was a girl, my Abba always bought me Thums Up.’
Naturally, I offered to order Thums Up, she swore water was her favourite beverage, and we went back and forth on trying to outdo the other in courtesy and accommodation. A part of me watched my performance with amusement. I didn’t own the Kohinoor, she wasn’t shy about getting what she wanted, and this wasn’t a date. Yet a strange formality hung between us.
‘So tell me about Balbir’s girlfriend,’ I said.
It turned out she had mistaken Kannagi’s sister Padma for Kannagi but things had eventually worked out. She launched into the tale of two sisters, mistaken identities, student politics, et cetera. I half-listened. I was moved by her determination to give Balbir’s useless death some dignity. And there are moments in a friendship when you simply don’t care what the other person has to say except that it’s important to keep them talking. What mattered was that Bilkis cared about the world again; this healthy indignant animal before me was nothing like that disoriented young soldier on the railway platform.
Kasim interrupted to ask if everything was to my satisfaction. He included Bilkis in the question with a darting glance. I told Kasim the kathi rolls were delicious but for all his scraping and bowing, the man seemed beyond the reach of praise.
‘I’ve eaten many kababs, Kasim-bhai,’ declared Bilkis, perhaps intending to console the man but forgetting that as my wife a certain circumspection would be expected of her. ‘These kababs are some of the best I’ve eaten.’
‘Everyone says my kababs are the best,’ said Kasim, smiling shyly. ‘I try to make the best kababs.’
‘Why?’ I glanced at Bilkis. She was sitting in a manner highly unsuited for a wife. Breasts thrust out, one tightly salwar’d leg spread wide on the seat. She licked the tips of her fingers, then wiped them on a scrunched-up napkin. The table was overflowing with napkins, so why was she being miserly? ‘Why do you bother, Kasim?’
Kasim had apparently never considered the question. He appeared genuinely distressed that it might all have been a waste.
‘Yes, why?’ he muttered, his smile appearing and disappearing like a beaten animal. Then he brightened. ‘You know who else liked my food, Director-sahib?’
‘Who?’
‘Saya-ji.’
‘The actress?’ I gestured at Bilkis to lower her leg.
‘Who else, sir? Saya, Queen of Dreams. She is a huge fan of my kheema roll.’
‘She liked your kheema?’ I scowled. ‘Now you’ll add a detail to make your story more believable.’
‘He speaks the truth,’ said Bilkis with a knowledgeable nod. ‘She is fond of kheema rolls. I read it in an interview.’
‘Sir-ji, you can call me a liar. But I’m telling you Saya-ji sat right where you are sitting—that very bench!—and said: pity the vegetarians for they’re denied this road to Allah.’
‘And when did you wake up, bhai?’
Kasim shrugged. ‘Sir-ji, I’ll just say this: please see Mona Darling. It’s at the Regal. In the railway station scene, Saya-ji takes the hero’s kheema roll thinking it is hers. Why a roll? Why not biscuits?’
‘No doubt because you made her a woman that night.’ I looked at Bilkis. ‘Another round, Begum?’
Bilkis said she was full, which led
me to suspect she intended to leave some space for burji. I paid the bill, and we stepped outside. Taking her elbow, I said to Bilkis, in a casual way:
‘Actually, I met the actress Saya the other day regarding a minor matter.’
‘You did! You met Saya. And you said nothing! Of course, so what if you met her? But still! How was she?’ Bilkis proceeded to bury me with a deluge of questions about the actress.
Good, good. Bilkis seemed to have a crush on the actress. I used to be puzzled by fan-worship. But after meeting Saya, I’d understood. I had found it difficult to forget the actress’s face for the rest of the day. Most memories are like scribbles by a dozing stenographer of once urgent but always unimportant memos of a now-defunct corporation. A few memories however, leave a deeper impression. They’re felt in full; the emotions, if not the event itself, can usually be reconstructed. But then there are those memories, a vanishingly small few, as mathematicians like to say, that go far beyond the mere representation of an experience and transform it into art. With such memories, we feel emotions that had nothing to do with the original experience. It is as if the memory is of an experience we could have had. So it had been with Saya. I have no memory of what I felt when I’d first met her. What I remember is what I felt after: the sense of being privileged. The Greeks had charisma. The Hindus have a better word: darshan. The actress Saya granted darshans. Some people ‘impressed’ in the literal sense of the word; there would be no forgetting.
I’d watched Dodda Gowda’s movie Ajaya. Saya’s aura had even survived the B-movie’s sly sensuality and pretentious twaddle. The General was a lucky bastard.
Bilkis could use a little luck too. However, I would have to proceed carefully. She was sensitive about her erratic behaviour on the platform and scrutinized mine for evidence that I now thought less of her. Plus she’d achieved what little she’d achieved mostly by ignoring the help of high-ranking idiots, all of whom came with testicles.
‘Bilkis, I was wondering about a sensitive matter. You’ve probably heard Saya’s romantically linked with Dorabjee—’
‘That old fool! What is Saya thinking? He’s totally wrong for her. He’s her father’s age!’
‘If you will let me finish—thank you. Since the attack on the General, his security has been enhanced and tightened. But there’s also his immediate circle to consider. Darius is in charge of his security. He’s a friend of mine and he told me he’s looking for someone, a woman, to manage Saya’s security. Someone utterly incorruptible. I wondered whether—’
‘You want me to be her bodyguard! I accept. I can definitely do you this favour.’ She waved away my gratitude. ‘But I warn you, if she asks me what I think of the old goat, I will speak my mind. Agreed?’
When she’s happy, Bilkis starts to walk faster and I had to pick up my pace to keep up with her stride. We raced across the segmented arcs of Connaught Place, discussing the administrative mechanics of the transfer, who she’d report to, and so on. As we passed Regal cinema, she abruptly slowed, caught me by the arm.
‘That was a good dinner, Vyas. It is as if I’ve had my first real meal in this miserable city. And now this piece of good news. I’m beginning to think this city may not be so miserable after all. I’m seized by a strange longing. You mustn’t laugh.’
‘What is it?’
‘Shall we see a movie? I hate seeing movies alone, so I haven’t seen one in a while.’
I knew exactly what movie she wanted to see. Bilkis wanted to know if Saya had really declaimed her love of kheema in the third scene. She liked closure, endings, stories with threads neatly tied up in meaningful ways. I did too. Who doesn’t? I was curious to see if my appreciation of her acting would be altered by what I knew about the actress.
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘I have to call Tanaz, but it shouldn’t take long.’
‘Good!’ She pointed to a paan stall. ‘I’ll get the tickets and a paan. You call Tanaz.’
I called Tanaz, found her just about ready to go to bed. She updated me about her day. Tiring day, her feet needed a massage, could I send my hands? I told her I was with Bilkis. Tanaz was pleased; always so nice to meet old friends. But wasn’t it pretty late to be out roaming in Delhi? I was about to joke I was quite safe with Bilkis but Tanaz’s mind, frog in a lily pond, jumped to some other concern.
I walked back to Bilkis. She was in the final stages of dominating a paan. I wiped a red smidgen from her lower lip. It was soft and moist and gave way easily. She turned her face.
‘Did you get the tickets?’ I asked.
‘I changed my mind. I will see the woman soon enough, so why watch her stupid movie? I’m ready to return.’
I checked my watch. ‘Are you sure? The night is still very young. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen a movie and this one has your future boss after all. What happened to your strange longing?’’
Chewing her paan, Bilkis contemplated me.
‘Vyas.’
‘What?’
‘Vyas, you’re a fool.’
That was the truth.
‘I’m very glad we met, Vyas. I’ve missed you and now that we’ve met I’ve once again realized what a good friend you are. I don’t have too many good friends so I must try to keep the ones I have. Next time we meet, Tanaz must join us. Now why don’t you also have a paan and then you can drop me back at the barracks.’
#
Saya! Saya! Saya! There were no mediawallahs allowed inside the green room, but Saya could still hear their shouts and pleas inside her head. Flash. Click. Whirr. Cameras everywhere. Watching and recording. Pouncing when something went wrong. So many things could go wrong. Sweat patches. Panty lines. Cameltoes. Clothes that turned transparent in a certain light. There were other celebrities in the green room, but Razia’s ample buttocks gave her some cover.
‘You look so beautiful Saya-ji. One minute—’ Razia daubed a tiny zit with a complexion concealer, then used her ring finger to pat it down evenly. ‘You should fire me. You don’t need any make-up at all.’
‘This raisin-face is what you call beautiful?’ Saya pretended to regard her face with dissatisfaction.
‘Not just me, the whole world. You’re always beautiful, no matter what. You’re so lucky. God has really blessed you.’
‘In what way? Because I am rich? Or because I am famous?’
‘Both,’ said Razia, suddenly wary. Then with greater confidence: ‘Both. You have everything. You’re rich, beautiful, famous. You’re great.’
‘Yes, I am blessed.’ Saya felt it was a fair assessment. ‘But do you want these things in themselves or do you want them so that you can have other things?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Well suppose you were not rich or beautiful but everyone gave you everything you wanted? Would that be the same thing?’
‘No, no. I don’t want charity—’
‘Not charity. The Pope is neither rich nor beautiful, but who dares say no to the Pope? If you were the Pope, would that be enough?’
Razia put down her brush. Sighed. ‘Truthfully, Saya-ji?’
‘Yes you stupid girl, of course the truth.’
‘I just want to be famous. Like you. My face everywhere. People mad after me. Men, women. When they meet you, it is the most important moment of their lives. I want the same thing. I know I cannot even imagine how it must be to be famous like you. Oh I know I’m lucky, not saying that I’m not lucky. I am very grateful. I’m your make-up girl. I’m somebody. For my friends and relatives, I’m somebody. But it’s not the real thing. You have the real thing, Saya-ji.’ She laughed, an anxious laughter. ‘You must be finding all this so vain?’
‘A little.’ For some reason, the make-up girl’s confession struck a chord. ‘You’re right. You cannot imagine what its like. You know the story about the Maharaja who was really naked though everyone around him pretended he was wearing fine clothes?’
‘Yes, but you’re not at all—’
‘Listen. That Maharaja had a s
ister with a different problem. No matter how many clothes she removed, she could never get naked.
She wasn’t sure she had a body at all.’ ‘Wah, Saya-ji!’ But Razia’s face showed she didn’t get it. ‘What fundas. I didn’t know you were so serious. You seem so light-hearted always. See, this is what I mean when I say you’re great.’
Saya gave her a sharp glance. All this extra butter, quite suspicious. Perhaps Bindu had put her up to it. Or was Razia simply thinking about her Bakri Id bonus? ‘I’m not finished with my wisdom. Being famous in my manner Razia, is like never being able to take off your beautiful clothes. I haven’t seen myself naked in decades. Can you imagine such a life?’
‘I can never have enough clothes!’ Razia looked at the mirror, frowned. ‘Saya-ji, can I ask a favour? My niece is here, she is a fan, really really big fan. Other girls have heroes but not this one. She’s dying to meet you. I said you were busy, you couldn’t be bothered—’
‘Is it an autograph? Sure, but do it quickly.’
‘Oh, it will take only a minute. She is waiting outside.’ Razia set down her brush and ran to the door. Saya waved her hand, gestured to the guards.
‘That one knows how to butter,’ said Bindu, without looking up from her Mills & Boon.
So Razia wanted to be famous. Be careful, Razia. It was always fame that fed on life, never the other way around. She could shut her eyes, but there was no shutting out the petitioners. There was no way to avoid the hero who wanted her to sign his next guaranteed-to-fail movie or the Stardust reporter who wanted her to say something mean about a co-star or the bestselling author who stood too close. There was no way to avoid blurbing her favourite choreographer’s execrable cookbook or not show up at Tina Munim’s charity for Kargil veterans or not be a chief guest at a ceremony to launch the very first Lokshakti Progress School at a village near Hapur. She wasn’t sure if the pathetically happy rustics really had been rustics or just extras hired to act like pathetically excited rustics. Flash. Pop. Whirr. Saya! Saya! Saya! This time, the unavoidable interaction had taken the shape of a function, the Star Screen Awards. She hadn’t won anything and the invite to be an award host had seemed a reasonable alternative to staying home and making a fresh kill-list of all her enemies. Especially since Rishi-ji himself had called to ask. How could anyone with a heart possibly say no to Rishi Kapoor?
