Show Business

by Shashi Tharoor

  “Maya,” I begin in warning. She rides roughshod over me.

  “Don’t you see what she wants? Are you so blind, Ashok Banjara, that you really can’t see what she’s up to? You’re going to play a married musician helplessly in love with her, the stunning dancing girl. Do you think the great Indian public isn’t going to see that as a statement about your real life? And you want to allow this whore to flaunt her affair with you across the nation while I sit quietly at home. Well, I’m not going to play along with this, Ashok. I am the mother of your children and I’m not going to reduce myself to an object of pity!”

  “He stays with his wife in the end,” I say lamely.

  “Because the slut dies in heroic circumstances to save them both,” Maya blazes. “Have you no shame, offering the script as an excuse?”

  I can’t take any more of this. There are times when the easy way out is the best way out. “I’ll tell Choubey I won’t do it,” I announce.

  “You’ve signed already,” she says.

  “I have?” This is genuine, because half the time I’m not sure what I’m signing. But it’s true that I’d told Subramanyam I would, so he could well have thrust that paper in front of me along with a dozen others.

  “You have,” Maya confirms. “You could still get out of it, but it wouldn’t be worth the grief. And besides, Choubey is probably already selling his territories on the strength of your name.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll do him some other favor. He’ll want me for another film soon enough, and I’ll promise him all the dates he wants.”

  “No.” Maya is firm. “I’ve thought about it. If you pull out, they’ll probably make the film anyway, and that slut will still get the story across the way she wants it. It’s better this way.”

  “What way?” I ask, pouring myself another whiskey. I wave the bottle at her, but she ignores the offer.

  “To do it, but to make sure I have control,” Maya says grimly.

  “Control? How?”

  “We’re seeing Choubey tomorrow,” Maya says. “And we’re going to tell him you’re laying down three conditions.”

  “We are?” This is all too much for me. “I am?”

  “Yes. One, I shall executive produce.” This will be a new one to Choubey, who’s never had an executive producer in his life. “Two, I shall be script consultant. The screenplay, you will tell him, needs some minor revisions, and the dialogue wallah will work with me. Three, under these conditions, but only under these conditions, I shall play the wife.”

  I am totally speechless. I gasp. I gape.

  “No one is going to pity me when this film comes out,” Maya says determinedly. “I don’t know whether it will do anything for you at the box office, Ashok. My comeback may never take off with this part. But everyone who sees it is going to say, wah, kaisi aurat hai. What a woman she is. They’re going to admire me for having taken this situation into my own hands and confronted it with pride and self-respect.” She turns to face me, her eyes bright. “Are you going to be with me in this, Ashok? Are you going to stand up for the dignity of your wife, the mother of your children, or are you going to let that whore walk all over the honor of this house?”

  She really knows how to put it, that girl. She should never have left the theater. “Of course I’m with you, Maya,” I say. After all, I have a family to maintain. Mehnaz won’t like it, but then I’ve never lost much time worrying about what Mehnaz might like. Thank God there are still women like that.

  “Tell me it isn’t true, Ashok,” begs Cyrus Sponerwalla, all three of his chins wobbling in anxiety.

  “What isn’t?”

  “Like you’re going to do a film about adultery,” he squeaks. “You, Ashok Banjara, epitome of moral rectitude from Jalpaiguri to Jhumri Tialaiya, are going to play an errant husband on the silver screen.”

  “I am,” I concede.

  “The Indian public isn’t ready for this, man,” Cyrus pleads, blinking behind his glasses like an owl at noontime. “The consumers in the twenty-five-paisa seats won’t accept it, idea-wise. Your image will take a dive, man.”

  “There isn’t any explicit adultery in the film, Cyrus. Relax, have a Charminar.” I quote the well-known advertising slogan, but offer him an India Kings.

  Cyrus turns down the cigarette, and the commercial wisdom behind its marketing. “I can’t relax, man, when you’re in the process of destroying yourself image-wise,” he flaps, dabbing at perspiration with a scented handkerchief. “Look, you’re a hero, and a damn good one at that. Why not just stay a hero? Isn’t that enough for you?”

  “Cyrus, Cyrus.” I laugh. “The film magazines have hinted at the looseness of my morals and at that of every other actor and actress in Bollywood for years. It’s done me no harm whatsoever. I thought you told me any publicity’s good publicity. Speaking of which, take a look at this.” I pass him the latest Showbiz.

  Like all PR pros, Cyrus cannot resist the printed word. And Radha Sabnis is in her element:

  Darlings, Cheetah hears the love scenes in our studios are getting more and more torrid. Tongues haven’t ceased wagging at Himalaya over a sizzling performance by The Banjara with his leading lady, the ultraliberated Mehnaz Elahi — yes, the very girl who told an interviewer last year that anyone over eighteen claiming to be a virgin was either a liar or a cow. Cheetah learns that the love scene in question continued well after the camera had been switched off, and that the Hungry Young Man’s costar turned up for the next shot with a substantial tear in her costume. Well, darlings, perhaps our self-confessed Erich Segal fan thinks that love means never having to sew your sari, eh? Grrrowl …

  I hear the Sponerwalla chuckle, like an asthmatic chicken gobbling its feed, and then Cyrus is bleating again. “This is a different market altogether, man,” he explains. “These things don’t matter to those who read them, like, but those who can read anything at all are only fifteen percent, twenty tops, of your overall audience. My PR strategy for you is segmented, man: frequent publicity in the print media, clean image on the screen. The readers of Showbiz are thrilled and titillated by all this, and it’s fine, so long as the likes of Radha Sabnis don’t go on repeating that you’re a bad actor, which is what can harm you with this segment of the market. Right? But the people I’m concerned about today have never read a film magazine, and they’re the core of your mass appeal. Illiterate villagers who go six, seven times to the same film, and who think you are the heroes you play. The rural masses don’t make fine distinctions between the actor and the part, Ashok. That’s why children aren’t being named Pranay anymore, or Prem Chopra, because the actors’ own real names are so completely identified with their screen villainy. If you were called Chopra, man, would you name your son Prem? He wouldn’t be able to introduce himself without women yelling ’rape’! Now you, Ashok, you’re clean, image-wise. Not as pure clean as someone like N. T. Rama Rao in Andhra, who has played so many gods in mythological epics that some people have actually built a temple to him. Or MGR in Madras, who has defeated the forces of injustice and evil in so many films that the masses are pleading with him to take over the state government and set everything right. But you’re somewhere there yourself, image-wise. You don’t go spoiling it by betraying your wife on every cinema screen in the country.”

  “Point taken, Cyrus,” I laugh. “I shall bear it in mind as I look over the screenplay. Look, don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right. Maya’s going to have the final say on the script.”

  Sponerwalla looks relieved. “Why didn’t you tell me that to begin with?” he asks, putting away his damp handkerchief.

  “Because I love to see you earn your fee,” I reply heartlessly. “Speaking of which, Cyrus — what do you know about Swiss banks?”

  Exterior: Day

  DIL EK QUA

  (The Heart Is a Fortress)

  THE FIRST TREATMENT: THE ORIGINAL VERSION

  A hillside in Kashmir. The camera pans across azure sky, verdant slopes, techni
color flowers. Mehnaz Elahi runs laughing across the screen to the strains of an electric mandolin as Ashok Banjara pursues her, singing:

  You are my sunlight

  You brighten my life

  You are my sunlight

  Come be my wife.

  He finally catches up with her and hugs her from behind: she continues trying to flee and they roll down the hill, locked in an embrace. Close-up: their laughing lips are about to meet when the camera swings skyward and the opening credits fill the screen.

  Domestic scene: Ashok with his parents, Godambo and Amma, in their luxurious, indeed palatial, home. Early moments of dialogue establish father’s strength (deep, gravelly voice), wealth (luxurious furnishings), and traditionalism (caste mark on forehead). Ashok gets to the point: “Father, I want to get married.” “Excellent,” says Godambo: he has been thinking along the same lines. It is time Ashok settled down. It would be good for the family and, provided a suitable match was made, good for the business also.

  Ashok looks uncomfortable. “Father, I have already found the girl I wish to marry.”

  “What!” Outrage on Godambo’s face, consternation in his bulging eyes. Amma rolls pupils heavenward and mutters a brief invocation. “And who can this be?” asks the paterfamilias.

  “I would like to bring her here to meet you,” Ashok suggests.

  “Wait!” Godambo is a man of procedure. “Before you bring any such person to our house, let me make some inquiries. Tell me everything you know about her. Who is the girl? What is her name? Is she of good family? Who are her parents? Do we know them, and if not, why not? Where does she live? How did you meet her?” And Amma adds, “Is she fair?”

  “Yes, she is,” Ashok answers his mother, but one useful response does not get him off the hook. Godambo is not to be diverted. Squirming under his relentless probing, Ashok has to admit that his ladylove is neither rich nor well connected. “But she is a wonderful girl,” he says with deep-pupiled intensity. “And I love her.”

  “Love?” Godambo barks. “What is love?”

  “Love,” Amma explains maternally, “is something that comes after marriage, Ashok. I love you, I love your father. How can you love a stranger?”

  “She’s not a stranger, Mother,” Ashok begins, then realizes it is hopeless. “Look, if only you both would meet her, you would see immediately what I mean.” But his father is reluctant to take matters so far as to welcome this impecunious interloper into his own living room. Then Ashok has an idea. “Come and see her at the Cultural Evening tonight,” he pleads.

  Godambo is not interested, but Amma, ever the obliging mother, persuades him on behalf of her son.

  Scene: an auditorium, every seat full. Ashok and his parents are escorted to a front row. The curtain parts to reveal a stage with the painted backdrop of a flowering garden. Mehnaz enters in a cascade of anklets, covered head to foot in kathak costume of billowing red skirt, long-sleeved red blouse, red head scarf, and red leggings, all spangled with silver. Godambo grunts appreciatively. Mehnaz bursts into song:

  My heart beats for you,

  I’d perform feats for you,

  You are the landlord of my soul;

  My eyes light for you,

  I‖d gladly fight for you,

  Without you I don’t feel whole.

  As she sings and dances, all arched hip and elegant fingertips, she manages to exchange meaningful glances with Ashok, making it clear every word of the playback applies to him. Meanwhile, Godambo, oblivious to this byplay, appears to enjoy himself hugely. When the song is over the audience bursts into well-rehearsed applause, and Ashok rises to his feet to clap vigorously.

  At the end of the show, Godambo, in mellow spirits, looks around the hall. “So where is this girl you wanted me to meet?” he asks his son.

  “You’ve seen her, Dad. And I could tell you liked her. Mehnaz Elahi, the kathak dancer. Wasn’t she something?”

  “What!” Godambo’s eyes bulge in horror. “An entertainer! My son wants to marry an entertainer!”

  Amma restrains him, but he storms out, wife and son in tow. They are getting into their chauffeur-driven Impala when Mehnaz, now freshly changed into a sari, emerges from the auditorium and walks expectantly toward them. She stops short, though, her pretty face clouded in bewilderment, as Ashok shuts the car door after him with a look of helplessness. Mehnaz is left staring crestfallen into the camera as the Impala drives away in a cloud of dusty intolerance.

  Inside the house the scene is Godambo’s: rage and outrage alternating with advice about vice. He is furious that his son wants to marry the first plausible hussy who has allowed him to embrace her. Of course young men must sow their wild oats, but marriage has nothing to do with sexual attraction. The girl might be pretty, she might be talented, but she was completely unsuitable for the son of Seth Godambo. When Ashok marries, it will be a social event; his bride will be handpicked from a dazzling array of well-endowed virgins from well-endowed families. There is the business to be considered, the family’s standing in the community, the expectations of the society in which they live. If Ashok married—the word makes Godambo choke—married Mehnaz Elahi, he and his parents would be laughingstocks. “I understand your needs,” Godambo adds in gruff paternalism. “I was a young man myself once. But marriage is another matter altogether.”

  Yes, Amma explains. Marriage is not just a relationship between individuals, but an arrangement between families. Ashok would not just be marrying one woman, he would be acquiring another family. Can he see Mehnaz’s simple father and shrouded mother socializing in Seth Godambo’s living room? Ashok has to admit he cannot.

  Yet when his parents have finished with him, Ashok is defiant. “Mehnaz is the woman of my heart,” he declaims. “I will not let her down.”

  “Why don’t you talk this over with her?” Godambo is surprisingly reasonable. “She may well prove more sensible than you. When are you seeing her next?”

  “Tomorrow evening,” Ashok replies. “She was supposed to join a show in Bombay, but I persuaded her not to. Dad, I’m not sure I can live without her.”

  “Don’t be so sure she can’t live without you,” Godambo says meaningfully.

  Next scene: Godambo with our heroine, in her lower-middle-class home. Peacock-green walls, peeling ceiling, plastic-covered sofa, garish calendars of androgynous deities. “Miss Mehnaz, I enjoyed your performance at the Cultural Evening last night,” he says gutturally. “I would like to engage you for a very special occasion.”

  Mehnaz is all pretty and obliging.

  “You see, my son is getting married,” Godambo goes on. “And we are celebrating it in a big way, as befits an alliance between two of the city’s biggest families. I would like to have an entertainment show worthy of the occasion. And I would like you to sing and dance for my son’s wedding.”

  “Your son?” Mehnaz asks.

  “Ashok Banjara,” Godambo says with pride. “Why, do you know him?”

  “And he is … getting … married?”

  “Yes, to Lalaji Chhoturmal’s daughter, Abha,” Godambo replies. “Ashok has liked her for a long time. You see, they were in the same school, and of course we know the family very well.”

  “Of course.” Mehnaz’s tone is dull.

  “So—will you come for the event? Three weeks from now. I hope you are free, and I would of course be happy to double your fee on this happy occasion.”

  “No,” Mehnaz says quietly. “No, I am afraid I cannot accept your invitation, Sethji. You see, I have a prior commitment in Bombay. In fact, I am leaving tonight.”

  “I am most disappointed,” Godambo says, but he cannot conceal the gleam of triumph in his bulging eyes.

  It is later, at dusk; Ashok is waiting at a palm grove near the beach, wearing jeans and a troubled expression. He looks at his watch, then up at the darkening sky. Studio stars twinkle at him. He sings plaintively:

  Where are you, my love?

  I wait for light from the stars a
bove.

  You have taken my heart

  And hid it from view,

  Now no one can start

  To rid me of you.

  Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

  There is, of course, no answer.

  Song finished, and with one more futile look at his watch, Ashok leaps into his two-seater sports car and drives to Mehnaz’s house. “Where is she?” he demands of her poor but dignified parents, as the calendars flap omnisciently on the walls.

  “She has gone to Bombay,” replies the mother. “And she specifically told me to tell you, if you came by, that she has nothing to say to you. Except to give you this.” She puts a crumpled envelope into Ashok’s hand. Out of it emerges a silver bracelet, with the image of a dancing goddess on a medallion at its clasp.

  “But I gave her this,” Ashok protests in dismay.

  “And she is giving it back to you,” Mehnaz’s father, Ramkumar, replies. “She doesn’t want it anymore.”

  “I don’t understand.” Ashok’s eyes are hot with tears. “I don’t know what’s come over your daughter, but you can tell her I shall always keep this bracelet for her—till the day she comes back to me.”

  “I shall tell her,” replies the kindly mother, “but she isn’t coming back, Ashok. She has gone to make her career in Bombay.”

  Sad, portentous music. The screen intercuts two sets of images: one of Ashok’s wedding ceremony, complete with demure bride dripping with gold, sneezy guest dripping with cold, and overweight mother-in-law dripping with tears, the other of elegiac soft-focus shots showing Mehnaz in Bombay, gazing wistfully at the horizon, her sari billowing in the sea breeze, and singing the refrain of Ashok’s song:

  Where are you, my love?

  I wait for light from the stars above.

  You have taken my heart

  And hid it from view,

  Now no one can start

  To rid me of you.

  Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

  It is some years later. Ashok is seated on a dhurrie on the floor, taking music lessons from a maestro with a harmonium. “Very good,” says the maestro, Asrani, an actor seen more often in the role of stock comedian. “Now once again: sa-ri-ga-ma-pa-da-ni-sa.” He tosses his head back with a tonal flourish as he runs through the scale. “Now you.”