Show Business

by Shashi Tharoor

  REALLY, DARLINGS, what is happening on the sets of Dil Ek Qila, Jagannath Choubey’s much-touted multistarrer that’s supposed to mark the comeback of ex-national sweetheart Maya Kumari? Bollywood is rife with stories of flashing tempers and stormy walkouts, script changes and sullen sulks — and that’s all offscreen! It’s no secret, of course, to Cheetah’s well-read little cubs (especially those who read well between the lines!) that the film’s two female stars don’t exactly see eye-to-contact lens with each other. And neither has to look very far for the cause of their mutual dislike — not much beyond their bedrooms, if Cheetah makes herself clear! Indeed, some of the problems on the set are not entirely unrelated to other matters we’ve chattered about in recent weeks, but sorry, darlings, the libel lawyers won’t let me say more. Meanwhile, producer Jagannath Choubey’s bills are mounting every day and director Mohanlal has been seen popping tranquilizers as if they were golgappas. Question of the week, darlings: will Dil Ek Qila ever get completed, and if it does, will anyone recognize it as the film Choubeyji’s enthusiastic PR-wallahs were telling us about months ago? As the costume man said to the actress, I have my doubts on both points! Grrrowl…

  DARLINGS, whoever heard of a good villain? Well, it seems our nasty old Pranay, he of the paan-stained mouth and the evil leer, has a heart of gold, and that isn’t a snide reference to his visits to Dubai, I swear! It seems the man every woman loves to hate has actually set up a fund for Junior Artistes, the long-suffering small-fry we can’t bring ourselves to call “extras,” and he puts in a percentage of his take from every movie he does, as well. Now there’s an example for some of our heroes to follow, eh? Grrowl…

  NOW ALL YOU faithful little cubs know that Cheetah doesn’t waste time on soulful gush, don’t you? We only chatter about the sinful and the salacious. But Cheetah heard something soulful today that’s too-too interesting to pass up. Remember the unnameable bigamist you’ve heard all those whispers about? Well, he was in a confiding mood the other day, over a glass of Cheetah’s favourite libation, but — alas! — strictly off the record. Which means it’s OK to quote him as long as we don’t mention his name (or height), eh? So gather round, little cubs, and Cheetah will tell you a slightly longer story than usual!

  Well, we asked our friend, why the first marriage, and why the second? He looked intensely into the amber pool in his glass and breathed, almost to himself: “You marry someone. Because she seems right, because everyone else loves her, because you want your father’s approval. Even if you’ve never admitted to yourself, let alone to him, that you want your father’s approval. And at first it feels great. Everyone admires her, envies you. Wonderful. Then, after a while, the magic fades. You lose interest in her. Not all of a sudden, but gradually, inevitably. You can’t do anything about it. But you don’t want to lose her either. It’s not as if you dislike her or anything, or are desperate to get rid of her. In any case, it’s too late for that: there’s the fear of scandal, there are the kids, there’s the guilt, and there’s the fear of, once more, letting yourself down in your father’s eyes. So you go on. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter: you’ll find your own escapes.”

  And doesn’t she notice? “Perhaps. I don’t know. Of course she has her own frustrations. But it’s different for women.” (You can imagine how much self-restraint it took for Cheetah to let that pass, darlings.) “Anyway, you’re always conscious of your own escapes, your own betrayals, so when you’re with her you try to be considerate. You give in to whatever she wants. You avoid quarrels, resentments, anything that’ll bring your own duplicity up and into the open. You do and say what’s necessary, no more. Out of guilt, yes, and because there’s no point in fighting. It’s the least you can do for her. It’s all you can do for her. What you want for yourself you get elsewhere.”

  And, I can hear you asking, little cubs, what about the Other Woman? “Well, you have no illusions about why you’re with her, what you want out of her. She’s your escape, your pleasure, no more, no less. Problem is, you think you’ve made that all clear to her, but it’s never clear enough. She expects things, things you can’t give her, never intended to give her. Attention. Engagement. Commitment. She wants to feel special, too, and however special you make her feel by being with her, there’s one thing your wife has that she doesn’t: your ring. Your name. A connection to you in the eyes of society and the eyes of God. You keep dismissing it, but in the end the pressure keeps mounting. You’ve either got to give in or give up — give her up.

  “So of course you try to find some sort of compromise. You can’t give her any of the public acknowledgment she wants, of course — you can’t make her yours in the eyes of the world. So in a moment of weakness, after a sleepless night in her arms and bombed out of your mind anyway, you give her the next best thing — you tell her you’ll make her your wife in the eyes of God. Before you quite know what you’re doing you get her to pull on her sari and you trot bleary-eyed at dawn to a temple on the rocks with a garland you’ve bought on the beach, and drop it over her head in front of the idol. No witnesses, not even a priest. Of course you tell her God has blessed your nuptials and that’s far better than the blessings of society. But no sooner have you done it than you’ve got to stagger home and look at yourself in the mirror and confront the enormity of what you’ve done. And then you find you can’t face her again. You can’t deal with her on this new footing you’ve placed yourself on. You did it to preserve the relationship, but in fact you’ve made the relationship impossible.”

  So he stops seeing her! Just like that — can you imagine? And what about the fact that the starry-eyed paramour is going around smearing red on her forehead and coyly referring to an anonymous “husband”?

  “That’s her problem, not mine. I’d tell her to stop it but I can’t even bring myself to speak to her.”

  Sad, stirring stuff, isn’t it, darlings? Cheetah was so moved she promptly gave him another drink — by emptying the glass on top of his head! GRRROWL … !

  DARLINGS, Cheetah was at a Bollywood party with a difference the other day. Seems our villain with a social conscience, Pranay, has political commitments too! The man best known for flogging celluloid peasants and ripping bodices off vamps played host to a Delhi VIP last week while producers and distributors tried to look knowledgeable about national issues. The party was to introduce the well-heeled and high-heeled of filmland to Dr. Sourav Gangoolie, national treasurer of the ruling party and behind-the-scenes confidante of the Prime Minister, no less! Despite some notable absentees (including Bollywood’s only ministerial offspring, Ashok “completely-uninterested-in-politics” Banjara), Pranay’s bash has to be counted as a success for the paan-stained veteran. The dapper Dr. Gangoolie, who is not much seen in the public eye but has a reputation for shrewdness and getting things done, was able to meet an assortment of Bollywood luminaries. He spoke affably to all and sundry, but there was a determined glint in his bespectacled eyes as he squeezed the pudgier hands. After all, there’s an election around the corner and Dr. G. is supposed to be the party’s principal fund-raiser. And funds are one commodity Bollywood isn’t exactly short of, especially of the undeclared variety (but of course Cheetah’s just being naughty, little cubs, and the libel lawyers can relax)!! Who’d have thought our Pranay had a top politico up his sleeve, darlings? Mark my words — the best villains always have more to them than meets the eye. Which in Pranay’s case is just as well, eh? Grrowl…

  STOP THE PRESS! Remember the soulful confessions of the straying superstar in these pages a couple of weeks ago? Well, the Wronged Woman (or is she simply the Wrong Woman?) has been pouring her heart out to your Cheetah, darlings, and it’s all sizzling stuff! Unfortunately, these lawyers are such a bore, my cubs, they just won’t let me print it all. Anyway, the burden of her song is that marriage was all his idea in the first place — (sorry, His idea, she insists I write it with a capital H) — and that it’s merely set the seal of divine sanction on their holy union. Can you believe su
ch a thing, darlings? But what amazed Cheetah even more was how she went on about Him and what a great influence He is on her life and how she wouldn’t let anyone speak a word against Him because He is her Force, her be-all and end-all. Now Cheetah knows this is usually how actresses sound when their ends no longer justify their jeans and the time comes to discover religion, but the lady in question is in her prime and her hero’s no one’s idea of an idol. Wonders will never cease! Stay tuned, darlings — the lady’s nothing if not “revealing,” and there may be more revelations to come! Grrowl…

  TUT, TUT, DARLINGS, all is not well between Bollywood’s hottest screen twosome, at least not after the spectacular fiasco of their Dil Ek Qila, which is finding it difficult to survive its initial week in most theaters! When Ashok Banjara walked into producer Jagannath Choubey’s glittering Diwali bash the other evening (and what a bash it was, my little cubs, more sparkle than a mineful of diamonds, and fireworks to put Venice to shame) guess who should make a beeline for him, slinky in a silvery salwar-kameez, but his recent costar Mehnaz Elahi! And guess who walked past without a greeting, as if he could see right through her!! The poor little itch girl stood helplessly in the middle of the room, her seductive smile turning into a strained simper. Of course this was for all of six seconds, before she was surrounded by her usual sea of admirers and swept away to another shore, but six seconds is long enough for your Cheetah to notice, my cubs! It was not long before the room was abuzz with speculation, much of it asking what Bollywood was coming to if one flop, even such a maha flop, could do this to relations between two friends and colleagues. Some people were already renaming the film Dil Ek Killer! Cheetah, as always, knew more than she was prepared to say — but as The Banjara knows so well, some things are better done than said, eh? Think about that, my little cubs! Grrrrowl…

  END OF INTERVAL BACK

  TO MAIN FEATURE

  Exterior: Night

  DIL EK QILA

  (The Heart Is a Fortress)

  THE SECOND TREATMENT: THE REVISED VERSION

  A hillside in Kashmir. The camera pans across azure sky, verdant slopes, technicolor flowers. Maya runs laughing across the screen to the strains of a dozen violins 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: Maya with her parents, Godambo and Abha, in their luxurious, indeed palatial, home. Early moments of dialogue establish father’s strength (deep, gravelly voice), wealth (expensive rings on fingers), and traditionalism (caste mark on forehead). Maya gets to the point: “Father, I would like to get married.” “Excellent,” says Godambo: he has been thinking along the same lines. It is time Maya settled down. It would be good for her and, provided a suitable son-in-law was found, good for the business also.

  Maya looks uncomfortable. “Father, there is already a man whom I wish to marry.”

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

  “Its someone I met at the music class,” Maya says nervously. “He’s a very fine person and a wonderful singer. Let me bring him home to meet you. I’m sure you’d like him.”

  “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 him. Who is the man? What is his name? Is he of good family? Who are his parents? Do we know them, and if not, why not? Where does he live? What is his profession?” And Abha adds, “Is he tall?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Scene: an auditorium, every seat full. Maya and her parents are escorted to a front row. The curtain parts to reveal a stage with the painted backdrop of twin snow-covered mountain peaks. The symbolism is made even more obvious as Mehnaz enters in a cascade of anklets, covered head to foot in kathak costume of billowing blue skirt, peak-hugging blue blouse, blue head scarf, and blue leggings, all spangled with silver. Godambo grunts appreciatively. Ashok, seated on a dhurrie on the stage, 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 he sings and Mehnaz dances, all arched hip and elegant fingertips, Ashok manages to exchange meaningful glances with Maya in the audience, making it clear every word of the playback applies to her. Meanwhile, Godambo, oblivious to this byplay, appears to enjoy himself hugely. When the song is over the audience bursts into well-rehearsed applause, and Godambo rises to his feet to clap vigorously.

  At the end of the show, Godambo, in mellow spirits, looks around the hall. “So shall we meet your young man now?” he asks.

  “Oh, yes, thank you, Papa!” Maya exclaims, bright-eyed. “Did you like him?”

  “That boy,” Godambo’s eyes bulge with pleasure, “has the making of a very great singer indeed.”

  Backstage Mehnaz is cooing to Ashok. “Wasn’t that wonderful, darling?” she asks, placing her hands on Ashok’s shoulder. “You and I,” she adds huskily, “can make beautiful music together.”

  Ashok disengages himself. “Excuse me, Mehnaz,” he says. “I have an important appointment.”

  Mehnaz tosses her hair in displeasure and flounces out of the dressing room.

  Ashok emerges from the auditorium, looking handsome and poised. After he deferentially greets Maya’s parents, they get into Godambo’s chauffeur-driven Impala.

  When Mehnaz, now freshly changed into a slinky salwar-kameez, emerges from the auditorium, she sees Ashok — a look of eager expectation on his face — shutting the car door behind him. Mehnaz is left staring crestfallen and resentful into the camera as the Impala drives away into the future with an optimistic squeal of its white-walled tires.

  Next scene: Ashok with his parents, in their lower-middle-class home. The decor is conventional: pale-green walls, peeling ceiling, plastic-covered sofa, garish calendars of androgynous deities. His father, Ramkumar, is poor but dignified, and anxious about his son’s choice. Marriage, he points out, has to do with more than mere attraction. Could Ashok cope with the stresses of being married to the daughter of Seth Godambo, of having a wife wealthier and more important than himself? And what about them? 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. Could he see his own simple father and sari-swathed mother socializing in Seth Godambo s living room? Ashok has to admit he cannot.

  Yet when his parents finally meet Maya, they are
charmed by her sweetness and simplicity, her modesty and manners. “But she’s wonderful!” Ramkumar beams. “She’sjust the kind of girl we would have wanted to arrange for you to marry,” he adds. “Despite your obsession with music, you must still have something of me in you if you look for the same qualities in a wife that we would in a daughter-in-law.”

  Maya blushes modestly, her smile dimpling her slim cheeks.

  It is later, at dusk; Ashok and Maya are running through a palm grove near the beach. Maya wears a sari and a joyous expression. The flow of the tide caresses the shore, sending up froth that seems to gurgle happily in celebration of our heroine’s love. The sun’s rays bathe her beauty in a golden radiance as she runs through the grove, and Ashok, losing sight of her among the trees, sings with feeling:

  Where are you, my love?

  I wait for light from the sun above.

  You have taken my heart

  And hid it from view,

  Now the trees will not part

  To bring me to you.

  Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

  And Maya’s answer comes echoing through the palm fronds: “I-I-I’m he-e-re.” Ashok grins in delight and resumes the chase.

  Five verses later, he has caught her. They embrace, and her last answer is a lilting whisper: “I-I-I’m here.” Ashok’s head moves toward hers, and the camera caresses the waves as they wash the shore… .

  Afterward, Maya and Ashok walk by the sea, now calm in amatory contentment. Ashok buys a small garland of white flowers for Maya to wear in her hair. Impulsively, she slips off her necklace and gives it to Ashok. “Keep this,” she says, “as a memento of my love.” It is a thin chain, strung through a medallion of a dancing goddess. Ashok kisses the medallion, then gives it back to her. “How can I wear a necklace?” he asks with a laugh. “Wear it on your wrist,” Maya suggests, “like a bracelet.” Ashok loops the chain three times around his wrist, the medallion resting on it like a watch. “Don’t try and tell the time with it,” Maya giggles. “Any time is a good time,” Ashok responds, “to think of how much I love you.”