Show Business

by Shashi Tharoor

  Scene: Godambo with Mehnaz Elahi. “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 shrewdly obliging.

  “You see, my daughter is getting married,” Godambo goes on. “And we are celebrating it in a big way, as befits an alliance involving one of the city’s biggest families. I would like to have an entertainment show worthy of the occasion. And I would like you to dance at the wedding. Especially since the bridegroom is an associate of yours.”

  “An associate?” Mehnaz clearly hasn’t heard about Ashok’s plans.

  “Ashok Banjara,” Godambo says with pride. “Why, hasn’t he told you?”

  “There is a lot,” Mehnaz replies with a set expression, “that Ashok doesn’t tell me.”

  “Well,” Godambo says, looking uncomfortable, “will you perform at the occasion anyway?”

  “Of course.” Mehnaz’s tone is dull.

  “Good. So you will come for the event? Three weeks from now. I hope you are free.”

  “Oh — three weeks from today.” Mehnaz is quick to make the most of a bad job. “I am afraid I cannot accept your invitation, Sethji. You see, I have a prior commitment in Bombay. Of course, I could try to change it….”

  “You must,” Godambo insists, “or I would be most disappointed. And,” he says, looking at her with the eye of an experienced businessman, “I would of course be happy to double your fee on this happy occasion.”

  “In that case,” says Mehnaz happily, “how can I let you down for such an important event?”

  And so to the wedding. As the ceremony progresses, complete with demure bride dripping with gold, catered food dripping with ghee, and overladen bar dripping with Scotch, Mehnaz, gazing wistfully at the bridegroom, dances for her supper as a temporary accompanist sings a variant of Ashok’s song:

  Where are you, my love?

  I wait for light from the neon above.

  You have taken my heart

  And hid it from view,

  Now the marriage mart

  Has deprived me of you.

  Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

  But this time there is no answer.

  It is some years later. Maya 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 more usually seen 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.

  Maya dutifully echoes her guru: “Sa-ri-ga-ma-pa-da-ni-sa.”

  “Not bad,” says the maestro. “But there is something missing.” He taps his belly, producing a percussion note like the glug of a drowning diver, and resumes. “Sa-ri-ga-ma-pa-da-ni-sa.”

  Maya smiles prettily and in turn tosses her head. “Sa-ri-ga-ma-pa-da-ni-sa.”

  “You’re getting it,” says the maestro. “See, it’s simple:

  Sa, salary, monthly cash flow,

  Ri, receipt for getting same;

  Ga, garment, when bank is working slow,

  Ma, materialism’s no shame;

  Pa, paupers can’t teach a thing,

  Da, daal-bhat costs a lot,

  Ni, needs are what make me sing —

  and that brings us back to sa — something you forgot?”

  Maya’s brow unfurrows in comprehension. “You haven’t been paid,” she says in contrition. “I’m so sorry, Panditji.”

  “An able pupil,” exclaims the maestro. “Music may be the riches of the soul, but the soul of music requires riches. Or at least a humble pittance.”

  As Maya hurries to her safe to pay her teacher, the maestro remarks on how good she has become. “Very good indeed,” he pronounces, nodding in satisfaction at the notes she is deferentially offering him. “What made you want to take up singing?”

  The camera lingers in close-up on Maya’s poignantly inexpressive face. “I used to take lessons, years ago,” she says, a faraway gaze in her eyes. “That’s how I met my husband. I gave up singing when I married him. But now, my husband spends more and more time on his music. When he leaves, I feel he is taking the music out of my life. I decided the only thing I could do was to learn it myself so that I could join his world.”

  “ Wah, wah,” responds Asrani heartily. It is not clear whether his appreciation is for the sentiment or the money he has just finished counting.

  There follow a couple of scenes that establish Ashok in affectionate domesticity: scenes involving his beautiful wife and dutiful children. Intercut with these are scenes of his professional relationship with Mehnaz: he sings as she dances, her sighs in his direction completely unrequited.

  Scene: Maya is about to give her first public performance as a singer. And she is introduced fulsomely to a large audience by none other than her own father, Seth Godambo.

  “As you know, my son-in-law is a very good singer,” Godambo orates. “And in this domain he is now joined by the not inconsiderable talents of his wife, my daughter, Maya.” (Applause.) “She is a good wife, but what is not so widely known is that she also has a musical soul. And she has kindly agreed today, under the able guidance and instruction of Pandit Asrani” — the maestro, his mouth full of paan, takes an affable bow — “to sing for you today, all in the cause of charity, of course.” Godambo nods, but even without this cue the extras in their seats applaud the winsome debutant with rare enthusiasm.

  Her aesthetic inclinations thus rendered socially respectable, Maya launches into song:

  All I want is to sing for you

  Because, you know, I’ve this thing for you,

  That throbs in every note;

  All I want is to be with you

  Because, you know, I can’t be free with you,

  If music sticks in my throat.

  Her diffidence slips away with every verse, and at the end the audience is on its feet, applauding, all except Mehnaz, who gets up from her seat at the back of the hall, her mouth set in a thin line of resentment, and slips out.

  Maya goes from success to success. In a series of quick cuts, she is shown performing in overflowing halls to standing ovations, receiving prizes and awards, and being featured on posters and in neon lights. Meanwhile, Ashok’s career fades. He and Mehnaz are seen in nondescript theaters before dwindling crowds, his name set in increasingly smaller print on shabby notices, while Maya’s name and face glow in every newspaper. His expression becomes increasingly lugubrious as Maya continues to receive accolades. And after one performance, as everyone else claps, Ashok is seen turning away and walking out of the hall.

  “Depressing, isn’t it?” Mehnaz, her curves enhanced by a slinky dress, is by his side in a nearby garden; she is carrying a snakeskin handbag. “To see all this adulation, when true talent like yours goes unrecognized?”

  Ashok sees no hint of sarcasm in the question. “I’m happy for Maya,” he says, sounding far from it. “But sometimes…”

  “Sometimes you wish this hobby of hers would leave some room for the professionals like us,” Mehnaz says shrewdly, her pectorals heaving in sympathy. “People don’t applaud her singing, Ashok. They’re in love with her, the simple girl-next-door with the looks and manners of a housewife, a woman who looks as if she’d sooner offer you a cup of tea than charge you admission to hear her sing. The crowds love it: they go and sit there, and they look at her, and it doesn’t matter how well she sings or how much better we — I mean you — do. Style and glamour are passé, Ashok.” Mehnaz undulates with regret as she turns toward him. “No one wants excitement any more. Simplicity is in.”

  Ashok looks at her. “I rather like style and glamour myself,” he says, in a tone that suggests he does not admit his other meaning, even to himself. “Not everyone rejects excitement.”

  “It took you a long time to recognize it, Ashok,” Mehnaz responds huskily. “Come to my place, I’ll give you a drink.”

  “But
… Maya ...” Ashok’s protest is feeble.

  “She’s so busy being felicitated, she won’t even notice,” says Mehnaz. “Her manager can take her home. Come on.”

  And with only a brief, hesitant glance toward the hall where his faithful wife is receiving her due, Ashok is led from the garden by the temptress with the snakeskin bag. An apple litters the path, and Mehnaz kicks it aside with the tip of a high-heeled shoe.

  Inside the hall Maya turns to her manager, Pranay, an energetic operator who has been seen earlier organizing backstage, berating auditorium factotums, arranging for Maya to be garlanded. Maya’s gentle features are clouded in apprehension.

  “Ashok doesn’t seem to be anywhere,” she says. “What do you think could have happened?”

  “He must have got tired of waiting,” Pranay says. “Don’t worry, I’ll take you home.”

  “It’s not like Ashok,” Maya says, her dark eyes troubled. “I hope he’s all right. He hasn’t seemed himself of late. I hope he isn’t sick.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Pranay retorts unsympathetically. “If you want my opinion, the only thing he’s sick of is your success.”

  “How dare you say that!” Maya blazes at him loyally. “How dare you!”

  “Take it easy.” Pranay backs off. “No offense meant. But the fact is that he’s less and less happy with your good fortune. I’ve been watching him closely, Maya. You and I have been together too long for me to hide these things from you.”

  “If you go on saying these things, Pranay” — Maya’s delicate nostrils flare with rage — “you and I won’t be together much longer. Ashok’s my husband. He doesn’t even think like that.”

  “Fine.” Pranay concedes. “He’s your husband. Just forget I said anything.”

  But the seed of doubt has been planted in Maya’s furrowed mind. “Where do you think he is now?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” Pranay says guardedly. “Seeking consolation of some sort, I suppose.”

  “You mean sitting in some bar drinking himself silly in self-pity?” snorts Maya derisively. “Huh — that shows how much you know Ashok. He’s not like that at all. Take me home. I’m sure I’ll find him there.”

  “I’ll take you,” says Pranay. “But remember, drink isn’t the only consolation there is.”

  The audience knows that, because Ashok and Mehnaz are in a warm room with a log fire. (Note: this is Kashmir, remember?) Each sports a glass and a smoldering look. They circle each other, the glow from the fire reflected in the heat on their faces. Mehnaz sings:

  You and me, locked in a room,

  And I have lost the key.

  You and me, locked in a room,

  And I know you want me.

  ASHOK JOINS IN:

  You and me, locked in a room,

  And I have shut the door.

  You and me, locked in a room,

  With a rug upon the floor.

  MEHNAZ:

  The look in your eyes

  Is really no surprise

  (SHE LIES DOWN)

  And I’m not prone to argue.

  ASHOK:

  There’s nothing shoddy

  About your body

  (HE BENDS TOWARD HER)

  And I’ve only seen the far view.

  TOGETHER:

  You and me, locked in a room,

  With only each other for comfort.

  You and me, locked in a room ?

  Ashok is almost upon her. The camera shows two logs burning, the flames licking toward each other. Then suddenly the logs fuse, and the fire spurts upward in a searing triangle.

  Maya is still awake when Ashok returns home. They are both red-eyed, for different reasons.

  “Where have you been?” she asks.

  “Out.”

  “I can see that. But where? Have you been drinking?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Don’t you have anything to tell me?”

  “No. Do you?”

  In the face of his belligerence, Maya bites her lip in silence.

  “Well? Do you?”

  She says nothing, but the tears well up in her limpid eyes.

  “No? Good. In that case, good night.” And Ashok throws himself on the bed, while Maya, sitting with her knees drawn up against her chest, sinks her chin into her folded arms and weeps through the night.

  It is the next day. “I’m sorry, Pranay. I don’t feel like singing this evening. Please cancel the show.”

  “What has happened? You sound terrible, Maya.” Pranay takes her chin in his hands and removes the dark glasses with which she has covered the evidence of her tears. “My God, you’ve been crying. What’s the matter?” She does not answer. “Is it Ashok?”

  Maya averts her gentle face so that only the camera can see the pain in her eyes. “Please don’t ask me, Pranay.”

  “Why not? Do you have a better friend than me in the whole world?”

  “No, of course not, Pranay,” sobs Maya. “You’re a wonderful friend, and a great manager. It’s not you. It’s just that I can’t talk about this … to anybody.”

  Pranay is bewildered. “But why? Did he beat you?”

  “No,” she sniffs, shaking her head for emphasis. “It’s worse.”

  Comprehension dawns on Pranay. “So I was right, wasn’t I?” he asks. “He was out seeking consolation” — she nods miserably — “with a woman. My God, I even know which woman.”

  “Witch-woman,” echos Maya.

  “Mehnaz,” breathes Pranay, “of course.” He turns to her with a sudden onrush of passion. “Maya, that man is not worthy of you. Leave him, Maya. Come with me. I shall look after you the way I have looked after your singing.”

  “Stop!” Maya’s face is again awash with her sorrow. “Pranay, how can you even speak like that! Ashok is my husband, my dharampati. I can never think of leaving him.”

  “But Maya, stop thinking only of your duty to him! What about your duty to yourself?”

  “My duty to my husband is to myself,” Maya says slowly, as portentous music fills the sound track. “When I married Ashok I gave my heart to him, and my life. I cannot love anyone else ever again.”

  “But look at the way he is treating you,” says Pranay angrily. Maya does not answer.

  “Don’t waste your life like this, Maya,” Pranay pleads.

  “My life is committed,” Maya says nobly. “There is no waste in fulfilling my dharma as a wife. But I do not intend to sit idly and let my husband drift away from me. I must have done something wrong. I shall undo it now and win my husband back.”

  (Respectful applause from the twenty-five-paisa seats.)

  Ashok is on stage, singing as Mehnaz dances. But his eyes are not on her: he has a sad, wistful expression on his face as he gazes soul-fully at the dress circle and sings:

  Where are you, my love?

  I wait for light from the stars above.

  You have taken my heart

  And hid it from view,

  Life has kept us apart

  And rid me of you.

  Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

  Where she is, is right there — for, unnoticed by Ashok, Maya has slipped into the audience, and she listens to him sing with tears glistening in her eyes.

  The show is over, and Ashok is standing, palms joined in respectful namaskar, as a thin trickle of decrepit well-wishers congratulate him on his performance. Suddenly the look of distant politeness on Ashok’s face vanishes as a soft voice cuts through the hubbub near him. “You sang beautifully, Ashok.” Our hero looks up in shock at Maya standing among the debris on the stage.

  “You! What are you doing here?”

  “Ijust thought I’d come and watch you sing,” she says softly. “Do you mind?”

  “Mind? Of course not. It’s just that — you haven’t done this in a long time.” Their eyes meet, and it is obvious even to the villagers in the twenty-five-paisa seats that nothing has changed
between them.

  “Why did you leave me that night, without even a word?” she asks intensely.

  “Because I didn’t think you cared whether I stayed or not,” Ashok says miserably. “I wanted — oh, I don’t know, attention, perhaps.”

  Attention is just what he’s going to get, for Pranay suddenly appears, his eyes bloodshot, his feet unsteady. He is carrying a gun, which he points directly at Ashok.

  Maya turns, sees him, and throws herself on the assailant. But she can only deflect the shot. Pranay fires — once, twice, the bark of the revolver punctuating the music and bringing the sound track to a screeching halt. Maya screams. Ashok collapses, bleeding profusely in Eastman color.

  Scene: a hospital. Ashok lies swathed in an improbable array of bandages that carefully leave his face made-up and visible. Bottles drip assorted fluids into his veins. A worried Dr. Iftikhar tells Ashok’s parents, “I am sorry, but the situation is serious. We cannot save your son without a rare type of blood. And yours,” he tells the stricken Ramkumar, “does not match.”

  “But I have the same blood type as my husband’s,” Maya exclaims. “Please take whatever is necessary to save my dharampati’s life.” Cymbals clash on the sound track as symbols flash on the screen.

  “Shabash,” says Dr. Iftikhar. (He has been waiting a long time to say it.)

  After a few quick cuts (both cinematic and surgical), Ashok and Maya lie on adjoining cots, smiling wanly at each other. The precious red fluid drips into him from a large bottle suspended above his bed.

  “You saved my life,” Ashok declaims. She smiles in satisfied response.

  Ashok, remarkably restored, goes on. “Oh, Maya, I’ve done a terrible thing. I’ve been untrue to you and to myself. I’m miserable, Maya. Won’t you forgive me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Ashok,” Maya says, rising from her bed to embrace her husband and placing her head against his chest. “I want to tell you something. I have decided to give up singing.”

  “What?” In his astonishment Ashok almost sits up, but he is drawn short by his tubes. “Give up singing! But why?”

  “I only took it up to become closer to you, my husband,” says Maya, as treacly notes drip through the sound track. “Instead it has only driven us apart. I don’t need it. You give me all the music I need in my life.”