by Shobhaa De
PART TWO
Aasha Rani
AASHA RANI TOOK TWO DAYS TO COME OUT OF THE COMA. SHE was dopey and disoriented when she surfaced, but the moment the grogginess cleared she asked about Akshay: “Is he all right?”
Amma and Kishenbhai exchanged looks. It was then that Aasha Rani noticed Kishenbhai hovering in a corner. “What is he doing here? Who let him in?” Kishenbhai placed a restraining hand over hers and said, “Please don’t exert yourself. Try to rest. Relax a little. It’s all right. Everybody is all right.” Aasha Rani tried to get up but couldn’t. “Why am I in this horrible room? I want to go home! Take me home immediately. I’m not staying here!”
Amma put her arms around her. “You’ll have to remain here for a few more days. I’ll be here. If you like I’ll ask Sudha to come from Madras. Don’t worry about anything. Kishenbhai is here now.”
“I hate him,” Aasha Rani sobbed. “I hate him for getting me into the industry, for ruining my life. I will never forgive him, never. Now take me home. I want to go home!”
It was only a fortnight later that Aasha Rani was able to read Linda’s scathing scoop. The phone at home had been ringing constantly with reporters hungry for the sordid details, but Amma fobbed off the journalists. Various publications had already written their versions of the suicide. She’d made it to the covers of all the leading film magazines and also rated a “newsmaker” item in a political weekly. Akshay’s “role” in her suicide attempt had been unabashedly hyped, and there were quite a few boxed interviews with Malini, who had chosen to adopt the we-have-nothing-to-do-with-it line, making sure to speak in the plural—for herself and Akshay.
The stories veered from the plainly absurd to the truly vicious. Akshay and Aasha Rani had been dubbed a modern-day Salim and Anarkali jodi, and there were several snide digs about unrequited love.
The letters and flowers continued to pour in, including a bouquet and card from Linda. Amma looked at it and shuddered as if it held something contaminated and vile. Silently, she trashed the roses and tore up the card. “The cheek of the woman,” Aasha Rani heard her say to Kishenbhai. “I’ll deal with her. A defamation case will cost too much, and in the end our baby will suffer. But I’m going to talk to Amirchand. He’ll set that chudail right.”
In her statements to the press Malini had stressed the point that it was Aasha Rani who always threw herself at her husband, even after he had made it clear that he was not interested. Ajay too, had been quoted as saying, “My brother has so many women in love with him. Can he be held responsible if one of them tries to kill herself out of frustration?”
Only Akshay had refused all interviews. He’d become cold and unapproachable, withdrawing into an ominous silence. Aasha Rani was shattered by his indifference, by the way he neither confirmed nor denied any of the rumors. She was anguished by the fact that he had even refused to acknowledge their relationship. That he had not so much as mentioned her name. As if, for him, the suicide bid had indeed been successful, and she had ceased to exist. But Aasha Rani still ached to see him. Still hungered for his touch. Still searched the bouquets and cards for his familiar scrawl. A word. A sign. She would ask Amma if there were any messages from him half a dozen times a day. Amma would pretend she hadn’t heard and busy herself fluffing the pillows.
STRANGELY ENOUGH, Aasha Rani’s suicide attempt gave a little boost to Akshay’s career. As Kishenbhai explained it, “Aasha Rani has made him a hero once more. The very fact that she was willing to die for him makes him a big superstar in the public’s eyes. They think there must be something to him if someone like Aasha Rani loves him—to this extent. Chalo, let him benefit. It must be his naseeb. We’ll worry about our girl. She has to resume shooting within a month, or even her underproduction films will go.”
Kishenbhai instructed Amma to make sure Aasha Rani got the right nourishment, enough fruit juice, curd and blanched nuts to get the color back in her face.
Aasha Rani, however, was not in a cooperative frame of mind. She was listless and unhappy, moping around the house, yearning for Akshay. She refused to look at new scripts or consider the offer she got for a prestigious TV serial. “It is work that will heal the scars,” Amma said. “You must get back to the studios. That is the only way you’ll forget. Who knows, if your stars are right, you may even meet the right man. Don’t think I’m being selfish. I want you to get married. I want you to settle down. But before that, you have to organize your life. Don’t wait for that bastard to change his mind. Men are all the same. He will never leave his wife. Now even his career is picking up, thanks to you. He doesn’t need you anymore. The sooner you realize the uselessness of your obsession the better.”
Aasha Rani knew Amma was right. But the memory of Akshay haunted her day and night. There was hardly a single waking moment when she didn’t think of him and their time together. She broke down and told Amma, “It’s no use. I cannot forget him. Don’t abuse him in my presence. He is my devta. I worship him. If he is keeping to himself, he has his reasons. I respect his decision.”
FOR HIS PART, Akshay left decision making to Ajay, and this time as well he respected his brother’s advice. “Forget that woman,” Ajay told Akshay. “She is no good for you: just a cheap gangster woman. I will get you better girls—younger, prettier. I’m not saying stay faithful to your wife. As India’s biggest stud, it is your duty to have the world’s most beautiful women. But leave that man-eater.”
What Ajay and Malini could not counter was the mixture of guilt and loss that seemed to suck the life out of him. Akshay had started taking sitar lessons, and they were a convenient excuse to shut himself off in his room for hours on end. “Riyaaz,” he’d say, when Malini asked him what he’d been doing all alone. Moody, distracted and out of breath more often than not, Akshay had lost his looks, his personality. He was gaunt and hollow-eyed, a ruined, haunted man.
Rita came to see what the matter was. Her husband’s money was tied up in a couple of Akshay productions. Malini let her in and tried to distract her with food. “Have another samosa. Some cold cofee?—It’s the best in Bombay, ji.” Rita’s mouth moved constantly as she popped one snack after the other, but her eyes were unblinkingly riveted to Akshay’s door. Finally she said, “Let me get to the point, Maliniji. I’ve come about Akshayji. What is the matter with him? You know you can trust me. Nervous breakdown or…?”
Malini’s laugh was strained. “Nothing of the sort. Akshay is just fine. He has been working too hard. But after a fortnight’s rest, he’ll be back in the studios feeling fresh.” Rita helped herself to a gulab jamun. “You aren’t hiding anything from me, are you? I’ve been hearing all sorts of stories.”
“All rubbish, Ritaji,” said Malini as she put another gulab jamun on Rita’s plate. “Rumors, nothing else. People are all so jealous. Rival heroes are spreading all this nonsense. It’s just not true. Akshay is a little fatigued; that is all. Did I show you my new Japanese pearls?”
But Rita was not to be diverted. “Does it have anything to do with Aasha Rani’s lafda? I heard it was all because of Akshay.”
“Nonsense! What has Akshay to do with that woman? We don’t even utter her name in this house. It is all her fantasy. What can poor Akshay do? He has told her thousands of times, ‘Stop dreaming.’ That too he stopped, thinking he might be encouraging her. She is a maniac. I think—we think—she needs psychiatric treatment. Woh kuch paagal si hogayee hai, she needs help. She has gone mad,” Malini said more sharply than she had intended to.
“He had agreed to marry her, you know. Very reliable people have told me this,” Rita said as she turned her attention to a plate of greasy cheese balls. Malini took her time pouring a cup of tea from the silver tea service and then spoke deliberately: “That woman will go to any extent to damage Akshay. And to ruin our family life. When she saw she was getting nowhere, she began spreading these absurd stories about their marriage. What marriage? Are we divorced yet? Akshay has never even uttered that dirty word in this house
. Poor frustrated woman. I feel sorry for her. She lives in her own world. Marriage! Hah! As if my husband has gone completely mad.”
Quite unexpectedly, Rita softened and took her hand. “Don’t get excited, yaar. These things happen in a marriage. We’ve all been in the same boat sometime or another. No point in getting hysterical. We’ve had this chat before. But let me tell you something once again. If you want your husband back—I mean really back, not just physically around—then be good to him. Treat him with love. He needs it. He seems a lonely, lost man.
“Dekho yaar, you can say it’s none of my business. And you can try to bullshit me. But what would be the point of that? I’m your friend—I’m the entire industry’s friend. I want all of us to do well, live well, be happy. Apart from the business angle, where I admit I have a matlab, I’m concerned about both of you as an older didi who has seen life.
“These men, our filmi men, are very insecure, no matter how successful they are. In fact, the more they succeed, the worse they feel. Take my husband. Each hit makes him more miserable. Immediately, his mind goes to the next one—‘Will I make money on that or will I lose everything?’ It’s the same with your husband. ‘Will my next film flop. Or be a hit?’ ‘Will producers still flock to my door?’ ‘Will my fans desert me?’ This is the time a man needs an understanding woman.
“Our problem is that we have become greedy. Very greedy. And we expect some great things out of marriage. Look at me. Over twenty years with this fellow, and yet I expect him to remember my birthday, our anniversary. Get presents. Have a party. Stupid. I tell myself, ‘Don’t be silly, yaar.’ Men forget such things after the first two or three years. We want romance like we see in the films. We want our husbands to sit at our feet while we sing songs and feed them grapes. We want them to be our slaves and listen to our every word. And what do we tell them? ‘The maidservant didn’t turn up today.’ Or ‘Darling, the jeweler has to be paid.’ We think of fantasies. We demand communication, attention, pampering. Arrey baba, forget it. We should be happy if they don’t beat us, burn us, torture us, insult us, discard us. That is all.”
By the time she finished, Rita had Malini’s attention completely. The older woman affectionately put an arm around Malini and said to her, “Let’s go and meet Akshay. He might be feeling lonely.”
UNDERAMMA’S SUPERVISION, Aasha Rani’s health was picking up. But she seemed totally switched off and uncommunicative. “Amma, take me to Madras,” she kept pleading. “I want to go to Tirupathi. I want to beg of God for the one thing I was willing to give up my life for. You shouldn’t have saved me, Amma. You should have let me die.”
Amma wasn’t unduly worried. She told Kishenbhai confidently, “She’s feeling weak; that’s all. How can I take her away now? As it is her producers are shouting. Aasha Rani has some responsibility toward them.”
Kishenbhai tried hard to get Amma to change her mind. “Madras will do her good. She will get home-cooked meals. She will be among her own people. Let her take a break. Also, she’ll be away from all this nonsense—Akshay, Abhijit.” But Amma wouldn’t hear of it. Within ten days she’d pushed Aasha Rani back into the studios. “Work, my dear, work. Best cure for everything.”
Aasha Rani dreaded waking up each morning and setting off on the unending drive through crowded roads and narrow streets. Off to brave the hot lights and cold expressions of people who didn’t understand her. The only stretch she enjoyed was the area around the small Mahim bay, where the road turned off for the airport. She remembered how fascinated she was when she had come to Bombay with that fishing village there and the sight of the billowing sails at sunset. How happy the fisherfolk looked, and how industrious. They seemed unconcerned about the world beyond their boats. Just a few meters away was the city’s main thoroughfare, choked with cars at any time of the day or night. If they heard the constant honking of trucks, taxis and cars as they waited impatiently at the intersection for the lights to change, they didn’t show it. Total absorption was written on their faces. The women dried shellfish straight on the hot tar of the main road, with naked babies playing nonchalantly as enormous goods carriers whizzed within centimeters of them. Did these women ever worry about their future? Aasha Rani often wondered, especially when she saw them huddled inside their grounded dhows during the rains.
Once, on an impulse, she decided to stop off at the Mahim Church. She had a Goan maid at that point, who, on the day of her interview for the job, had just made one thing clear: “Madam, I need two hours off every Wednesday evening.” Aasha Rani had asked why. “Novena,” she’d stated simply. “Novena?” Aasha Rani had wanted to know. “Madam, you don’t know ‘Novena’? We go to the Virgin Mary at the Mahim Church and ask for something. She sees us only on Wednesdays. We make a vow and we then give her a present once she gives us what we’ve asked for—after twenty-one Wednesdays. Madam, all sorts of people come there, not only Catholics. The Mother is very kind. She gives to everybody.” Aasha Rani was taken with her maid’s obvious sincerity and faith and arranged to visit the church the next Wednesday. When she’d entered the shrine she’d been overwhelmed and felt curiously humbled by the number of people thronging the place. People carrying plastic limbs, wax infants, toy houses, candles, garlands. She had gotten swept along inside the vast interior and had gasped when she’d looked up at the main altar. It was so beautiful and yet so unfussy. And the crowds were organized and disciplined, each person absorbed in his or her faith. Each one fervently wishing, hoping, praying, that the sad-eyed Virgin would answer their heart’s desire. It had reminded her of Tirupathi. Or rather, the accounts of Tirupathi that Amma had given her. That evening she’d asked for nothing. Just done a simple namaskar and driven home.
But today she was there to beg for her life, for Akshay. To her dismay she thought she saw an unsympathetic frown creasing the Mother’s forehead.
ABHIJIT HAD RUSHED to Aasha Rani’s home on hearing the news about the suicide, but the chowkidar had refused to let him in. Ever since, he’d been sending flowers and notes every day. Amma was going by Kishenbhai’s advice: “Abhijit is still a child. His father is a dada. He’ll destroy us if he finds out about all this nonsense. I’ve heard Amrishbhai’s bahu is expecting her first child. Don’t let that young goat come here!”
He finally caught up with Aasha Rani at the Film City studios—where she was playing Sita to Tushar’s Ram. At the sight of Abhijit standing there twirling his car keys her eyes lit up momentarily. She’d been so desperately lonely now that even Linda had bowed out of her life. Linda, her one big contact in Bombay, with Bombay, was gone. And her one link with the film industry—Akshay—and her one incentive to remain there—Akshay—were gone too.
Abhijit looked pretty good, she thought quickly. Marriage obviously suited him. He walked up to her and said warmly, “So good to see you. You look well. Like a million dollars, actually. I tried to see you several times while you were…well, you know, when you weren’t too good. But…” “Marriage suits you,” Aasha Rani said brightly, trying to change the subject. “Not marriage,” he corrected her, “Switzerland. I’ve been away for a couple of months. Just got back. Couldn’t wait to see you. Are you free, I mean, once you are through with all this? Sita, huh? Not bad. You’ll have all of India prostrating itself at your feet after this movie. A real goddess!”
“It’s no longer the same story. We’ve made Sita into a modern woman with lib ideas. But anyway, I’m enjoying the role.” Aasha Rani laughed. “Trial by fire too?” he asked. “Not yet. Maybe we’ll think of some new version. OK, let’s meet after this shift.”
Abhijit looked delighted. “I can’t believe I’m hearing right,” he said. “I was sure you’d ask me to get out. I won’t tell you how much I bribed your gurkha to allow me onto the set. Top security work here! Maybe he thought I was a spy from a rival producer’s camp. So, do you want me to wait or shall I come by later? By the way, are there any nosy reporters around? I’m terrified of them. Don’t want the old man to know. H
e thinks I’m off inspecting a factory he is planning to take over. Had to get rid of the driver too. Bloody fellow is a real jasoos. The old boy has hired him just to spy on me and my activities. Or maybe he’s on Nikita’s payroll. Who knows. Fucking pain in the ass!”
Aasha Rani smiled indulgently. “See you in a couple of hours. Why don’t you drive around? It’s pretty pleasant here, especially now, after the rains. Everything’s so green and lovely.”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll wait for you at the Leela Kempinski. I like the Waterfall Café there. Tell you what; I’ll check into a suite and you join me there. How does that sound?” Aasha Rani hesitated. “Amma is with me these days. She’ll send a police party out if I’m not home. She’s more than a bodyguard. Baba—your driver is nothing compared to Amma.”
“You work on her. And I’ll work on us! See you soon; you look beautiful. And sexy. I can’t wait to tear your clothes off.”
ABHIJIT TOOK AASHA RANI’S mind off Akshay. He insisted on her having a drink with him when she got to his suite. “Let’s celebrate,” he said, popping a champagne cork. Aasha Rani resisted, but ultimately gave in when she saw how important the occasion was to him. She hated the stuff. It wasn’t the first time she’d tasted it, but each time she’d sipped a glass, her reaction had been the same: “Why do people drink such khatta stuff?” Champagne made her gassy and giddy. Abhijit told her, “You film wallahs don’t know how to drink it. It’s not tharra that you just knock back. It’s delicate and refined. Champagne is more than just a drink; it is a state of mind. I will teach you to appreciate it, love it. Champagne is a celebration. There are champagnes and champagnes. Let me begin with lesson number one. For instance—this glass. It’s all wrong. Champagne has to be drunk from a fluted glass so that the bubbles stay in. Look at this bottle and the way it’s being chilled. All wrong. The vintage is wrong too. But never mind. We’ll get to all that later. Those are finer points. All you have to know is that with champagne, you are never alone—there are all those millions of bubbles. Now, be a good girl and take a ladylike sip without tilting the glass too much. Move the champagne around in your mouth with your tongue, look, like this. And take a bite of what I’m giving you. Have you tasted caviar before? Never? Good God! What kind of a jungli woman are you? No, these are not papaya seeds. I’ll teach you to like caviar too. Don’t ask me what that is. If I tell you, you’ll probably throw up, waste my champagne and ruin the carpet.
