by Shobhaa De
Aasha Rani gazed admiringly at her sister. She was surprised at her own reaction. There was no anger of the sort she had imagined she would feel when she came face-to-face with her sister. Bitterness, yes. Envy, perhaps. But no jealousy or fury. Sudha was tossing off quotable quotes for the benefit of the copy-hungry reporters:
“I am where I am because I deserve to be here”; “Rivals? What rivals? My only competition is me”; “Heroes need me more than I need them”; “Strip? What for? The whole country goes crazy when I show just my ankle”; “Marriage? I don’t need it. The poor man would die of an inferiority complex”; “Politics and me don’t go together. You see my one-point program ends with me.” Aasha Rani watched her with a smile on her lips and acknowledged to herself that Sudha, her little sister, had left her far behind.
“I WANT TO GO HOME,” Sasha said, bursting into tears. “I want Trixie; I want to go back to the ranch. Mommy, please let’s go home.” Aasha Rani tried to shush Sasha but couldn’t manage. She’d had a stomach upset—probably the water—and had been cranky ever since. Appa was parked in the living room, staring impassively around him. He didn’t say a word. Jay took Aasha Rani aside. “It’s unrealistic to expect a little girl to understand what’s going on here,” he said firmly. “Sasha has suddenly been exposed to a world she never knew existed. She is troubled by all the changes. You can’t think she’d be able to live here. I mean, I know it’s your old home—but just look at it! It’s a dump! It will take weeks to set it right. What if Sasha falls sick? What if I do? Or you? We don’t know any doctors. We don’t know anybody. And now you’ve taken on the responsibility of looking after your sick father. How do you propose to do that? We need to discuss things. I realize this is a very emotional moment for you. But think in rational, practical terms. Do you intend to stay here indefinitely? What about our home? What about Bombay? I can’t hang on much longer—I told you that. Wait, before you say anything, I have a plan. I think it would be best if I took Sasha back with me till you are in a position to make up your mind. You have a great deal of sorting out to do.
“I wish I could have stayed and helped you. But I have to go home. We were supposed to be on a short vacation. But things have turned out differently. I don’t blame you. How could you have foreseen these developments? But I love you, my darling, and I want you to be happy. I know you’ll be miserable if I drag you back at this stage. I know how much it has cost you to come back to India and confront the life you’d left behind—ran away from. I won’t force you to choose. You need time—and you’ve got it. I will be there for you whenever you need me, and for whatever purpose. You can count on me. You know that. But Sasha must go back with me. She needs a proper education, a proper home. Don’t worry about her. I can take care of her. She’s a big girl now. Plus, I can always get a responsible nanny.”
Aasha Rani had heard him out attentively. She now chose her words with care. “Jay, you have been wonderful all these years. In a way, you saved my life. God knows what might have happened to me if I hadn’t met you in that disco. I was sick of living. Sick of deception. So many people had betrayed me so many times. And I too had lost my head, become a loose woman. You never questioned me about my past. You didn’t question me about the other men, other affairs. You helped me to put my life back together again. You showed me that another, better life was possible for a woman like me. In India, no man—that is, no decent man—would have married me, given me his name, looked after me the way you have done. If I had found a husband, it would have been some scoundrel after my money, or marrying me for fame. Most probably I would have ended up like Amma. Maybe Amirchand would have kept me. Or another Abhijit would have come my way. With you, God gave me the chance to forget my old self, my old sins, my old friends, everything. How can I ever repay you for all that?”
“Oh, come on, you make me sound like one of those early missionaries out to convert the tribals and show them the light. Rubbish, girl! I didn’t marry you to ‘save’ you. I did it for myself. I find you impossibly sexy, and yes, exotic. I was sick of bland white girls from proper English schools, speaking with proper English accents. I liked you the way you were, with your funny Indian English and singsong accent. That’s what attracted me in the first place. I miss that old you—do you know that? I miss your saris and all those fussy clothes. And all the little rituals and pujas you used to perform in the beginning. Now you have started looking and behaving like one of us, quite forgetting that if I’d wanted that, I would have married the neighboring rancher’s boring daughter. Silly girl! I love you very, very much. And I still find you indecently sexy!
“We had to come to India, and we had to find out. You were hiding in New Zealand. Now your exile is over. You are no longer afraid of yourself. This is where you belong. And your father needs you desperately. Do you think I can’t see that? It would kill you if I forced you back. It would also finish off our marriage. This way, we still stand a good chance. If we both want it, we can make it work. You stay here till you’ve worked out what you want to do with your life on a long-term basis. If you want to take another crack at your acting career—go ahead. I believe a person should not live with regrets. A frustrated person is an unhappy person. If you don’t grab your chance now, it will be too late. I want my old lady to be a contented girl. I want to be able to sit on the swing out in the garden when we are both ninety and say, ‘That’s my girl. I’m proud of you.’ I want our grandchildren to see pictures of you in your prime—glittering, gorgeous, successful, with the world at your feet. So chin up, cheer up and let’s feed the old boy something before he collapses on us.”
IT WAS HARD on Aasha Rani after Jay and Sasha left. She felt desperately lonely and ready to quit. There was so much to be done. Of course, money, lots of it, solved problems that much faster. And Jay had transferred a generous amount into her account. She had also gotten in touch with her old accountant and gotten a garbled statement on her own affairs out of him. Amma called and solicitously offered to come to Madras. Aasha Rani calculated that she would only add to the costs and be of little or no help. She didn’t need a liability around, not with the absolute mess she found herself in the middle of. Her first priority was to get a competent nursing staff for Appa. That was simple enough. And then on to setting the bungalow right and weaning Krishna off his drinking habit.
The mali was lured back with a hike in his salary. Soon, the garden was cleared of all the undergrowth and began to look tended. The house required massive restructuring, and Aasha Rani called in a firm of contractors, who said they would take care of everything: waterproofing, plumbing, electricity, etc. “Everything must be completed before the monsoons,” she said firmly. “OK, Amma,” they chorused, none too convincingly. Aasha Rani suppressed a small smile. When had she made the transition from akka to amma? She looked at herself in the mirror. Was she matronly already? Oh hell, she hadn’t had time to fix her hair, the perm had grown out, and she felt like a golliwog. She also needed to get back into shape; she knew the tiny tire around her middle was no hallucination. This won’t do, she told herself sternly, and planned a rigorous aerobics program for herself.
Within a fortnight she had the kitchen running efficiently, though she made a conscious effort to steer clear of Laxmi’s crisp dosas and fluffy idlis. She warned her, “No rasam-sambar-bhaat in this house. I don’t want to balloon out like a cow; you understand? Even Appa needs a different diet, not all this. I will see to his meals.” She stuck to buttermilk, fruits and cereal—occasionally treating herself and Appa to ice cream. Amma’s calls came frequently and always with the same refrain: Sudha said this, Sudha did that. Finally Aasha Rani told her to stop running up phone bills. “I will deal with Sudha when I get to Bombay—whenever that is. But please don’t waste my time and money talking about her.”
One day, after she had finished her usual frugal lunch, eating alone in the dining room, the nurse came up to her and spoke under her breath. “He seems a little agitated today. I don’t know what
the matter is. I think he wants to talk to you.” “Of course,” Aasha Rani said. She went with Stella, the nurse, to Appa’s bedroom and then told the girl to leave them alone. “Ring the bell when you need me,” the nurse said, and left.
Appa was definitely not himself. His eyes looked too animated. Shining and alert. This was the first time in so many years that she’d seen him this way. Certainly the first time since she got back. He beckoned her to come closer. Aasha Rani picked up a low stool and sat by his feet. He kept looking at her as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Aasha Rani stroked his hands that lay passively in his lap and encouraged him to speak. “What is it, Appa? Tell me. Take your time. I’m here to listen to you.” Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Appa’s voice emerged in rasping whisper: “Come near me,” he said to his daughter. “There are things I have to tell you. Things I should have told you years ago. When I thought I was dying—you remember that illness a few years ago—that’s when I wanted to see you, touch you, tell you how sorry I was for whatever had happened. I had done all of you great harm. Behaved unforgivably. Cruelly.
“Your amma’s life—I destroyed it. I know that. But I was too busy being a great man to care. Too busy running my studio, showing everybody how powerful I was. Nothing, nobody mattered to me. Nobody. Not my children, my wife, my mistresses. I thought nothing or nobody could touch me. That the gods would protect me from all harm. Why? Because I saw myself as a religious man. I went to Tirupathi—shaved off my hair. I went to Sabarimala and did penance. Observed all the rules. I even went to Gangotri. I was sure all these pilgrimages, the donations to temples, charity to the needy, hospitals, all my ‘good deeds,’ would ultimately save me. They didn’t. Do you know what I asked the mighty gods to do for me in return? To save my skin. To make me still richer. Still more powerful. Still more successful. I prayed for myself and myself alone. I tried to do business with God—can you imagine that? I tried to bargain with him. I’d tell him, ‘Look, I’m giving so much to make a new gold mookoot for you. Isn’t that nice of me? Now, what will you give me for that? I promise you more money, a yagna also, if my next film is a hit. And if my studio prospers, I will open a dispensary for slum dwellers in your name. I will get an ambulance for the poor. I will provide free education. Anything. But you keep to your side of our partnership.’ I believed God was on my side. That I could never fail, never. I thought I could buy anybody, anytime. That it was only a matter of settling the right price. But I was wrong. Do you know when I realized that? After the fire. You don’t know anything about that, do you?
“We were shooting a mythological film in the studios. Even for that scene I was cashing in on God. It was a film about Anusaya—the wronged woman. The opening shot showed Lord Venkateshwara’s image with me performing a massive puja. A beautiful bhajan played in the background. I thought God would be pleased. The film was dedicated to him. I’d announced I would give part of the profits to improve the courtyard of the nearby temple and to put in a pump for the well there. I’d even agreed to repaint the whole thing. I told God, ‘See, I’m doing such a lot for you. Everybody will remember me for that.’ Anyway, for one of the scenes we had to build new sets with a small hut in a forest. The villagers were supposed to gather around a fire. We had composed a special song and dance for that. The girls danced with sparklers and fire torches. One of those foolish girls dropped a sparkler on her flowing skirt. Made of nylon. She lit up like a torch and was gone in seconds. Her body fell on a heap of straw and that caught fire. In no time, the flames were everywhere…shooting right up to the sky. It was all over within ten minutes. Burned. Completely burned. Nothing left. Eight people died. The studio was finished. Forever.
“I had borrowed heavily for this film—the previous two had lost money. I was sure of this one’s success. I’d told all the creditors I’d pay them back with heavy interest, no problem. I still had people’s faith. But what happened? I should have burned with the others and died. I would have been spared this. But God wanted to teach me a lesson. He wanted to reduce me to this helpless state. He wanted to see me bankrupt. Who could have imagined God would be so vengeful? That was the end for me. I lost everything. Every penny I’d made.
“The creditors came swooping to my doors like vultures. They didn’t care about my problem. All they wanted was their money. Money—hah! I’d worshipped it till that day. My dream died, Aasha Rani—it went up in flames.
“But after seeing you again my hopes have been reborn. I can tell myself, all is not lost yet. You have a daughter. A clever daughter. She will do it. She will revive your banner. She will reopen the studio. She will once again restore that lost glory of your name.
“Please, Aasha Rani, you can do it. And you must. Do it for a father who is dying. Who is broken. Who is a very unhappy man. I had lost the will to live or even to speak. But now, with you by my side, I feel strong. I feel young again—in my mind, at least. In my lifetime, what remains of it now, I want to see the studio prosper once again. Become the pride of the industry.” It was the longest speech the old man had made since she had come to Madras, and clearly it had exhausted him. But the glow in his eyes remained as he gazed upon his daughter. She rang the bell for the nurse.
Jojo
TWO AND A HALF MONTHS AFTER SHE HAD LEFT BOMBAY AASHA Rani returned. But she was not alone, for she had decided Appa would return with her. Amma was accepting of her daughter’s decision, especially as Aasha Rani sensed that her mother had plans that could succeed only with her older daughter’s cooperation. She hadn’t long to wait, for the day after her arrival in Bombay, Kishenbhai showed up with an offer. “There’s this new producer,” he began. “You don’t know his name. But good. Two hits. He is interested in casting you for his latest film. Solid story. Heroine-backed role. Shall we see him?” “Why not? Let’s find out what kind of a market I have.” Aasha Rani was casual.
The producer came over that evening. She was pleasantly surprised. He was so entirely different from the sort of producers she was familiar with. This man was young, good-looking, smart and well dressed. He could have been a movie star himself. He spoke with a trace of an American accent, and had come armed with a complete script. His attitude was casual but businesslike. He even looked like he’d been to college!
As it turned out, Jojo (short for Jitendra) Mehta had just returned from the University of California after studying filmmaking and philosophy. He was full of bright ideas and jargon. The script he’d brought with him was his own effort (“I’d taken a few courses in screenplay writing while I was at it”) and from what Aasha Rani gathered he’d gotten an interesting project together. It was a thriller, a slick, offbeat murder story. Perhaps he’d plagiarized it. But the adapted version was pretty good. Aasha Rani was puzzled by just one thing—she didn’t know where she fit into the script. There were three female roles—a mother-in-law, her daughter-in-law and the murdered “other woman.” After reading the synopsis she asked Jojo where she was supposed to come in. “Oh, you play the mother-in-law,” Jojo said smoothly.
“Mother-in-law?” Aasha Rani exploded. “That’s absurd. I’m not old enough to play anybody’s mother-in-law! Do you know that till I signed my last film I was only doing college girl roles? Not even married women—and here you are asking me to play a bloody mother-in-law! There must be some mistake. Do you know how old I am? I’m not yet thirty!” Jojo put up his hands. “Relax, lady. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s a meaty role. I thought you could do justice to it. That’s all. No hassles, OK?” Aasha Rani was still fuming. Gesticulating to Kishenbhai, she took him aside. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “This man is insulting me. You must have known about the role. Why didn’t you tell me before bringing him here and wasting everybody’s time?”
“Aasha Rani, things have changed in the industry,” Kishenbhai said quietly. “In just five years? That’s all it has been—five lousy years! Has there been a revolution or something?”
“I’m sorry, Aasha
Rani. But the public is demanding younger and younger heroines. You’ve seen the posters and magazines. What is the age of hit heroines? Fifteen! You can’t compete with them. In a year or so even Sudha will have to switch to character roles. The demand is like that. I thought it was an interesting proposal. Jojo is a respected filmmaker. He’s very professional. Pays on time. His films are technically top class. People think it’s an honor if he asks them to work in his films. It’s OK. I’ll understand if you aren’t interested. I’ll tell him.” Aasha Rani stopped Kishenbhai. “Wait, let me think it over—I’ll tell him myself.” She walked up to Jojo and turned on the charm. “Well, Jojo, I’ve been thinking. It’s not a bad project. In fact, it’s pretty good. Mother-in-law? Why not? I’ve known some sexy mothers-in-law. Besides, it’s up to me and you to interpret the role, isn’t it? I can still look glamorous. You could put in a song. We could do a few sexy close-ups. Not bad. Let me read the script tonight and get back to you tomorrow. How about that?” Jojo held out his hand. “Done.” At the door he turned around. “By the way, I think you are gorgeous. They were right about you, all those swooning, drooling idiots; you are the best. No one to touch you. No one.”
“Thanks,” Aasha Rani purred, and blew him a kiss.
Aasha Rani went to Appa’s room and found him dozing off. “Appa?” she said softly. Groggily he opened his eyes. He seemed disoriented. “I heard the conversation outside,” he said. “Which conversation?” Aasha Rani asked. “The one with that producer. Don’t do it. Don’t take the film. It will be a mistake.” Aasha Rani was stunned. She couldn’t believe that Appa was capable of not just overhearing but understanding a conversation being conducted in the next room. “Why not?” she asked Appa, more out of curiosity than any need for advice. “I told you—it’s a mistake. You’ll hurt your image. Your career. After that if you ever want to return as a heroine, it will be impossible. Nobody will take you; audiences won’t accept you. Don’t listen to these fellows. They are new to the game. New to the industry. They come here with their American ideas and try all their stunts. People get impressed. By fluke one or two films become hits. That’s all. After that they disappear and nobody hears from them again. Why do you need this film? Not for money? If it is your ego, then wait for the right film. A big film. Where you are the central character. Audiences should be dazzled by you. They should feel excited. People should queue up at the theaters to see your film. It should be Aasha Rani’s film. No one else’s.”
