by Vikas Swarup
I find the letters from the girls especially disturbing. Some of them are as young as thirteen. They want to run away from their homes, forsake their families, for fifteen minutes of fame. They have no idea what it takes, what it costs, to make it in Mumbai. Even before they made it to the casting couch, they would be lured by some grubby photographer or smooth-talking agent to a steamy massage parlour or sleazy brothel. And their brittle dreams of stardom would crumble against the nightmarish reality of sexual slavery.
But I take a leaf out of my own life story and do not respond to these girls. I have neither the inclination to intervene in their sorry lives, nor the power to alter the trajectories of their doomed destinies. It is the law of the jungle. Only the fittest will survive. The rest are consigned to the dustbin of history. Or the trashcan of society.
16 June
Vicky Rai called again today. He has been pursuing me for the last two years. A real pest. But Rakeshji says I should humour him. He is a producer of sorts, after all, and he does have clout.
'Why won't you talk to me?' Vicky Rai asked.
'Because there is nothing to say,' I replied. 'How did you get my new mobile number?'
'I know you change it every three months. But I have my sources. You have always underestimated my power, Shabnam. There is much that I can do for you.'
'Such as . . . ?'
'Such as getting you a National Award. My dad can pull a few strings in government. Now don't tell me you don't The Actress 33 want a National Award. These Filmfare Awards and Hero Honda trophies are OK, but eventually every good actor and actress craves a National Award. It's the ultimate recognition.'
'Well, I am not interested in awards at present.'
'OK, how about if I offer you a part in my next film? It's called Plan B. I've already signed Akshay for it. It's going into production next June.'
'I don't have any dates free in June. I will be shooting in Switzerland with Dhawan saab.'
'If you can't spare a month, can you at least spare a night? Just one night?'
'What for?'
'I don't have to spell it out now, do I? Just meet me in Delhi and everything will be taken care of. Or would you prefer me to come to Mumbai?'
'I would prefer you to end this call, and not bother me again, Mr Vicky Rai,' I said firmly and switched off my mobile.
What does the bastard think, that I am a saleable commodity? I hope he gets convicted for the murder of Ruby Gill and rots in jail for the rest of his life.
30 July
Jay Chatterjee is so frustrating; I want to tear my hair out. Arguably the most brilliant director in the industry, he is also the most eccentric. He met me at RK Studios today and said that he had decided to cast me in his new film.
I started trembling with excitement. A Jay Chatterjee film means not only a mega hit, but also plenty of awards. He is the Steven Spielberg of Bollywood.
'What is it going to be about?' I asked, trying to control my palpitations.
'It is about a boy and a girl,' he said.
'What kind of girl?'
'A very beautiful girl, from a very rich family,' he said in his usual dreamy manner, fingers playing an imaginary piano. 'Let us call the girl Chandni. Chandni's parents want her to marry an industrialist's son, but Chandni happens to fall for a mysterious drifter called K.'
'How mysterious!' I chimed.
'Yes. K is of this world and yet not of it. He exudes a power, a hypnotic pull which sweeps Chandni off her feet. She falls under his spell, becomes his slave and only then does she realize that the stranger is actually the Prince of Darkness.'
'Wow, the Devil himself?'
'Exactement! My plan is to narrate this story in two voices, those of Chandni and K. It is the interplay of the two stories, the dramatic tension in their relationship, that will power the narrative. So what do you think?'
I let out a deep breath. 'I think it is stupendous. Something never seen before in Indian cinema. It will be another Jay Chatterjee masterpiece.'
'So are you in? Will you be my Chandni?'
'Absolutely! When do we start shooting? I'll commit dates to you straightaway.'
'We begin shooting as soon as I cast K.'
'What do you mean?'
Chatterjee paused and fingered his straggly beard. 'I mean that I want to create a new paradigm for the angry young man. For K. I have been thinking, how long can we continue to give audiences the same bicepped hunks masquerading as action heroes or chocolate-faced nerds pretending to be kings of romance? People want change, they crave something new. I want K to be the harbinger of that change. He will be the ultimate quasi-hero. Someone whose persona combines the qualities of both a hero and a villain. Hard, yet soft. Brutal, yet tender. Someone who has the looks to melt your heart and the anger to chill your blood.' The Actress 35
'Don't you think Salim Ilyasi would be perfect for this part?' I asked.
'My sentiment exactly,' Chatterjee said morosely. 'Trouble is, Salim refuses to work with me.'
'But why?'
'I made the mistake of bad-mouthing his mentor, Ram Mohammad Thomas, in some interview.'
'Then what are you going to do?'
'Try to find another Salim Ilyasi. Till then, the film will just have to wait.'
Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous? A film held up, not for want of a script or a director or finance, but a hero who doesn't even exist. But then, that's Jay Chatterjee. And when he says wait, you wait. So I'll wait.
2 August
The following letter arrived today, marked 'Private':
Respected Shabnam Didi,
Hoping you are fine with God's grace. Myself Ram Dulari respectfully touching your feet. I am being Maithil Brahmin, nineteen years of age, living in Gaurai village of Sonebarsa block of district Sitamarhi and being only girl in village who is Class Six pass.
Myself now in great difficulty. Big floods coming to our village and drowning everything. Our house and cattle being washed away, respected father and mother dying very unfortunately. I am being saved by army boat. First I am staying in very bad camp made of torn tents in Sitamarhi but now myself living in best friend Neelam's house in Patna.
Myself not knowing anything about you because in village there being no big sinema hall like in Patna. But Neelam seeing lots of your fillims and calling me your younger sister. She is taking photu from her camera and asking me to be sending you.
I am being very good cook knowing very many types of recipes including gulab jamun and sooji ka halwa. Nice sewing also doing and knitting one sweater in only two days. Since myself being Maithil Brahmin, I am cooking food strictly as per rituals, full vegetarian, and all fasts and festivals being observed properly.
Kindly contacting me at above address and helping me out by taking me to Mumbai and giving me shelter and job. God showering you with full blessings.
With feet touching to all elders in family and love to children,
Your younger sister
Ram Dulari.
There was nothing remarkable about the contents of the letter. I receive dozens of such offers from young boys and girls, willing to work as bonded labour in my house, simply for the privilege of sharing space with me. But I was intrigued by Ram Dulari's reference to herself as my younger sister. I immediately thought of my real sister, Sapna, who would also be nineteen. She was probably still in Azamgarh with my parents, though I couldn't be sure as I had had no contact with her, or them, for the past three years. They had erased me from their lives, but I had been unable to erase them from my mind.
So I extracted the pictures from the envelope. They were standard 6 _ 4 glossies. I looked at the first one, and almost fell off my chair. Because staring back at me was my own face in close-up. The same large dark eyes, small nose, full lips and rounded chin.
I quickly glanced at the second photo. This one showed Ram Dulari in a cheap green sari, leaning against a tree. Not only her face, even her build was similar to mine. The only visible diff
erence was the hair. She had long, lustrous black tresses, whereas my current hairstyle was a chin-length bob with the latest asymmetrical fringe. But this was an insignificant detail. I knew I was looking at my spitting image. Ram Dulari was my Doppelg?ger.
What struck me about the photos, beside the uncanny resemblance to me, was the fact that Ram Dulari seemed so unselfconscious. There was no artifice, no pretence, no effort to appear like me. She was just made that way. This was a girl unaware of her own beauty and I immediately felt a sense of kinship with her. Here was I, living in a luxurious five-bedroom penthouse apartment in the best city in India, and there was she, a luckless orphan, barely managing to survive in the heartland of Bihar where marauding gangs roamed free and unchecked. I resolved in that moment to help her, to send Bhola the very next morning to Patna to bring Ram Dulari to Mumbai, and to me.
I don't know what I will do with her. I have enough servants already, even good Brahmin ones. All I know is that I cannot leave the poor girl to her fate. I cannot be a silent spectator to her suffering. So I will intervene in her destiny, alter her fate.
But in so doing, will I be altering my own?
4
The Tribal
THE CRYING emanated from the middle of the clearing, a long wail punctuated by two short ones, like a funeral dirge. The arc of grief rose to a peak, tapered off, then rose again, mirroring the rhythm of the ocean waves crashing against the jetty a short distance away.
It was the beginning of October. The fury of Kwalakangne, the south-west monsoon, had abated, and the days had started to become hot once again. Stepping out in the scorching sun at noon required constitution and resolution.
Melame and Pemba approached the clearing, where six wooden shacks with corrugated asbestos roofing stood on stilts. A couple of young boys wearing shorts were noisily playing football in front of the huts, oblivious to the wailing in the background. A thin, mangy dog lay flopped on the ground, its tongue hanging out. The smell of chicken shit hung in the air.
Melame paused before the third shack and waited for Pemba to push open the door. The room inside was small and sparsely furnished. It contained a high wooden cot with a mosquito net supported by four bamboo sticks. A clay pot rested on a wooden stool. The walls were adorned with cautionary posters provided by the Welfare Department dispensary, warning against polio, tuberculosis and AIDS. An ancient ceiling fan whirred overhead, bringing some respite from the heat. In the right-hand corner, on the wooden floor, lay the naked body of a man approximately sixty years old. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was incongruously open, gaping in amazement at his own death. There were two people, one on either side of the body, crying in unison. One was a wrinkled old woman, wearing nothing but tassels made of sea shells around her waist, her withered breasts hanging like udders on a cow. The other was a young man wearing a loincloth and sporting a plain clay wash on his face and body, the sign of mourning. He got up as soon as he saw Melame and Pemba.
'Melame is very sad to know that his friend Talai has gone to the great beyond,' Melame said gravely as he embraced the young man. For a couple of minutes they communed in silence, eyes closed, cheek against cheek.
'When is the funeral, Koira?' Pemba asked the young man.
'This evening,' Koira replied.
'I didn't know Talai was sick,' said Melame.
'He wasn't,' said Koira. 'My father just had mild fever yesterday. Mother applied some moro leaves to bring the fever down, but by this morning he was gone. Just like the wind.'
'Look after your mother,' said Melame, gently patting Koira's shoulder. The old woman continued to wail, taking no notice of the visitors. Melame and Pemba said their goodbyes and stepped out of the shack into the sweltering heat once again.
'That's the third death this season,' the older man said, his voice quivering. 'The legions of eeka are increasing.'
Pemba nodded grimly. 'When malevolent spirits multiply, things can only get worse. At this rate, our tribe will soon become extinct, like the dugong.'
'Ah, the dugong! I have almost forgotten what it used to taste like,' Melame replied wistfully, smacking his desiccated lips.
'But Pemba still remembers. For my initiation ceremony I actually speared a dugong,' said Pemba.
'You were a great hunter. One of our best,' Melame responded approvingly. 'But look at today's youngsters, celebrating tanagiru by drinking beer and coca, that too made by the foreigners!'
'You are right, Chief. Well, what can I say? My Eketi is no better. He roams around the Welfare Office all the time, waiting for handouts. They say he sells honey and ambergris to the welfare officials in exchange for cigarettes. I have caught him several times smoking them. It makes me hang my head in shame,' Pemba replied in a low voice.
They trudged slowly in the direction of the turquoise ocean, wiping the perspiration from their brows. Bordered by casuarinas and coconut palms, the creek looked green, shady and inviting. They could see two white motorboats moored at the jetty. On the other side of the jetty were the cottages of the welfare staff. They passed the powerhouse, where the generator was making a racket as usual, and the dispensary, where Nurse Shakuntala was sitting all alone, fanning herself with a magazine. The next building was a dilapidated old warehouse, which now served as the school. They saw Murthy, the teacher with the slick, oily hair, standing with six tribal kids in the playground. He was distributing paper flags to the children, who wore identical blue shorts and white bush shirts. 'Now look,' they heard him instruct, 'when Minister Sahib arrives on Sunday, you have to stand in line at the helipad just like this and start waving these flags. And I want each one of you to give him a big smile. Now show me smiles, all of you.' He raised his right hand, in which he gripped a wooden ruler. The children gave nervous, toothy grins.
'Looks like another VIP is coming. Now all of us will be ordered to do cleaning and dusting and made to put on those horrid clothes,' Pemba said in irritation.
'Can there be anything more demeaning than parading our children before the inene?' Melame asked, his voice bristling with anger.
'No, Chief,' Pemba concurred. 'We have been made slaves in our own land.'
They passed behind the little temple built three years ago by the welfare staff. A square block of concrete with a white dome, it housed a stone image of Hanuman in mid-flight holding up a mountain, the entire thing painted a garish orange. They glimpsed two figures inside the temple, bowing their heads before the monkey god.
'Isn't that Raju and Taleme?' Melame asked incredulously.
'It does look like them,' said Pemba, craning his neck to peer into the semi-darkness of the sanctum sanctorum.
'Now Melame has seen everything.' The chief shook his head slowly. 'Our men have even forsaken our god.'
'That is because our god has forsaken us. Why is Puluga causing all these deaths? You need to do something, Chief, and quickly,' counselled Pemba.
'I think the time has come to consult the torale,' replied Melame. 'Today we will all be busy with Talai's funeral. But let us have a full Council meeting tomorrow morning. Spread the word quietly. We will meet inside the forest, at Nokai's hut, where the prying eyes of the welfare staff will not be able to spot us. That welfare officer – what's his name, Ashok – is particularly nosey.'
'Quite right, Chief. He has been taking an unhealthy interest in our tribe. The children have nicknamed him Gwalen – Peeping Tom,' Pemba laughed.
'I think he is more dangerous than a snake. Ensure that he doesn't get wind of our plans.'
'Yes, Chief.' Pemba bowed his head.
The forest was a palette of greens, brushed with patches of pink and white. Climbing orchids burst from branches and clumps of pink lilies poked up here and there like anthills. Triangles of Deodar trees stood like sentinels against the sky. The jungle thrummed with the sounds and scurry of life. Clouds of mosquitoes hummed their monotonous song. Invisible parakeets and parrots cried out from tree branches. Cicadas screeched from shrubs and bushes. Monitor li
zards and snakes slithered through the underbrush.
Melame stood in a little clearing under the shade of a lofty garjan tree, directly in front of the medicine man's hut, and surveyed his flock. The women were busy as usual, making tassels of nuts and sea shells, gathering firewood or braiding their hair. The men were working on a log with their adzes, trying to fashion a canoe.
Melame breathed in a lungful of fresh air, still redolent with the aroma of morning dew, and looked longingly at the tree-lined vista in front of him. This little stretch of forest was the only surviving patch of green on the island. The settlement in Dugong Creek was littered with tree stumps. Every day ramshackle trucks loaded to the brim with timber rumbled down the Little Andaman Trunk Road, which ran along the island's edge, slowly denuding the island of its forest cover. Virtually every part of the island was now dotted with rice fields and coconut plantations. This was the islanders' last refuge, the only place where they could still hear birdsong and be themselves, naked, free and alive.
'Is the bait ready?' the chief asked Pemba, who nodded and pointed to a large earthen pot lying at his feet. Melame, looking satisfied, tapped on the door of Nokai's conical hut, thatched so low that it could only be entered by crawling.
'Go away,' the torale shouted from inside. 'Nokai has been having bad dreams. He cannot step out of his hut.'
Melame sighed. The medicine man was a reclusive, reticent oracle who hardly ever ventured out of the forest and was notoriously difficult to please. But without his powers of medicine and magic, the tribe couldn't survive. He could stop a storm simply by placing crushed leaves under a stone on the shore; he could divine a gathering illness from the lines on a man's face, and advise a carrying woman whether she would give birth to a boy or a girl simply by tapping her belly. The torale alone knew how to avoid malicious spirits and propitiate friendly ones, how to protect the clan during a lunar eclipse and what to do to counteract a curse. Melame was convinced that short of bringing a dead man to life, Nokai was capable of working any miracle. So he persisted, holding up the earthen pot.
