Cut

by Sreemoyee Piu Kundu

  ‘Laal Salaam,’ someone screamed.

  ‘Order, order…’ the judge hollered as the cameras clicked furiously.

  ‘My lord, this man pretending to be a socialist, a mass leader, is actually a “desh-drohi”…a petty rabble-rouser, a rowdy street-fighter…he loves playing to the gallery, as you can well see,’ the man defending Rawat accused in a high-pitched voice:‘

  'Tell us who you are, Amitabh Kulasheshtra? Patriot or pariah?’

  A dozen faces peer at me from above. A woman digs her heel into my right shoulder.

  I meet her eyes. Like the monkey’s. A sturdy, steely gaze.

  Just then, I hear a harsh, screeching noise.

  Has someone actually pulled the chain? Or is it the end of my journey?

  I struggle to raise my head, my fingers trembling, saliva dribbles from my open mouth.

  ‘Amitabh!’ I whisper to my last audience.

  ‘Amitabh?’

  ‘Amitabh, mi jivanta ahe…’

  It is the last time I hear my name.

  The last time I try to answer all of them.

  A darkness swallows me.

  THE HINDUSTAN

  PUNE, 10 JUNE, 2002

  Well-known Indian playwright and theatre director Amitabh Kulasheshtra died today, collapsing suddenly in the midst of a heated argument with the women seated in the ladies’ section of a Mumbai-bound train. No one knew his name at the time of his death or recognized him. His body lay unclaimed for several hours as the railway police tried to find some identification. Police finally located his whereabouts by phoning the address found in the wallet he was carrying, which was initially lost in the commotion following his death. His wife, Mrs Sarla Kulasheshtra, has now confirmed the news of his demise to local Marathi channels.

  Kulasheshtra, who revolutionized cultural resistance to political authoritarianism for over three decades, was widely considered a messiah of the masses for his anti-establishment productions. The Robin Hood of the performing arts, he withstood many a police-lathi and flaunted Constitutional norms, taking theatre out of the proscenium to magically transform the street into his stage. Refusing a Padma Shri at the age of 42; combining perishing Indian folk-art traditions with lavish Parisian opera to stage the first ever Indo-French co-production of La Legende de Sakuntalam; fighting for the survival of defunct trade unions; adopting the cause of starving farmers in Vidarbha; protesting against the Rashtriya Dal for propagating anti-Muslim violence, beginning with the 1970 Bhiwandi riots that caused the death of 250 people; dissecting child abuse and incest in modern Indian homes – all Kulasheshtra’s plays acted as a mirror to the atrocities and injustices that prevail in society. Kulasheshtra was also considered a leading proponent of the ‘Third theatre’ movement that stood ideologically against the state. Third theatre involved street plays, with actors being attired no differently than the audience. Performed in ‘found’ spaces, rather than rented theatre halls, sans elaborate lighting, costumes or make-up, where the audience was no longer passive, but participatory, this new form of theatre was responsible for adding a fresh realism to contemporary dramaturgy.

  ‘Mī Jivanta Ahē,’ (I Am Alive), was banned by the Rashtriya Dal in Maharashtra, as charges of sedition were slapped on Amitabh Kulasheshtra. Written as a reaction to the Bombay riots of December 1992 and January 1993 in which around 900 people died, it narrated the story of a Hindu clown who marries a Muslim acrobat, the play was a rousing, political satire; a musical drama set in a moving circus. The play demonstrated Kulasheshtra’s deep study of group psychology and showed how a circus, viewed as a happy space, eventually also gets divided on narrow, communal lines, when a bloody riot erupts in a neighbouring town, incited by the ruling political party. It was during one of the shows of the play in Malegaon, that Rashtriya Dal backed candidate, Amol Rawat, assaulted the troupe and the audience with iron rods and firearms. Kulasheshtra sustained serious head injuries during the stampede and scuffle that followed. Lead actor, Prakash Lele, succumbing to injuries on the spot. Kulasheshtra who levied a murder charge against Rawat went on to fight a prolonged legal battle against the Rashtriya Dal. Rawat, was ultimately let off, on bail, with hardly any witnesses against him. The case is still being dragged on in the courts.

  According to sources in the theatre world, Kulasheshtra, who shied away from the limelight, may have also been battling advanced Alzheimer’s. In the last decade of his life, Kulasheshtra mostly lived like a recluse, away from the public eye, and refused all public appearances and interviews.

  In the early 90’s, Kulasheshtra was also in the news for his involvement with Bollywood’s reigning lead actress, Maya Shirale, who made her film debut in producer RK Chopra’s, epic blockbuster Ishq. Over the years, she has however grabbed headlines for her drunken outbursts on set. She is currently in a live-in relationship with National-award-winning director, Avik Dasgupta.

  Kulasheshtra was officially declared dead at 6.45 pm, this evening, at the Kamla Nehru Hospital, Pune, Maharashtra.

  He is survived by his wife, Sarla Kulasheshtra.

  MAYA SHIRALE

  Maya! Shot ready hai. Maya, we go live any minute. Face the camera. This way, please…Maya...Maya…Oh for…Cut!’

  My head was reeling. The sun was burning my face. ‘It’s a bloody migraine attack!’ I shouted, tired of repeating myself a million times, but they just wouldn’t relent, refusing to change the location of the outdoor shoot.

  I sat down in protest.

  ‘My head fucking hurts; I told you guys I have been shooting in Filmistan Studios, nonstop, for the last two nights. I can’t even think straight…I need a fag right now, so will somebody just get this damn microphone out of my face, please? And get me my mirror! Oh God, look at my eyes, I need a touch up…my base is all fucked up…everything is fucked up…’ I put my hands on my head, pulling my waist-long tresses into a high bun. Deliberately leaving a few loose strands to gently brush my lips as I pouted, arching my neck sideways. Always wanting to look the part. I stood up in a huff.

  ‘What the…?’

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Maya? Let’s get serious!’

  I screamed: ‘Okay! Okay! At least hold the spotlight correctly. He always said my left profile was better than my right.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘We’re running out of time! The studio is waiting for us to come on. It’s a live telecast, Maya…’

  ‘Maya?’ The director beseeched.

  I stared past him: ‘My right eye always looks smaller, somehow. Like, I’ve been crying a lot. He hated tears; ironical, huh?’ My lips quivered slightly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Maya what’s going on? We will be live any minute now!’

  ‘It’s just a bloody, two-minute bite,’ I snapped. ‘So, shut the fuck up, will you? I’m Maya Shirale, not some two-bit Madhuri Desai type. I’ll do as I wish, okay?’

  ‘Okay, chill, please, we’ll do the shot as you want.’

  ‘Rosy…Rosy!…Cigarette!’

  I flopped down again and pulled my oversized Gucci glares over my eyes. I felt so drained and exhausted! I just wanted to curl up in a dark corner and go to sleep. I couldn’t believe that I was still being pushed around after working for twelve, non-stop years in this thankless industry. People were always taking advantage of me. This job made one so insecure. At thirty-five, my days of being a leading lady were already drying up. I was precipitously close to my expiry date. But today I just didn’t care. Today, when I heard that Amitabh, that he…I shut my eyes, going back to the start, to another time…when my struggles had just begun…when I was not Maya. Not this Maya. Amitabh’s creation. His construct.

  ‘Desire, desire, desire,’ I’d giggled. My hair was tied in a high ponytail. It kept getting in the way as Sanju’s fingers pushed my head, urging me to go down on him.

  Mango stains marked the front of Sanju’s imported polyester shirt, a gift from his rich father, who ran a
successful export business, specializing in menswear. We were in the back seat of his father’s Premier Padmini. I was in my first year of college, all of eighteen-and-a-half.

  ‘You smell delicious, like a ripe dussehri mango juicy in the middle,’ he moaned, ineptly trying to slip his hand inside my bra. I could tell he wasn’t very comfortable or experienced. We were both perspiring a lot. It was just after the July showers.

  I laughed coarsely. I was high on the cheap beer we had consumed together. I wiped the corners of my mouth, my eyes bloodshot. My mascara had bled in parts, making me feel wanton. Making me feel mean.

  ‘Uff! Can't you just get on with it?’ I scoffed, pointing at his crotch.

  Sanju’s stubby fingers fumbled at his zip. ‘Damn you, saali!’ He threw his trembling hands in the air. Suddenly feeling inadequate, he backed away: ‘Can’t we go a little slow, jaan? Maybe, talk some?’

  ‘Weenie!’ I teasingly said, pulling down his zip and planting my painted mouth on his stomach. Then looking up at him, I inserted my thumb in my mouth, sucking suggestively, lewdly.

  Sanju was panting hard.

  I grabbed his chest and lunged forward, sinking his swollen member into me. ‘Talk? About what? Tuh yahan baate karne ke liye laya tha mujhe?’ I grunted, picking up speed.

  ‘I…I…’ he lifted up my buttocks, his manhood clumsily sliding out of my dampness.

  I laughed louder, biting him just under his chin, making him more nervous. ‘Saare mard sex ko hamesha over-intellectualize kyun karte hain? All men say the same thing, when they want the same damn thing from us. Jaise, har aurat ko over-emotional hone ki bimari hai. The same, ghisse-pitte, filmi dialogues…sex toh akhir sirf sex hi hain, na? Toh jitna kum bolega, utna maza ayega, nahin toh kuch zyada hi safe ho jayega…samjha, chikna?’ I positioned myself expertly, my breathing rushed.

  ‘No, no, please, there is something you should know,’ he pulled me closer as my aroused nipples grazed his chest, pointing at his mouth.

  ‘Know what?’ I reached up and loosened my hair.

  ‘I love you, I…am in love with you, madly…I want to marry you, but, but you know…my, my father…my family…everyone is into this caste business…everyone wants a woman of good character and…I mean…everyone knows your reputation…’ Sanju blurted, as the rains came down.

  There was a second or more of silence. ‘You mean my reputation as a whore?’ I asked point-bank.

  Sanju stared, transfixed. Not really sure what to say next. ‘No, no…who said that now? You are a fine actress, Mrinalini, but ours happens to be a business family…and…they are looking for a gharelu bahu…’ he stuttered.

  ‘Look, Sanju,’ I cut him short, reaching below to cup his balls: ‘I am not interested in becoming anyone’s dulhan or whatever the hell you have been fantasizing about. I mean, let’s be frank, I am just fucking you now because you promised me the part…and I want the role at any cost, only because you told me Amitabh Kulasheshtra is coming to judge our annual theatre competition and I will do anything – anything – for him to see me on stage once…’

  Of course, Sanju had given me the role. The play was a success, especially the audacious kissing scene I had insisted on doing, even though Sanju was dead against it. But Kulasheshtra did not attend. Apparently, he had already flown out of the country, travelling with an entourage of over hundred artists to Paris. His first international project. Something Sanju had overlooked to mention.

  Sanju had been ecstatic with the reception his play received: ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ he’d winked after the performance. ‘It is my uncle’s imported vehicle, we can even push back the seats, if you wish…’ he’d sidled closer.

  I looked him up and down, and twirled on my heel.

  ‘God, jaan, I desire you, so much, can’t you even tell?’ He planted wet kisses on my palms.

  ‘Bhadwa, saala,’ I tugged my hands away and strutted out into the dark, my cheap heels clacking on the street. Then, before Sanju could say anything, I turned on him: ‘Why didn’t he come? You swore Amitabh Kulasheshtra was going to judge this competition. That he was only leaving India by the end of this week. I kept searching for him all the while…’

  Sanju dragged me into his arms. ‘Can’t I make up for it?’ He said looking ardently into my eyes.

  I spat my bubble-gum in his face.

  Sanju sprang back. ‘Slut! You just used me to land the role, huh? To get Kulasheshtra to see you? Bitch, you will stoop to any level, anything, to bag a lead role, to prove you are the best, to be where you want!’ His eyes were on fire.

  I shoved him away. ‘Weenie…’ I showed him my middle finger. ‘I don’t need you, gandu saala. I am going make it big in theatre. Take Mumbai by storm myself one day; go as far away as I can from this stifling, small town, where you think that you are a star just because you acted in some amateur play by some pretentious FTII fucks, who all think they’re the next Amitabh Kulasheshtra…As if there can be another one, ever!’

  Sanju was stung: ‘Sanki kahin ki! Just who do you think you are, talking to me this way? Everyone knows you’re easy; I was never going to marry you, understand…everyone just lusts for you, Mrinalini Shirale, and you know why? Coz you can’t survive without someone between your legs…that’s all you are about, right? Your stiff eyelashes, your perfectly shaped buttocks, that jarring maroon lip-liner, that fake beauty spot between your breasts, the tight Lycra t-shirts…Randi kahin ki…chali badi heroine banne…Amitabh Kulasheshtra ki heroine!’

  ‘Heroine…’ I clenched my jaw, smiling wryly. It was my father’s favourite name for me, too; that’s what he called me every time he slid inside my bed, his organ throbbing as he massaged it back and forth over my crumpled cotton skirt.

  I ran away from home a few days later.

  Tired of Sanju’s name-calling. And of being led on by men posing to either know Amitabh Kulasheshtra personally, or claiming they could introduce me to someone who did. I dropped out of college, I wasn’t particularly bright anyway, no good at my studies, so honestly, there was no point continuing with the façade of graduating in English Honours.

  Besides, the thought of returning every evening to my father repelled me. The sight of him shuffling cards for a game of teen-patti, sloshed silly all the time, the television blaring, my perennially sick, skin-and-bones mother confined to her modest single cot, the peeling, nondescript off-white paint flaking off the walls…

  It’s also probably why I gave in one last time on the night I left home. Letting my father grope me before he succumbed to sleep, snoring at the top of his voice.

  ‘Where are you off to, at such an unearthly hour?’ My neighbour’s son, Vinod Bhaiyya, accosted me as I was creeping out. Though I had never confessed to anyone about my father’s continued abuse, I sensed he knew everything about what went on inside my house. ‘Where will you go from here?’ He looked anxious when I told him.

  ‘I have written a note to my mother, she won’t look for me, they don’t want me back, anyway…besides, I can’t live this way, not anymore,’ the colour rose in my cheeks.

  ‘Best of luck,’ Vinod Bhaiyya gave me a thumb’s up, adding cautiously, ‘but, what about money? Have enough to survive? And, and, what about your education? To give up, everything...?’

  I was about to say something when he pulled out an envelope from his pocket: ‘Father gave me this to deposit in the bank tomorrow,’ he thrust a stash of notes in my hand. ‘Here, keep this. This will help you…you can return it when you become famous. Rich…’

  There was a second or two of silence.

  ‘Dhanyavad…’ I kissed him over his wiry moustache, knowing he had nursed a crush on me ever since I had turned thirteen.

  I took the night bus to Yerawada where I got off at the bus-stand, making my way to Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s modest, one-storied house in an auto-rickshaw. I had amassed all the necessary information on him. I stood outside his home all night, finally curling up on the kerb and trying to sleep.

 
; Sanju’s words echoed in my ears. Would I always be seen as a whore? Another small-time, averagely-talented actress, desperate for work? Ready to do anything? I wondered.

  In the morning, my eyes smarted from high fever. I hadn’t had a bite to eat. Neither was I carrying water or food. At noon, a woman walked out of the house.

  ‘I’ve noticed you standing in front of the gate all through the night. Come inside, child, drink something. It’s getting hot…’ She was dusky, with thick hair rolled into a loose bun, clad in a cotton sari.

  ‘What is your name, mulgi (daughter)?’

  ‘M…Ma...Ma…’ I fumbled, half fainting, the exhaustion of the wait and the exhilaration of escape completely overwhelming me.

  ‘Maya? Did you say, your name was Maya?’ The woman’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘Come in, here, take my hand…I am Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s wife,’ she had run her fingers gently through my tousled tresses soaked in sweat and shame, settling a few stray strands behind my ears. ‘We live here…come on in, child, don’t be nervous…’

  She led me inside, not letting go of my hand, gesturing that I should leave my stilettoes outside on the threshold.

  ‘You will have no need for such things, here, in my home,’ she had smiled as she poured me a glass of water from a small copper urn.

  That was how Aiyee and I had met. The first time.

  ‘Maya, why are you crying? Babe, we’ll be on air any minute, now. We are linking live to the 9 pm news with Arunava Ghosh in the studio. There are other experts too, from the theatre world…everyone is waiting…’

  ‘He’s dead, right? Amitabh Kulasheshtra, I mean? Amitabh…?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all over the news. His wife has issued a statement. It’s just come in. Mrs. Sarla Kulasheshtra…’

  ‘So, is there any harm, then, if I am crying for a great man? A legend, like you people once called him? Doesn’t that give me the right to also shed a real tear or two, like everyone else in the theatre world, who will inevitably appear on national television, all saying the same things…I mean, beginning with your very channel, mourning the way he died? The part that grabs headlines…all about him being mauled by an agitated mob of women, mistaken for a petty pickpocket, in the end? Suspected to be carrying a bomb, or, something…’ I was breathing hard.