‘Kulasheshtra had walked up to face him. He had been roughed up badly. His left eye was split open, his kurta ripped. “I believe in the unrelenting continuity of the struggle to fight for those lacking the voice to protest. Beat me. Throw me into jail, but leave my art be, it shall always be free; it is my fundamental right to fight for the poor. It is what democracy means to me…”
‘“Sir, your eye…would you like some ice water on it? It will bring the swelling down, it’s what I learnt at Boy Scouts,” I don’t know why I blurted, anxious, but filled with a new courage, suddenly adolescent, suddenly alive. I was fourteen.
‘Kulasheshtra swerved. Our eyes met. Then he lowered his head. I opened the lid of my thermos, the cold water gushed out, diluting the colour of his cuts.
‘A couple of cops strutted forward. “Yeh launda kaun hai?” a man with a thick moustache yelled, as more burly men pushed their way in.
‘Kulasheshtra glanced up and, sensing trouble, immediately grabbed me, “Bachha hai yeh…beta jaisa…” he answered, pushing me away to safety.
‘Amitabh’s actors closed in on him, as the policemen aimed their water cannons. He looked back at me for a few fleeting seconds, and then he was gone.
‘They had been tipped off that there were chances of violence, if Amitabh Kulasheshtra didn’t take the Rashtriya Dal warning seriously and went ahead and staged his controversial play in Malegaon, Mī Jivanta Ahē.
‘That evening, Amol Rawat was in the crowd, as were his goons. They had concealed their weapons and obviously the local police were hand-in-glove. Twenty minutes or so after the play began, in the midst of a satire-laced love scene, these men, who had till then managed to stay inconspicuous, deliberately began creating a furore and disrupting the performance. Before we knew it, a violent mob accompanying Rawat was chasing Kulasheshtra, hurling abuse in Marathi, one of his men even firing in the air to scare the audience…
‘Kulasheshtra tried his best to get everyone to calm down and to reason with some of the attackers, when Rawat intervened, lifting up a hockey stick and threatening to beat him to pulp. Kulasheshtra fought him off, using only his bare hands. When blood gushed out of his head, Prakash Lele, his lead actor, who was close by, stepped forward. In a few minutes, he was beaten to pulp and left for dead. Kulasheshtra did all he could to save him, but Rawat’s men who outnumbered him in any case, were too barbaric to overcome.
‘They don’t make men like Kulasheshtra, anymore.’
Tyeb Ansari stopped and looked directly at the camera, his eyes full of tears:
‘In my mind, and many times, over all these years, I have imagined Amitabh Kulasheshtra waiting for me every day at the court; hoping the young boy who was brave enough to give him iced water, will also come forward as a witness. Help him in his battle against Rawat and the Rashtriya Dal. But, of course, I never went. Being a coward needs no extra practice.’
‘Sarla Kulasheshtra, Mrs. Sarla Kulasheshtra!’ A hospital employee patted my back, gesturing at the public announcement system.
My name was being called out.
I rose with a start as the papers slid off my lap.
‘Did you know about his heart condition, ma’am?’ a doctor, possibly in his mid-thirties, sporting a neatly-trimmed French beard, spoke anxiously, his hand on my elbow, as he guided me down a poorly lit corridor. It was the first time a man had touched me in a long time.
Amitabh’s body had not been immediately released because of the post-mortem formalities. The autopsy report stated that the cause of death was a myocardial infarction. A cardiac arrest.
‘Even we could not believe it was actually him, ma’am. We tried reviving his heart, but the truth is, he was dead on arrival. He’d already suffered a massive seizure, and then lay unattended in the station for an hour, at least…I mean, we had no idea who he was either…at first…’
There was a confused silence. I moved away.
The doctor was more distressed than I was. ‘I mean, how can this happen? It’s just so…so gravely tragic…a person of his stature…dying, this way…unrecognized…’ he covered his mouth, coughing deliberately. The doctor was obviously a theatre-goer.
‘What a stupendous man…legend…a survivor…I mean, what if his wallet wasn’t discovered…is this any way to die, ma’am?’ he shook his head from side to side.
I stared down silently at a zipped body-bag lying on a stretcher. After a few seconds, the doctor carefully unzipped the plastic cover; a faint stench mingled with the reek of strong disinfectant, made me want to throw up.
‘I will leave now, ma’am…’ There was a muffled sound of a door closing.
I forced myself to confront his face. His body had obviously been cleaned up. Yesterday, Amitabh had looked the part – dirty, derelict, and deceased. Like, our memories, like, the rest of us…His beard was missing in places, patches of blood had dried up, resembling menstrual stains. There were deep gashes all over his neck and chest. His lips were bruised, his mouth hung open.
Today he looked cleaned up, as if asleep peacefully; a line of stitches on the right side of his scalp caught my eye. In the same spot, he had been hit in Malegaon.
Thoughts formed and melted.
I ran my fingers lightly over the wound...
‘Being a coward needs no extra practice,’ I replayed the television footage in my mind. The man called Tyeb Ansari who had quoted Amitabh.
The last line of his interview that wasn’t his.
I shuddered and suddenly felt faint, gripping the side of the hospital stretcher to steady myself, my pallu running out of me, like a raging midnight river.
I gazed down at my dead husband’s face:
‘Did you hear what they said, Amitabh? The doctor? The Press? The theatre-walas? They called you a hero. A legend. You a hero? Can a man like you be a hero? Now? Ever? Can a man like you be forgiven? Can betrayal ever be painted as bravery…?’
No tears flowed from my eyes. I don’t know how long I remained like that before I stood up to zip him back up. In death, Amitabh seemed so very ordinary. I pulled up a plastic chair, after a few seconds, sitting uneasily beside him, biding my time, waiting for the next fifteen minutes to pass before I, the dignified, grieving widow could respectably leave her husband’s side for the last time.
I fanned myself with my pallu, feeling my head spin.
A tall man with broad shoulders was slowly walking in my direction.
Was I seeing things?
I rubbed my eyes. The way I had.
Forty years ago.
The day Amitabh had let me down for the first time; the day his blind ambition had first broken my heart…
Rakesh and I were lovers by then.
One evening, as I lay with my face buried in his chest, I decided to broach the uneasy subject: ‘Just when do you intend to tell Dada Saheb, Rakesh? I have heard my mother bring up the prospect of my marriage, at bedtime, many times. She keeps saying that at 23, I am too old to be living with my parents and that people are already talking about me having acted in a few plays…that no decent boy will want an actress for a wife…I am worried that -’
Rakesh kissed me ravenously, pulling me over him, cutting off my words.
As ususal, I had made some excuse about leaving rehearsal early that evening; something I now did regularly, deliberately bunking the monotonous, late-evening regime of reading the classics with Dada Saheb and Amitabh, a custom he and I had both grown up on. A rigid discipline that Dada Saheb insisted was integral to our development as theatre-walas. Amitabh was always present, always, before time. Those days, we were discussing the Mahabharata – war and fratricide, placing it as Dada Saheb always taught us, against the changing socio-economic topography of India.
I lifted up my head to search Rakesh’s evasive eyes:
‘Are you apprehensive he might say no? Bring up the difference in our communities? Are you threatened it could lead to you being thrown out of the troupe?’
In answer, Rakesh kissed me on the
mouth again.
A month or so later, Rakesh suddenly accosted me in the exact same spot. Dusk was descending. Fireflies flitted over us. ‘Do you love Amitabh, Banno?’ he had grabbed my shoulders, roughly, his breath acidic.
I had been thrown off-guard. I clasped my chest. ‘Well, you know how we have grown up together, I mean, he’s been living with us now for eight years, since I was fourteen…we’ve eaten the same food, lived in the same house, he understands my mixed feelings for my father…he is my fiercest critic, as I am also his…so, of course, I love Amitabh…’ I composed my thoughts further: ‘He’s the only man, after Dada Saheb, whom I have been exposed to, so constantly, so closely…my father trusts him implicitly…he’s been the ideal son in so many ways…’
Rakesh’s eyes were bloodshot. Had he been drinking? He snapped: ‘You could have at least lied…just say you don’t love him…instead of this gut-wrenching, bloody tribute…’
‘I have no reason to lie, Rakesh, there is nothing I hide,’ I’d answered truthfully, my eyes filling. ‘I love him, but, I can never love another man the way I love you. The way….’
‘Amitabh is my brother too, Banno. But Dada Saheb is perpetually relying on his opinion and ideas, what he thinks of everything – prop placement, lighting, lines. There is talk that he is soon even going to allow Amitabh to direct his first play independently. Govind Bhai also mentioned something of this to me…everyone talks, here, you know…Amitabh is the centre of Dada Saheb’s universe…the protégé he always wanted…and it’s perhaps just a matter of time, before he gives you away in marriage to legitimize the revered guru-shishya relationship,’ he stalled, looking distant, all of a sudden.
I tried reaching out, my pulse racing. ‘Dada Saheb needs Amitabh, Rakesh, but I don’t…’ I held him desperately.
‘What do you want, Banno?’ he barked, trying to extricate himself from my embrace.
I kissed him over his thick stubble, and rested my head on his chest. For a while, we remained like that. Then I spoke: ‘I want to be your wife. Travel the world with you. I want everything that you say I can have…I dream of acting in films, with you as my hero…of making passionate love to you every single night…’
Rakesh tried saying something…
‘I like making you jealous, sometimes. I want to be loved, in a way…that makes me feel indispensable to someone…I want to belong, completely…just to you, Rakesh…’ I pressed myself into him.
Rakesh caressed my forehead, grazing his lips on the sides of my neck.
‘Oh Banno…how? How are we going to get what we want? The life we dreamt of…how can you be sure we can trust Amitabh? That he won’t betray us?’ his voice was strangled.
Later that night, we made love. It was desire doused with desperation. Our movements were frenzied. Like we were scared of being pulled apart by unseen forces. All I wanted was to be touched…tasted…to come alive, repeatedly.
At dawn, Rakesh promised he would speak to Dada Saheb. Tell him everything…
I too swore that I was prepared to elope if I had to, in case it was our last resort.
I remained distracted all of the next day, and went home only late in the evening, wary of being discovered; prepared to bear the brunt of my mother’s ire, who always looked at me with suspicious eyes.
Dada Saheb didn’t speak to me; his lips tightly pursed, too proud to ask me where I might have been.
‘Tell Rakesh to say he was with me, just in case…’ Amitabh whispered, pulling me aside. ‘I’ll make up something, on the same lines. I shall explain matters to Dada Saheb, Sarlu. I know what has been brewing for a while, between you both…why you are so late, these days. The way Rakesh’s eyes too guard jealous secrets…Whatever happens, remember just one thing…let him take the fall, Rakesh, not you. It’s what any honourable man would do, if he truly loves a woman.’
I had thanked him, in all my innocence.
The next afternoon, we were having a full-dress rehearsal for our forthcoming production. There were only three days left for the show to begin.
‘No, no, no, Rakesh! The scene needs more emotional starkness…why can’t you just get it, you are a man about to fight a venerable God…you are mourning the death of your only son who was sacrificed to bring on the delayed monsoon rains, that shall end a devastating village drought…you must look more possessed…your eyes can’t be so impatient…your grief has to appear stoic…your voice modulation is all off…this technique is not working, your dialogue delivery needs a lot more work,’ Dada Saheb lashed out at Rakesh, overtly critical of his portrayal.
We were rehearsing in the open air. The musicians shuffled uneasily, wondering when they would be called upon. At a distance, stood a colossal cut-out of a mythological character.
‘What if he doesn’t want to fight Indra? If he realizes his real enemy is the age-old superstitions of the village elders who persuaded him to give up his boy? What if he must take on someone from his own tribe, instead? Fight his brother, who convinced him to listen to the Panchayat Mandali…?’ my words trailed, as I confronted my father’s ire, trying to defend Rakesh.
‘Stay out of this! You aren’t the playwright, Sarla, besides, this is about Rakesh’s performance, he seems most distracted. Is something the matter?’ Dada Saheb cut me short, his tone of voice hostile.
‘Umm, I think you are being unfair to Rakesh, and, Sarlu, surely has a point, here,’ Amitabh spoke up immediately, trying to diffuse the tension. ‘Besides, I think it’s high time we extended the scope of these plays to topics more relevant to our generation…make morality more mass…like the Mahabharata…the fight between blood brothers is actually a reflection of the struggle of human conscience…good vs evil…’
‘Apologies, Dada Saheb... I’ll try the lines again…’ Rakesh finally spoke, looking tense.
‘What if the boy, is, in fact, a metaphor for change?’ I don’t know why I was relentless, desperate, as if, to push my point; Dada Saheb had never considered my opinion of any worth.
‘Exactly!’ Amitabh pumped his fist in the air, his mind in unison with mine. I was pleasantly surprised by his open support.
At that exact moment, Dada Saheb looked from me to Amitabh, as if everything was falling into perspective. As if a great truth had suddenly dawned upon him. He darted up all of a sudden from the low wooden stool where he sat and wrapped his arms around me, protectively.
‘Amitabh and you seem to share a rare camaraderie, Sarla, something that has skipped my eyes, before…you both see the world the same way…it is important for a man and a woman to be able to do so. Be comrades, before being a couple. It’s the one thing that will hold you both in good stead.’ He tenderly placed his right hand on my chin and lifted my face: ‘It has been this that has weighed on my mind, for many months, now. The reason for my pent-up silence…’
‘Get them married, now, Dada Saheb, they make a fine match…besides, you need an uttaradhikari, soon!’ one of the troupe members, egged him on sycophantically.
‘Dada Saheb! No! ...No!’ I’d shivered, my shoulders caving. ‘Amitabh…say something, tell him the truth…you swore, remember? Please...’ I looked pleadingly over my shoulders.
Amitabh bowed his head, saying nothing. Not protesting. Not standing up for me.
Breaking his promise.
Rakesh waited for a while, staring at me, accusatorily, before storming off, alone, his face flushed with anger.
‘Uttaradhikari…’ the word wafted in the air.
Like an evil omen.
MAYA SHIRALE
After innumerable calls and much chasing up, I had finally relented to just one ‘exclusive’ interview on Amitabh. Asking the journalist to meet me at Chowpatty in twenty minutes flat. When I landed up more than two hours late, she was still waiting.
The sun had just set.
I now sat facing Razia Siddiqui, one of Mumbai’s senior-most Entertainment Editors who headed Filmworld magazine. We were seated in my gleaming black Mercedes Benz. Sh
e had not switched on her dictaphone. That had been my first precondition.
As Razia flipped through her handwritten notes, I rolled down the tinted window on my side. My latest Dior sunglasses camouflaged my eyes. Swirly rings of smoke wafted between us, as Razia shifted uneasily in the expensive leather seat.
My driver Alam, a rugged man with a hennaed goatee and a crocheted skullcap, waited outside, glancing back in my direction every once in a while. It was through him that Razia had been able to connect to me, finally, after weeks of hounding me for a proposed lead piece on Amitabh Kulasheshtra. Ten minutes later, she cleared her throat, and pointed a shiny Parker pen, in my direction.
‘So, do you come here often, Maya?’
‘I come whenever I can…it’s probably the only place I visit, by myself…watching the darkness descend…listening to children’s voices, wafting in at a distance. The silhouette of waves…this vast expanse of sea…ek ajeeb sa chain milta hai, yahan,’ I stubbed my cigarette in an ashtray by the side of the car door.
‘Do you think of failure, Maya? Does it scare you, the same way it did, perhaps, at the start of your career?’ Razia leaned in closer.
‘Failure?’
‘Yes. What is Maya Shirale’s definition of failure? I mean, are you upset by the death of Kulasheshtra, or the spectacle of his failure?’
‘Next question…’ I shrugged my shoulders.
‘How would you define failure?’
‘Next question, Razia!’ I said sharply.
‘Fine, I’ll rephrase that, how have you handled the last years of your life…your choice of films…your personal life…the recent death of Amitabh Kulasheshtra…’
I pulled down my shades, slipped out of my stilettoes and flexed my ankles.
‘Does talking about Amitabh Kulasheshtra make you nervous, Maya? Worried of raking up yet another controversy…?’
‘Oh please! As if any of you guys expect me to say and do the right thing, at the right time! Maya Shirale has always grabbed eyeballs by being the non-conformist, especially, when the media expects her to be playing to the galleries. I am told I’m always giving the Bollywood Press something to talk about. So, debate, second-guess, slam Maya when a big-budget film falls flat on its face, but never write a word when our top heroes make bad decisions, right? Cast aspersions on whom I—maybe—am sleeping with or what married producer or businessman is leaving my apartment in the wee hours of dawn…and, yet, never gain access to their wives, nor ever ask them why they still remain married to such bhadwas! Honestly, Razia, I’ve never quite understood the meaning of these so-called “exclusive” interviews, cover-page shoots, news appearances, even hiring a PR agency; I’ve never bothered having a manager controlling my dates, except Alam who’s always been by my side. I mean, who’s looking for the soul-stirring truth, anyway, in this industry? But maybe, age, and experience, ke saath saath, mein bhi kuch sudhar rahin hoon,’ I clicked my tongue.
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