Cut

by Sreemoyee Piu Kundu

  ‘And what does that make me? Am I now another Alam in your life? A recipient of your mega-star status? Your mercy? Your money? Your mood swings?'

  ‘Well, I don’t recall having ever asked you to wait outside my car, or pay my bills, or get my laundry hand-delivered, have I now, Mr. Avik Dasgupta? In fact, if memory serves me right, you were practically living off me, till a year and half ago when your lot slightly improved, thanks to the National Award.’ Maya tried to stop herself: ‘Please, Avi, don’t get me started…’

  ‘You’re the one who started this, Maya.’

  ‘No babumoshai, you did. I was just happy to suck your balls.’

  ‘There you go again!’

  ‘Balls bola toh? Big deal! You men are all fucking hypocrites. Want the shag and yet can’t take it when a woman spells it to your face.’

  ‘No, Maya, I still love the way you suck my balls. But, sometimes, just sometimes, a real conversation would be appreciated. Agreed, we’re both busy people. This damn industry also demands so much out of everyone. Our time, our bodies, our brains…our contacts…there is no end to the networking. And yes, you’re right about another thing, I have gotten busier with my next film’s casting…maybe, the Filmfare Critics Award recognition has worked…and I am emerging out of the shadows. But, in all this, there are times I want only you, Maya. I want to share my life with you. I thought we were supposed to go to Rocky Ratnani’s calendar launch, followed by the charity dinner at JW together. I waited a lot, Maya, before finally calling on Alam’s cell. And, just FYI, he didn’t pick up at first, either. He messaged saying you were in some meeting.’

  ‘Maybe, I was actually in one, Avi? I don’t remember every detail of my day.’

  ‘Babe, I trust you. The other day too, I knew you were going to be tied up till evening. That’s why I never dropped by on the sets of the Lux shoot. I knew you had said yes to that just for the money that you had to return to Nadiadwala. I also know it was partly because you had promised to pump funds into my film, in case I don’t manage a decent producer. I know the pressures on you, Maya…maybe that’s why I was feeling bad too…guilty, restless. I just wanted whisk you away, somewhere...anywhere…’

  ‘I hear you, Avi, but I don’t need whisking away. Now is there something you’d really like to discuss, other than this long-winded spiel about our relationship? I have an appointment with my cosmetic surgeon and I need to shower and get going. So, can we do this later?’

  ‘What’s gotten into you, Maya? Another surgeon? I find you super-hot…so, if this is about us…’

  ‘This has nothing to do with us. This is about my life, my face and my body, Avi.’

  ‘In other words, my opinion doesn’t count, right?’

  ‘Cut the guilt trip, kid. It’s not like you were planning to spend all morning tucked inside my blanket. Going in and out of me.’

  ‘And what if I said I was? What if I was the unpredictable one, huh?’

  ‘It’s not your style, Avik Dasgupta. That’s what attracted me to you in the first place. What I find so irresistible about you, still. C’mon, I liked you because you were not awed by my star status, and the fact that I had my own life. It’s why I overlooked so much when we hooked up…your struggling status, your empty bank account, your ego hassles – that were legendary, at some level – even your last fling with that small-time TV actress…all of the baggage that a man like you came with…’

  ‘Was it really that bad, Maya?’

  ‘No, Avi…and, honestly, I don’t keep a hisab-kitab of my relationships, analysing every incy-wincy, intimate, disgusting detail, all the freaking time.’

  ‘Really, Maya?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is that why we won’t talk about Amitabh Kulasheshtra? Even once, Maya?’

  RK CHOPRA

  I was desperate to see Sarla.

  My lawyer, a smooth-talking South Mumbai chap advised me against travelling out of the city till the income-tax officials were off my trail, as were Bhai’s supari killers. We were talking to ministers and gangsters at the same time. ‘It’s all a matter of what clicks, first RK.’ He texted me again that morning when I told him I had an urgent family matter to attend to:

  ‘Family?’ he’d responded, adding a wink emoji.

  Monty was in the US. I had managed to sneak him out. My second wife, Pamela, had also been temporarily shut-up, silenced by promises of a heftier monthly allowance and another pent-house somewhere in town.

  I ran my hands over the crumpled sheets.

  For all the hundreds of women I had slept with, Sarla was the only woman I had ever loved. I fell back on the bed, eyes clamped shut. ‘Banno…’ I moaned, imagining my head pressed between her heaving breasts.

  Dada Saheb had not been impressed with my audition for Mitti, a politically provocative tale of a Dalit farmer whose land is encroached upon by an upper-class landlord, and who is subsequently asked to give up his wife – for one night of fun with the landlord – to get his land back. When the farmer refuses, the exploitative landlord kidnaps the wife, but eventually falls in love with her. The woman too slowly develops feelings for her kidnapper – their forbidden love challenging caste boundaries, questioning the sanctity of marriage, the wife of the Dalit farmer, equally oppressed, her body, her bane. The first time I met Sarla, and Amitabh Kulasheshtra…

  ‘You look too affluent for the role of the Dalit…which is why I considered you to play the zamindar…you have the height and build I am looking for but it seems to me that you are probably too young, too restless…’ Dada Saheb shook his head, disapprovingly, seconds after I had finished reading my lines.

  A young man, probably a year, older, walked in just then and sized me up, saying:

  ‘The age of the zamindar can always be altered. I mean, his physique is compelling…also what if we can make a change to the script; what if the landlord’s young son abducts the daughter of the Dalit farmer, instead? The son who has just, maybe, returned from England? His diction, age and looks fit the part perfectly in that situation…it can be more of a second-generation tussle and we can always show the daughter as being newly married?’

  I was caught by the intensity in his gaze.

  The man turned to me and offered his hand: ‘Amitabh…I assist Dada Saheb…’

  ‘This is a scorching satire, son, set in a poor village in Maharashtra’s Marathwada region, not a flippant love story…Our intention is not just to agitate, but provoke us, the casteist audience. Mitti shall lend itself to the rise of a new cultural genre...chronicling tales of oppression that were never talked about openly,’ Dada Saheb frowned, looking around at his other cast members for approval.

  ‘Besides, we haven’t auditioned for a young woman…who will play the part of the young daughter?’ Govind Bhai, a regular in all Joglekar productions, interrupted; probably trying to please him as well.

  I folded my hands and prepared to leave the stage.

  ‘Wait!’ Amitabh commanded, adding impatiently, ‘Where’s Sarlu? She was right here, reading the lines…Sarlu will fit the role of the young Dalit woman…In fact, she looked too immature for the earlier part…and she happens to be a very emotive actress. She has a resilient strength, and her build is perfect for the role…can we at least see how they look together on stage? Will someone fetch her, please?’

  Dada Saheb looked a little taken aback by this direct challenge to his authority, but he didn’t protest. He spoke in hushed whispers to Govind Bhai, as I shuffled my feet, waiting silently for the final verdict.

  Just then Sarla came back. ‘Sarlu…where did you disappear? Here, go on, here, read these lines…quick…’ Amitabh pushed her on stage and thrust some pages into her hand.

  Her simple handloom cotton sari clung to her broad hips, her face was reddened from the dull heat outside. Her hair was managed in a lengthy plait, decorated with a solitary white flower, tucked neatly behind her left ear.

  ‘A man like you cannot love a woman. A man like you can onl
y destroy,’ her lips quivered, as she mouthed the lines Amitabh had quickly changed. Getting into character with complete ease. There was no overacting. No histrionics. The lines as she spoke them shone through with a rare integrity.

  Dada Saheb stood up in a huff. ‘Anger, rage, resentment…I need the revolution, understand! Not a whimpering, lovesick woman,’ he hollered.

  Amitabh calmly told Sarla to continue reading from the script he had given her, in the same way she had been emoting, and then gestured to me to continue:

  ‘What I feel for you has nothing to do with my father…what I feel for you is more than passing lust…’ I thundered, lunging forward, my chest heaving. My throat was parched.

  Was I still clumsy in my dialogue delivery?

  Sarla brushed aside a strand of hair from her eyes. Stepping forward, she straightened her back, returning to the script:

  ‘The colour of my skin is different from yours, Sahib. As is the texture of my hands…hardened from toiling in the sun all day. My hair is matted, stinking of cow dung…These breasts that you stare at lust-ridden now, are shrunken with the load of the harvest I carry in the evenings…my body belongs to this parched, brown soil…I cannot be separated from it, at any cost, from my people, at any cost. If you want me, you must make me a promise first…’ her eyes glittered provocatively.

  Dada Saheb appeared stunned, sifting through his hand-written script.

  There was pin-drop silence.

  ‘You must kill your father…avenge the death of my forefathers, the usurpation of our agricultural fields. Drink water from the well that shades my courtyard…become one of us,’ Sarla placed her hands on my chest.

  I was mesmerized. I couldn’t take my eyes off her lips, as they slowly opened and closed, the way she swallowed hard, after each line. The force of my attraction towards her made it difficult to breathe.

  ‘This war will be bigger, more dangerous,’ I mumbled self-consciously, slipping my fingers in hers, making a tight fist.

  ‘The war has been ongoing, Sahib…My flesh is marked with ugly scars for every woman your people raped and murdered; for every child who was forbidden to drink water from a temple well; for my father’s land that he tilled till your people snatched it away from him, forcibly; for the river you forbade us to bathe in; for this skin, that you hunger for…I am a Dalit woman, Sahib. This war is in my womb…’ Sarla closed her eyes, I took a step closer, till our mouths were almost touching, her cheekbones glistening in the half-light.

  We both held our positions.

  Transfixed, like everyone else present.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ Amitabh’s eyes scoured Dada Saheb’s gaunt face.

  ‘Mitti is about Dalit assertiveness and the perpetual power struggle in Maharashtra between the landowner class and the subdued class. We are here to challenge the larger system, son,’ he answered tersely.

  ‘Challenge, how?’ Amitabh raised his voice. ‘What use is art, if it does not deal with real people? If we will hide the social injustices real men and women are facing behind silent Gods and buxom Goddesses? When we can’t show crude human emotions – when a woman is still depicted in dance and not as an unapologetic warrior? The world is changing, and theatre, natak needs to adapt…political means people!’

  Dada Saheb had placed his hands on his hips, his brow creased into a menacing frown.

  ‘The battle in Mitti is just not against upper-caste people, per se, it is against the prejudice that arises from casteist thinking. What if the term “Dalit” is an umbrella phrase that includes not just people belonging to the so-called Schedules Castes, but tribals, transgenders, women…like her…discriminated sections who lack a voice or representation…who live on the fringes of popular and political consciousness and conscience. Remember you had told me the story of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, right?’ Amitabh threw his arms up in the air, adding, impatiently, ‘the author wasn’t an African American. Does that make the story any less authentic? Aesthetic integrity in voice matters more than identity conferred at birth.’

  Sarla was quick to defend her father, hoping perhaps to camouflage her obvious attraction to me…our instant chemistry, on stage, and, in person. Or maybe, she wanted to wiggle her way into her father’s heart. Dada Saheb had not bothered to pay her a compliment for her rousing act. How she had switched expressions, expertly, like a seasoned performer.

  I was pretty certain that there was more to this than met the eye.

  ‘Why did you tamper with the screenplay, just to accommodate this new actor, Amitabh? You know very well that this was a play about the evils of casteism and power struggles…you can’t suddenly alter the entire context! Make it about this woman…her honour…her battle…her body…’ Her eyes glinted.

  Amitabh bowed his head for a few seconds. ‘What if,’ he slowly resumed, continuing, as he pointed his fingers at her eyes, ‘what if your body…your body is that war zone, Sarlu? What if a woman is the one who bears the cuts of any larger mass battle? What if it all started here…here…in the space between your breasts…or the gap between your thighs…in the darkness of your sex…’

  We all gasped at the audacity of his words. But even Dada Saheb listened in silence.

  ‘Can you return my honour, sahib? Can you take my hand, here, in front of all your people? Is my war, now, also, yours? Are we both victims of a larger social oppression? Have you ever lain awake…on ghor Amavasya nights…listening to the beating of your own heart? Wondering whether God divided men? Was he a Dalit? A woman? A wife?’ Amitabh thundered, reading aloud from the script.

  There was a slow clap.

  Dada Saheb stood up, facing me.

  ‘I have to agree with Amitabh, here. Rakesh suits the role of a younger man, a lot better…maybe, as the England returned son of the landlord, as he proposes…I see a flicker of promise, Rakesh, despite the fact that you don’t have much experience in theatre…I’d like you to stay on, at least, for a while…if you commit yourself to the stage, surrender to the medium…’

  Sarla clutched Amitabh’s forearm, biting her lower lip, the worry lines on her face easing into a slow smile of disbelief.

  ‘And you, show me those rewritten lines from the beginning, will you, now? Only then shall I take a final call,’ Dada Saheb indicated to Amitabh to follow him.

  They left the stage together. Their heads bowed, already deep in discussion.

  From the corner of my eyes, I saw you murmur a prayer. Your cheeks flushed. Your eyes clamped shut.

  Whom were you really happy for, that day, Banno?

  SARLA KULASHESHTRA

  It had rained all of last night. I had watched the showers recede, sitting all alone by the edge of the portico, just after the sun came up. In the same spot where Amitabh and I had shared our last night together – before he had disappeared forever, the next afternoon. On the train to death.

  It had been over two months since his passing and I had not come to peace with his death; and I don’t mean grief, I mean a seething, pent-up anger. The court-case against Rawat was still pending, even though almost all the witnesses had turned hostile. So much of the hard-earned money that I had stored away as savings was being siphoned away in lawyers’ fees without any real hope of closure.

  Amitabh had been my father’s choice, not mine. But why had I never spoken up myself? Told my father the truth about my feelings? Was I scared to break Dada Saheb’s heart – the same way I had silently pined for his fatherly attention, having grown up more as his ‘shishya’ than his only child? Sarat Chandra Joglekar’s reputation was intimidating; akin to my helplessness, in many ways.

  When I fretted about Amitabh’s coldness, my mother had said: ‘Amitabh is an aloof man; his communication is akin to a sign language, you will get used to it over time. Like your father, that boy is built for fame, just you see…’

  For the rest of my married life, she had always made it a point to harp on the fact that Amitabh was so very obedient to Dada Saheb; never buying my logic that he
was perhaps just plain selfish: agreeing to marry a woman he had never loved to earn a theatre company in dowry. When I accused her of deliberately destroying my relationship with Rakesh she said, ‘I’m sorry. But I think you misunderstood my intentions. You had no future with that over-smart, loud-mouthed, over-ambitious chap. Your father knew that all along, being an astute observer of people, and having also had an inkling that Rakesh and you were up to something. Besides, Rakesh was never cut out for this business. Like Amitabh was.’

  And when Amitabh walked out on the ‘family business’ she had another ready answer:

  ‘Your father, as you know, was heartbroken when Amitabh left his company, but he never held Amitabh’s raging ambition against him…in fact, he regretted how the bitterness stayed…why Amitabh never returned, as a son. He always said that you were blessed to have a husband like him. Created for greatness. Born to be famous. Fearless.’

  The evening after my father’s explosive announcement, I had thrown myself into Rakesh’s arms, whimpering as I begged him to publicly declare our love and save me from my impending nuptials.

  ‘He’s only agreed to marry me so that he can inherit the legacy of Dada Saheb…Amitabh’s nothing but a cunning bastard who’s finally shown his true colours. I can’t believe how naïve I was…to believe he would ever have any loyalty towards me…first…for introducing him to my father…for confiding in him about us…backstabbing me this way…’ I had sobbed, burying my head against Rakesh’s sturdy chest.

  ‘No, no, Banno, he’s bound by a sacred gurudakshina…’

  ‘What? What kind of gurudakshina? That demands a woman have no voice…that traps her, lifeless…’

  ‘There is talk…everyone in the company knows as well…Something your father allegedly demanded from Amitabh by offering your hand in matrimony…Amitabh cannot say no to his mentor. Not after all that he has done for him…you all are practically family…me…I, I am the, the outsider…’ Rakesh’s nostrils flared.

  ‘You think a boy who cold-heartedly stormed out on his own blind father can ever love me unconditionally? Ever be loyal? Rakesh, please, look at me, listen. Hear me out. I don’t care what Dada Saheb thinks or feels, all I know is that I don’t want to be a sacrificial lamb at the altar of theatre, I only wish to marry you, to love you the rest of my life. I cannot accept Amitabh as my life partner…as…’ my words trailed.