Cut

by Sreemoyee Piu Kundu

  Manju Bhabhi let out a lengthy wail, as Ammi clasped her chest, looking stricken.

  Tears gushed out of my eyes.

  ‘Talent…’ I mouthed stiffly, swallowing with difficulty, my thoughts going back to the summer our bags were searched thoroughly, one morning, the thanedar giving all of us a severe warning about the five thousand rupees that had gone missing from Prateik Master’s tent. Fingerprints had been taken. Rumours made the rounds that it could be one of us.

  In mounting horror, I remembered the sudden spending spree we had briefly enjoyed. ‘Here, take these; these books should serve you well, now you don’t have to complain that you have to share your things with all the others…promise me, you will study well, from today,’ Ammi had said one day, bringing me brand new textbooks.

  Just then there was a thud.

  ‘Mumtaz…’ Baba howled.

  Everyone huddled around Ammi who had collapsed to the ground, clutching her chest. Some urgently splashing water on her face. Others running helter skelter…the dust flying. I stood a few feet away from where Ammi was. Removed and detached.

  ‘Bijli…here take this, some warm rice, eat well, and, then study, and keep an eye on Baba…I will take care of the rest, I am here, for you, son,’ I remembered her words from last night, before she’d melted into the darkness again.

  By the evening Baba and I had buried Ammi:

  ‘Na jayate mriyate va kadacin nayam bhutva bhavita va na bhuyah ajo nityah sasvato ‘yam purano na hanyate hanyamane sarire’

  Baba recited the same passage from the Bhagwad Gita over and over again. His hands trembling as he threw the last fistful of dry mud over her grave.

  ‘I’m talking to you!’ Amitabh yelled ferociously at me one day, during the last week of stage practice.

  It was a supposed to be a dress rehearsal.

  ‘Sorry, sorry Monsieur…I was, was just asking if we could do another take,’ a young man, who worked as translator, stuttered, petrified at Amitabh’s ire.

  I coughed, rubbing my eyes. The ostentatious Indian bridal finery made it difficult to breathe. I shuffled through the script, wondering if I had forgotten my cue. We had been through so many stages of improvisation. Each day, there was something new added only to be removed or altered the very next day. Amitabh’s obsessive need for perfection made him one of the most demanding directors I had ever worked with.

  ‘Is this what I have taught all of you? Is this a film we are shooting? This, this is…’ he clenched his jaws, holding up his copy of the stage notes…‘this is theatre, the stage…it’s sacred…I can’t have my actors coming to work, unprepared. It’s a sign of disrespect! Towards me…towards our audience…towards the very craft, we worship. Do you understand? I cannot have you all treat this space like a film set! No one has the right to! Not, not even you, Marie Bourdaine, despite your star status…it’s high time you remembered the revised cue…’ he hollered, shaking his finger at me.

  ‘Also, you are playing Sakuntalam, a woman forgotten by the man she loved…a powerful king, whose child you now carry in your womb…where is the pathos in your singing? You are not a prima donna, Mademoiselle, you are at the mercy of your lover…a man who has walked away…’

  I stepped forward into the spotlight, my head lowered. We’d been rehearsing for almost eight months, away from home, cooped up in a tiny, airless hotel room, overlooking the Seine.

  A strange river, a lonely river, a river that divided my heart, between the man I had been engaged to and a married man who had suddenly come between us, all the way from India. From a tiny city called Pune, in a swarming state called Maharashtra. Like my village, on the outskirts of Paris, and yet, in the heart of France.

  As I stood in Amitabh’s looming presence, my eyes filled, feeling insignificant, the leading lady…and yet…no less than a woman scorned; much like the character I was essaying. Suddenly, fighting the suffocating distance between a director and an actor.

  ‘She is not too well, let’s just do it one more time please,’ a crew-member from our contingent tried diffusing the tension.

  ‘Listen, Patrick, my mother had her menstrual cycle for ten days every month. She was always bleeding. Most women in our part of the world are like that, anaemic. But that didn’t stop her doing her job every single day. Marie is not going to get any differential treatment…just because we are close, because your silly gossip columns seem to think we are a couple…’ he shouted, his face creased into a scowl.

  ‘I’m sorry, I, I did not mean to upset you, in any way,’ my cheeks were reddened from being screamed at this way in front of the whole cast. And yet a part of me felt reassured.

  It was the first time Amitabh had actually acknowledged what we shared.

  The walls we had built. And broken.

  When I went over to his room, as was, by then, habit, Amitabh was fervently scribbling notes on the side of the bound, hand-written script. Lost in thought. The same hotel room suddenly felt strangely distant. The bed, where I rocked him to sleep, somehow, uninviting.

  ‘I just couldn’t get you out of my head…what we shared last night was transformative…I mean, the way our bodies melted into one another…at dawn…when you entered me…all these months of…I want you so much, so badly,’ I confessed, awkwardly, avoiding direct eye contact.

  ‘We have to stop seeing each other, Marie, this has to stop, whatever this is,’ Amitabh’s eyes scanned my body.

  I hadn’t changed out of the heavily sequinned, Indian ghagra choli. My eyes were heavily lined with kohl. A bindi etched on my forehead. My arms were heavy with transparent glass bangles of myriad colours.

  ‘Why? Just because I was distracted today? One day? Or, because, you are threatened that by the fact that a woman can actually openly desire a man? Does my attraction emasculate your manhood, Amitabh?’

  ‘Listen, Marie…’ Amitabh cut me short, pointing at my eyes, ‘I come from a really poor country, and I mean really impoverished; poorer than you can ever imagine, any of you French people. My father was a blind circus performer. My mother was a trapeze artist who once dreamt of being an actress, a dancer…she slept with anyone who would have her, for us to stay alive…for food…books…warm clothes…for my sake…

  ‘The last few years, I’ve worked tirelessly to put our craft on the international map. Struggling to stage performances, working night after night, to apply for grants, literally begging for money at times, staying hungry, fighting against giving into sponsorships…staying away from home, for months, fighting the battles of the marginalized…being hit, arrested, accused of being a traitor, a rabble rouser, anti-social element…all in the hope of giving the have-nots a voice, that can be heard outside...that travels widely…Do you know how hard that is, Marie? What my life has been…before I came here…I have put a lot at stake by taking up this project…I can’t allow this mega production to fall apart just because you are lovesick, all of a sudden.’ His shoulders were shaking.

  I stood up. My eyes smarted. ‘Are you saying people can’t fall in love? That they don’t in India?’ my voice echoed in the silence.

  Amitabh removed his vest. ‘Love? Who said anything about love? I was talking about the production, the costs we have incurred to stage this magnum opus…Kalidasa’s eternal love ballad La Legende de Sakuntalam to be performed as a grandiose French opera…going back to the start…song and dance…caricatures and costumes…the reputation of my country…the deadweight of expectations…on either side.’

  ‘I’m in love with you, Amitabh, I have been, since the first night these arms held you…watched over you as you slept…and every single night, since then…I know there is a lot at stake…and I didn’t plan on things changing between us, either…but, they did, and I am not escaping from what I feel,’ I ran out of breath, wiping my eyes, to add, weakly, ‘I know this is true love, Amitabh…and love in its full form is free from any expectation or preconditions…it never dies…it must never be allowed to…’

  ‘And, wha
t about Henry?’ Amitabh quizzed, sharply. Stepping into the shower.

  ‘Who?’ my right eye itched, the bleeding kohl having entered inside.

  ‘The man you were supposed to marry…the one you ran away from, coming here, to Paris, instead. Henry, your childhood sweetheart, the man who loves you…back…the way you want him to…’ he turned on the tap.

  Steam steadily rose in on us.

  ‘I can’t love Henry, anymore…not, not after what we shared, last night…all these past months, I have never felt so deeply connected with anyone my whole, entire life…’ I spoke passionately.

  Amitabh traced the outline of my lips with his thumb.

  ‘I have betrayed a lot of people, Marie…there is blood on my hands…’ he pulled away, slowly.

  I pressed my face on his back, laden with droplets of moisture.

  ‘Maya’s death wasn’t your fault, she was a sick child…very sick…’ I added gently, planting tiny kisses all over his shoulders and neck.

  Amitabh had closed his eyes.

  ‘I promised Sarlu we would get her to see a big doctor…I was sure it was nothing. Later, that night, when she developed breathing trouble again, Sarlu ran out to call our neighbours. I held Maya close to me. ‘Go on, get dressed,’ Sarlu screamed hysterically. ‘She could be dead…’

  ‘It was too late, I was too late…Maya was declared dead on arrival…it was my failure, Marie…I failed as a son, once…and now, as a parent…I wasn’t enough…a man like me is never enough...’ Amitabh pushed me away from him.

  That night, we slept on separate sides of the same bed.

  Like total strangers.

  The lights over Eiffel Tower strangely muted.

  I sat up with some difficulty. Switching on the bedside lamp, I opened my personal diary. Flipping through the pages, I finally found Amitabh’s last correspondence to me. A handwritten note, penned to me, on the last day of the production – La Legende de Sakuntalam that had played for two whole months, touring practically all of France, before travelling also, to some parts of England. The small, white envelope that I had found neatly placed on this same bed, where I now lay, by myself, would have been the last time I spent alone with Amitabh.

  My last memory, of us.

  Beloved Marie,

  I’m sorry I checked out from the hotel before the official dinner and felicitation ceremony was to commence. I hate these functions, anyway, as I’ve said to all of you, many times, this last year. Besides, my French is not as proficient as your English has gotten since we started rehearsals.

  Anyway, so, I said to myself, save yourself the embarrassment, Kulasheshtra. My team will represent me. They are good at making excuses on my behalf. It’s an Indian art form; we call it ‘bahana’ back home.

  I know you’d understand not seeing me tonight…you always did, Marie. Even when we spoke in two diverse tongues.

  You know, I’ve asked myself why a woman like you would want to be with me? How was it so simple? After you walked into the bus, striking such an affable camaraderie? Remember that moment? Our first, alone...

  I’d never seen someone more perfect, Marie. It was as if you forced me to take notice, as I did. Unlocking my hotel room. Holding your coat in my hands, feeling fur, for the first time. Touching a foreign substance, defying the distance, between us…

  I know I have failed you, Marie. Failed myself. Failed what we had…what we could have. Failed because I didn’t try hard enough. The way I must walk away, now, without even putting up a decent fight, knowing I will carry the burden of such a cowardice, all my remaining years.

  The sense of being vanquished by the man I could have been. The man you made me want to be, Marie. The man you chose.

  You, Marie Bourdaine, were not just my Sakuntalam on stage... but my soulmate. You helped me grieve. Move on, in some measure. The one time we made love…the many months we waited…were real, Marie. Make no mistake.

  You, Marie, were the first woman I ever fell in love with. Not loved.

  I know thus that you will not question my decision to return to my country. To my wife, Sarla.

  PS: Jusqu’à ce que nous nous revoyions (until we meet again).

  Henry, my fiancé, and I were married later the same year in our village chapel, where he now lays buried. We were married for fifteen years before he was claimed by cancer. Henry was a good man, and he loved me, deeply. Never betraying me.

  ‘Au Clair De La Lune…’ the words inscribed on his grave.

  ‘Au Clair De La Lune…’ I softly whispered, kissing the yellowing page, watching as the letter disappeared into the impenetrable darkness. Floating, lithe. The way I had felt, when Amitabh had entered me, sans words.

  I shut the window tight.

  The way I had, the night he went away.

  Understood in his silences.

  SARLA KULASHESHTRA

  Amitabh’s memoir had recently been re-published and now everyone was reading it. I could not help being bemused by the attention death had brought him. As if dying had lent his career a new lease of life. His book was now selling on the pavements. There were so many events to honour his memory. Every theatre group worth its name was trying to cobble together an event using his name as a branding tool. I refused to attend any of them.

  A few months ago, I had turned down an opportunity to speak at the Prithvi Theatre Memorium in Mumbai. A part of me knew that I had possibly risked the chance of being misconstrued. In the same way that Amitabh’s silences had always been judged and dissected by his critics, fans and the media – especially, in the years after Malegaon. The pressure on him to take a stand had never quite abated.

  I was cynical about this new-found recognition because I had witnessed my husband turn into a shadow. How Amitabh had grappled with a gnawing hollowness – a mounting disbelief in basic human goodness, transparency, and the legal system of this country, qualities and institutions that he had sworn by all his life – eating away at his mind. After every court hearing and press interaction, Amitabh seemed more self-defeated, as witnesses suspiciously switched allegiances, as newspapers tainted his intentions and involvement, depending on the colour of their conscience, as judges floundered, as the case dragged on. As Amitabh blamed himself – not so much for the price of his art, but the nature of his resistance.

  The thought that shallow caste and communal politics, which he had fought against and discarded all his life, now chased him everywhere he went. He was a man, not just grappling with his own vision – the projection of it, the purpose of it – but with a dangerously changing nation.

  Amitabh wanted to reach out again, but wasn’t sure how to anymore.

  He had lost relevance, I suppose.

  I had just come home from a prolonged meeting with Amitabh’s lawyer, who advised me to quietly have the case closed. Now that Amitabh was dead, he insisted that there was no point contesting the charges of sedition that were levied on him more than a decade ago. To go on and on about Malegaon.

  ‘Rawat is all set to launch his own party, Mrs. Kulasheshtra. Let bygones be bygones. At least, this time we can capitalize on public sympathy for your late husband, settle matters, discreetly,’ the lawyer had swallowed uncomfortably, adding: ‘That’s the thing about death. It brings a sense of closure. Maybe, it will be good for you too. I mean, how long will you keep responding to mechanical court summons, travelling in the hot sun, selling your pots and pans to meet mounting legal expenses…and all for what, huh? It’s not like there will be any new witnesses, at any point. Rawat, the main accused too was let off long ago. Kahani ko abhi aap the end kar daliye…this is India, where even gang-rape cases take forever to resolve…this is the time for you to relax, Mrs. Kulasheshtra. Jitna footage iss case ko milna tha, mil gaya…why waste time on ideological warfare, at this point? Activism was Kulasheshtra’s thing…in any case. Aap bas apni retirement ki sochiye…think selfishly, Sarlaji…kabhi kabhi compromise is the best…’

  The doorbell rang just then, breaking my ch
ain of thoughts. I opened the door a crack and saw a familiar but not particularly welcome face.

  Facing me on our modest cane two-seater sat veteran Marathi theatre actress, Anupama Apte, a ghost of her former self. She was one of Amitabh’s most well-known ‘finds’ who had gone on to carve a unique place of her own in regional theatre, even starring in a few Hindi films, in small side roles. I knew she had always been infatuated with Amitabh and couldn’t come to terms with his lack of interest in her.

  Anupama had lost a lot of weight; her voluptuous body now hung loosely on her frame. She wore a long cotton skirt and a plain off-white kurti. Anupama lived in Dadar, Mumbai. She had a daughter who studied in a boarding school in Lonavala, from her first marriage to a director who failed to make it big in Bollywood. An FTII pass-out. Her second husband was a film distributor. Also, a decade younger. She was trying her luck in both Hindi and Marathi serials, she mentioned. She had been out of the country for a year on some film assignment and so couldn’t visit earlier.

  Apparently, she had come to condole.

  ‘Amitabhji was the one who told me to start focusing more on emotionally strong parts, to take up roles I could never dream of executing. I was always a director’s actor…I loved him too, you know,’ she put her cup away, leaning closer towards me, wiping her eyes, for effect.