‘Then take it Amitabh, and, give it to the concerned person. What am I meant to do with all this? I have enough on my plate…’ I shrugged my shoulders dismissively, walking away.
‘Sarlu, wait, you will know what to do when time comes, just look after it, please…for me...’ Amitabh called out, as I turned to go, his voice breaking.
‘You’re asking your wife to safeguard a script that you penned for your lover? You should thank your lucky stars you’re the one who’s sick…’ my eyes stung.
‘Sarlu…’
‘No, I have heard enough, Amitabh. It’s bad enough that we have this case hanging on our heads…your doctor visits and deteriorating health…your heart con…just take this back, at once. I am not interested in what the bag or the damn script contains. I am done with cleaning up after you. For being the one who listens.’ I bit my lower lip, the colour rising up my cheeks, ‘Unlike you, I am not interested in looking for redemption, Amitabh, after all this time. And if an evening like this makes you assume we can go back to being the way we were, you are wrong. There is no going back. People can’t go back, ever. We had what we had. The bridges we built, we burnt. With our own hands. The way Malegaon finished you, Amitabh. The way you lost. The way you cannot win, everything…over, over everyone…’
I was shaking.
Amitabh held the cloth bag close to his heart. His eyes closed.
‘And, and, I want you to understand something. I can never meet Mrinalini, again, all right? Not even halfway. Do you hear me, Amitabh? I vowed never to see her face. Our paths must never cross; even if you are dead. When you are finally…dead…Amitabh Kulasheshtra…’
My lips quivered.
Amitabh stood with his shoulders stooped. Was his leaving Pune, pre-planned? Had he known he was going away?
Did Amitabh have a premonition about his premature death?
Or, was this what I had wanted? All along?
The first time I had spoken my mind.
Stood up. Put up a fight.
Won…
Had I pushed Amitabh away forever?
I re-read the last bit of the note:
‘Cut is not just Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s last play. It his first love letter, to you, Mrs. Sarla Kulasheshtra…’ I read the last line to myself, many times, before removing the visiting card that was attached by the side.
A flash of lightning ripped through the sky. I couldn’t believe the name of the sender.
‘Chopra & Sons, Towers 1 & 2…’
Rakesh? Had he managed to get this manuscript back from Amol Rawat? How? A tear fell on the line scribbled on the first page.
‘It’s not your fault…we just ran out of time…’
A line I recognized from the first page of Amitabh’s memoirs.
Had all of us been vindicated by his unlikely death, in some measure?
Or was he playing the sutradhaar?
ACT III
CUT
AVIK DASGUPTA
This was the second time I was going to see Mrs. Sarla Kulasheshtra at her home in Pune. Amitabh Kulasheshtra had been dead for two years.
The first time we met was after she had called me suddenly out of the blue, a month ago. I had flown down the very next day. That’s when she told me that, last year, she had got her hands on a copy of her husband’s last play, Cut; the one he had been carrying with him when he had died two years ago, and which had been missing since. She had refused to tell me who had sent it to her, the price she had to pay to acquire the script, or why it was me she wanted to see urgently on this matter. If she had reached out to others from the same business, my competitors and industry rivals, I didn’t know. How long she had been planning this? Watching my career? My films? Studying my success ratio? My reputation? My rates? Was she aware of my history of hate with her husband?
Questions crowded my mind. And yet, I didn’t press the issue. A woman like Sarla Kulasheshtra only disclosed as much as she needed to. Something also told me that she didn’t trust me fully either; and I didn’t blame her. After all, I had mixed feelings too, at this point.
She had said at the conclusion of our first meeting that after much thought, she had decided to entrust the direction of the play to me. Cut being the last play written by Amitabh Kulasheshtra, his answer to his critics, to all those who had taken sadistic pleasure in propounding the theory that he had lost his mind, especially after the Malegaon incident. The play was a refreshing departure from Kulasheshtra’s last controversial production. A beautifully etched love story; a tribute, in a sense, to a longstanding relationship; a dying man’s declaration of admiration; a last love-letter to his wife.
I was astounded by how clear she was in communicating what she wanted and how much the staging of Cut meant to her. And yet, even as I patiently heard her out, I was tempted to interrupt her, ask pointedly what her real intentions were in resurrecting Kulasheshtra to an audience that had turned their faces away; and if she was aware that I had removed myself from the realm of theatre after Amitabh had ensured that I was rejected from the National Centre of Drama. Since her call, I had been conflicted and, at the same time, intrigued about taking on Cut and the complex challenge offered by her proposal.
Somewhere, I suppose I felt I would be redeemed by Cut; that directing Kulasheshtra’s work meant that I was worthy of the stage after all.
That I was his equal, in some measure.
Sarlaji was sitting in the portico when I arrived. She was formally dressed as always. Her hair pulled back in a tight bun, attired in a starched cotton sari. And yet, this evening, she looked different. She offered me tea and a plate heaped with poha, as we exchanged customary pleasantries.
‘Are you married, Mr. Dasgupta?’ she asked, out of the blue.
‘Yes, ma’am, as a matter of fact, I am.’ I had married Reema soon after Maya and I had split, a year ago.
‘Are you happy? Do you have children?’
‘My wife is pregnant. She happens to live in your city.’
‘Oh? Here in Pune? That’s nice. When is she due?’
‘I don’t know the exact date. Truth is, we fell out some months back when she left Mumbai, claiming she needed space... She mentioned something about being tired of being “single in our marriage”.’
‘God, the way you people of this generation deal with relationships. What does that even mean?’
‘I’m not sure myself. We haven’t spoken since the day she left Mumbai. I am giving her what she wanted…what was most lacking in our marriage…space! Anyway, coming back, to why I’m here, I know you’re keen to know what I thought of Cut and whether I will accept the offer. I was travelling for a bit and was in the midst of some important shoots…I have just started a new TV production company…and…’
‘Sab ko aajkal busy hone ki bimari jaisi hai…everyone says the same thing. It’s become a job, being busy,’ she shook her head.
I picked up a spoonful of poha. ‘Actually, I have a question, and you must be honest with me,’ I leaned closer. ‘Do you think I would’ve been his natural choice?’ I asked, meeting her eyes. Then, before she could come up with an answer, I added, ‘You must know, I have hated Amitabh Kulasheshtra most of my adult life, Sarlaji. Don’t mind my saying so to your face, but your husband was an arrogant bastard; he ruined my theatre career…All my life I have wanted to prove myself to him…I thought of him while directing my first feature film, desperate to impress him, and, at the same time, get back at him. Be a rightful contender…’
Sarlaji put down her cup of tea and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I am aware of the way he treated you, Avik; do you know what Amitabh said to me a long time after he had interacted with you at the National Centre of Drama? Yes, yes, he remembered. Amitabh always did when he was drawn to somebody; he had been impressed with your passionate intensity. He said rejecting you was actually his way of challenging you; by not giving you an easy entry into the world of theatre he was hoping to ignite a deeper passion in you. To strengthen your life p
hilosophy, and your commitment to the stage…Amitabh knew he saw more than just a spark in you…and, maybe, that frightened him as well…he was in many ways just the way you were, years back, when your paths crossed…Amitabh, as you may know, wasn’t a man to be easily bowled over.’
I placed the half-finished plate of poha by my side. I was silent for a long while before I finally said: ‘Sometimes, a rejection can dishearten one so much that one might leave the field altogether. Or, maybe, I idolized him way too much. I was desperate to be in his presence…to learn the art of screenplay and stage design…to travel with him into the parts of India that he had the courage to perform in, espouse the same causes…maybe, that’s why what I felt was akin to a very deep betrayal…What he did was more than break my spirit. I spiralled into a state of deep depression for months after.’ My voice shook with anger and pent-up rage.
‘Yes, it was a gamble. But it was a gamble my husband was willing to take. That’s the kind of man he was, I suppose. Like my father, the legendary Sarat Chandra Joglekar…Dada Saheb was known to goad and rile people; to push them to the limit, just so they didn’t get complacent. Even if it meant that they might get hurt in the process. In the way a schoolmaster prepares his best students by being more tough on them. In fact, I remember Amitabh watching a film of yours a few years ago on television. I had come in to meet his nurse, when he turned to me suddenly and said: “Sarlu…have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a son? Maybe, we gave up, too easily.”
‘He said: “You know, I once met the director of this film many years ago…I don’t exactly know why I was so unduly harsh with him, Sarlu…the boy, he had such a radically different vision of what modern theatre and art could mean. It was his final interview at the National Centre of Drama…and I was on the final selection panel that year. He was Bengali…. his name was Avik, Avik Dasgupta. His intense, brooding stare, it was the first thing I noticed, the time we conversed. There was something in his eyes, something that almost brought time back; he was hell-bent on defying me…!”
‘“Why did you flunk him then?” I’d asked.
‘“Sometimes anger is a mercurial motivator, Sarlu. Sometimes a harsh rejection by the people you emulate or want to be like the most, fuels you; drives you like one possessed, makes you want to prove yourself even more. In the way a piece of carbon is thrust into the raging embers to discover the rarest diamond. I have been avidly following his career, Sarlu. Avik Dasgupta. His first film absolute brilliance! I watched his debut feature, Sarlu…I watched it alone…he has the same irreverence as I did when I was his age…he will be a change-maker, that chap…I have wished to say this to him…some day…one day…”’
I was stunned. ‘Why…why didn’t you tell me this when you handed me over the script, Sarlaji?’ I asked, my eyes stinging with tears.
‘Things take time, Avik. Intimacy needs practice,’ Sarlaji eased into a smile as I stood up restlessly; moved beyond belief by Amitabh’s assessment of me. His words of praise meant everything to me; way more than I myself had ever believed possible. It was as if suddenly, in that single moment, all my self-doubt was dispelled; all my struggles validated.
‘By the way, have you met her yet?’ Sarlaji asked after a while, breaking the silence that followed as we both were lost in our thoughts.
Sarlaji had been adamant that the role of herself be essayed by none other than Maya Shirale.
‘Briefly,’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘But I am not sure if I was convincing enough. Sarlaji, are you also sure about not letting Maya know that it was you who brought the script of Cut to me, calling me here, to Pune, insisting on the phone that it was critical? That it is an absolute requisite that Maya essay this role…And what if she refuses? Have you considered that scenario? Do you think you can forget Maya and move on to another actress, in case the outcome is negative?’
‘Moving on is a myth.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because emotions don’t change places, the way people do; this play will not happen without Maya. I need Maya Shirale to say yes to this role.’
‘But, Maya and you have had no contact since she walked out of your life and everything that…transpired here…in this house. Are you absolutely certain that it is a wise casting call…the lead role being played by her, and no one else?’
‘Yes, I am sure.’
‘Sarlaji, please pardon my forthrightness, but is Cut about forgiveness? Am I right in thinking that deciding to stage Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s last written work is perhaps a means to forgive the man he was…to you…to all of us, in the end?’
‘Honestly, Avik, I can’t really analyse all this just yet. Maybe, maybe, there is more to me, too... more left to salvage. Or so, I think.’
‘I like that word, “salvage”.’
‘Reading Cut has also changed me, Avik. It’s dispelled the bitterness in me, in a way I never knew possible. Sometimes, we do end up hurting those we love, pushing them to a place from where they can seldom return. Maybe, it’s how two people survive. Why they are still vulnerable…Amitabh wrote Cut at a time when he himself was in the twilight of his life…struggling to piece together his fading memory, battling allegations about his political beliefs, carrying on an ideological crusade. Maybe, what makes Cut all the more relevant is the fact that he’s not here anymore. Absence is a privilege, Avik,’ she closed her eyes, opening them slowly to add, ‘Marriage is like a bloodied wrestling match in so many ways, and yet, it’s a team sport too. And Cut has made me look back on my mistakes as well, I suppose... the stubborn way I held out; how I was always looking for someone to blame when those I wanted walked out on me; how I was unfaithful to Amitabh for far longer…how I wanted him dead…for far longer…how my seething hatred at my own father was paralleled by my deepest respect for Dada Saheb…how I just wanted to be seen as myself. And which is why I am here now, with you. Cut, isn’t about forgiveness, as much as it is about faith. My faith.’
‘It’s difficult for me to convince Maya, Sarlaji. I haven’t spoken to her in a year, not after our break-up. I married Reema on the rebound, quite honestly. And, the thing is, Reema... my wife... she absolutely hates Maya. She always has. She says I transform completely under her influence. She calls Maya a parasite. She alleges it’s impossible for Maya and me to be “just” professional. It’s what she fears, I suppose, in some way. That’s why she has left me. Reema won’t ever accept it if I tell her about Cut. In fact, we were supposed to start scripting sessions for Reema’s debut feature soon. She’s directed some brilliant ad films, before this. I had no clue Reema was pregnant, either…maybe this is her way of getting back at me. Punishing me…’
‘Maybe, Reema is the one feeling left out...’
‘I have done nothing to make her feel threatened or broken her trust, Sarlaji. Never cheated. Never lied. I told her everything about Maya when we started seeing each other. Reema is being silly and plain jealous.’
‘And don’t you think she has every right?’
‘Sarlaji, I am sorry, but marriage is not slavery. It does not mean there will be no one else...’
‘You know what Amitabh said to me once, here, on this portico where we are now sitting and talking? He asked me if I loved him, staring intently into my eyes.’
‘And?’
‘I replied, “I am your wife. There is always a difference. The method of loving a man, once you own him.”
Sarlaji grew philosophical: ‘Avik, this is the truth and I owe it to you: Amitabh never wanted me, nor I him, except during the brief interlude we almost, accidentally shared. I wasn’t used to his attention, as a woman; nor did I ever seek it, actively. We were never lovers, not in the real sense. So, in some way, I had known we were always meant to end up the way we did, just filling a void in each other’s lives. Role playing. Making up names. Everyone needs a wife, Avik, my father would often say. Ardhangini…another part…a lost piece. Perhaps, I too hid behind the wife tag, equally, hoping to fit a particular sl
ot, still be inconspicuous, and yet protected. Trying to make a marriage of convenience matter over the years. I didn’t leave Amitabh, after all. What was stopping me? Why did I take care of things? Ensure that there was always food on the table. That the bedsheets were cotton and white, and freshly washed. No prints. No synthetics. The way he liked them. That the dal had just the right measure of salt; as prescribed by his doctor. That the bills were paid on time. I lay beside him every night, until the night my baby died, telling myself that a warm, compliant body resting beside a man, night after night after night, would be enough. That I would get accustomed to this gaping wound I carried, one that refused to go away. I allowed Amitabh to leave, when he wanted, never promising when he would return. Never staking a claim on him. It’s the kind of marriage I saw my parents share. Functional…and farcical, at the same time. It’s what made me go out of my way to see that nothing was ever quite out of place…or, maybe, we were just, just two people fighting fate and living out a patriarch’s arbitrary decision, trying to honour our pledge of togetherness, with whatever we had…’
‘Is this play something you want to do for yourself then, Sarlaji? To resurrect the memory of a failed marriage, and present it as something else? An image clean-up, maybe?’
‘What I now remember, Avik, is our time together…our interlude of affection; the assurance of a once broken promise…that time cannot resurrect…but that teaches you something so meaningful about life and yourself. That one evening with him was the most beautiful, most perfect moment we shared in a long while. Everything felt unspoilt. One moment, I was pruning the roses alone as usual. The, the next, he was there, watching me from afar, standing a few metres away. I don’t know why I reached out to Amitabh that day... not wanting him to return to his room, just yet, even though it’s what I told him when we began talking…’
‘I still don’t get it. I mean, how could just that one evening make you take this gigantic leap of faith, Sarlaji? I mean, how can you even remember such a day? What does it have that is so worthy of preservation, given the way things panned out, the very next afternoon? Also, is being wanted and being needed really that different, in a marriage?
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