‘Being wanted is like poetry... being needed like prose, Avik...’
‘And, what makes you so certain that everything you just narrated happened the way you think it did, Sarlaji? Sometimes, the mind plays tricks…Maybe, like my wife Reema, you’re plain jealous of Maya…in denial about the last evening you shared with your husband.’
‘I was jealous, you are right, Avik, but, not of Maya, as a woman, this time. Not that evening, despite returning the script to Amitabh, and walking off in a huff, leaving him stranded, screeching out my name, begging me to keep his cloth bag, in safe keeping. That night, I was only jealous of Amitabh. I know what I felt.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the way Amitabh had made sense of the single most perfect experience of our adult lives... so easily...because of the way he saw us. How our marriage, like Malegaon…like the case he fought for against the Rashtriya Dal, for all these years…that I represented him on countless occasions, was no different than Ganesh Circus…Amitabh’s first stage which lived on in him, always…the way Ammi and Baba did…the way Mrinalini will…maybe Amitabh wanted to win. The way you wanted, Avik. The way only knowing defeat makes you want to try again…at something, at the same things…’
I tried saying something else. I couldn’t.
The return flight to Mumbai was thankfully delayed by an hour. I couldn’t get the conversation with Sarlaji out of my mind, just like I couldn’t stop reading and rereading Cut. I had marked out portions that I constantly returned to. Lines that only Kulasheshtra could write. Rousing passages that took my breath away, wondering, at some level, if I was taking on more than I could chew. If I was being overambitious, thinking I could direct the last play scripted by a man who taught so many of us about theatre, about seeing life, a certain way. If I could finally forgive Kulasheshtra…for making me the man, I was now.
Reading what he had to say about Sarlaji made me think of Reema, how cold she had been when I called her the minute I stepped out of Sarlaji’s home, telling her about my new project. I asked her how she was feeling, when she was due, but she had evaded answering.
‘Best of luck, AD, I hope you can now make peace with your father, your past,’ was her only comment, before she hung up, abruptly.
I hadn’t ever openly discussed my parents with Reema. It had been so long since I had seen Ma, in any case, or gone home to Kolkata. I remember promising Reema I would show her my city after we got married in a simple, court ceremony attended only by some of our closest industry friends and team members. I didn’t want the media to know I was getting hooked. Maybe, somewhere, I didn’t want to hurt Maya.
I stared at my cell-phone for a few seconds. Wondering if I should call Reema again. Tell her everything I was feeling. But the fact that Maya was being considered for my very first play was bound to rile her further. Should I tell her it had been Sarlaji’s idea, from the start? A condition she had made abundantly clear before handing me over the manuscript of Kulashreshta’s final work. Thoughts formed and melted.
Were Reema and I also essaying a part?
Had the space we had promised to give each other in our personal and professional lives, during our courtship period, swallowed us, in turn? Had we allowed ourselves to remain invisible because it’s what our definition of modern-day companionship, was? Or, what it an excuse?
An alibi?
A white lie?
I took a deep breath, opening the script again.
My favourite lines from Cut stared me in the eye. Like Kulasheshtra knew my mind…
‘Slowly we turned to ash, just the way we started.
Till there was nothing left, nothing except us.
And a few scars.
Maybe it was fated then.
I said to myself.
As I saw you burn.
First.
Every single inch of us.
Wasted whore.
Chasing something like love.
Always running.... breathless.
Dust to dust.
Always thirsty.
Drinking blood.
Drinking the salt of my tears.’
MAYA SHIRALE
Your clinic in Jaslok Hospital was way better, doc…I mean despite the crowds there. This pretentious swanky high-rise business…mujhe ghutan hoti hai yahan. Bandra, Pali Hills…my foot!’ I removed my glares, flopping down on a comfortable black leather recliner as I spoke to my shrink.
‘Is that why you stopped coming for your sessions, Maya? It’s been a long time since we’ve sat face to face, this way,’ Dr. Pastakia, one of the most sought-after psychiatrists in Bollywood, questioned. His columns were everywhere these days, as were his appearances on national television. His secretary had insisted he had several other star appointments today. I always messaged him on a private number, especially, before a new release. After sending him and his wife premiere passes, each time.
Dr. Pastakia wasn’t my friend. He was my fan.
‘Can I be honest?’ I leaned in, closer.
‘That’s what you pay me for.’
‘When Avi happened, I didn’t need a shrink,’ I kicked off my neon green Nike trainers, wiping my face with a face towel, adding: ‘He was a great listener, always sorted, despite being younger than me, a struggler himself, really, when we hooked up. He made all my problems disappear. Made me laugh. Threatened to thwack me, hard, when I threw tantrums; came home piss-drunk just to teach me a lesson, if I didn’t answer his calls over a period of time, breaking down in my arms, within seconds. He was, in a sense, like family, doc.’
‘So, you’re here to discuss Avik Dasgupta?’ Dr. Pastakia made a note in his hardbound leather diary. ‘Hasn’t he left you, though, Maya? It’s been close to a year now? My wife Farah, who is glued to the gossip tabloids, mentioned that he had married someone else.’ He paused, fixing his rimless glasses over his aquiline nose. Waiting for me to react. I bit the bait.
‘Avi walked out on me in the end, doc, like all the other men in my life…the filmi magazines revelled in the scandal, making it about me, as usual…they hate me, anyway…my guts…so, they went on about how Avik Dasgupta had used me and moved on to greener pastures. How he was right to never look back. Maya Shirale, the bitch, the bimbette, the has-been…’
‘But, Maya, all of this is over. I hope you aren’t back on those ecstasy pills…mixing drugs and alcohol, again? No suicidal thoughts, I hope…?’ Dr. Pastakia probed, narrowing his eyes.
‘Avi was like an attention seeking kid, doc. He threw tantrums at the drop of a hat. Wanted me with him, twenty-four seven. He was opinionated, like all Bong guys. Buzzing with ideas, conversation, making me respond to each little thing he said. I was literally expected to know his mind, second guess. Avi was so damn different than men his age, in the industry, in particular. Like he couldn’t care less. Had zero sense of style. I would even pick out his clothes and match his shoes, can you imagine? Me! Maya Shirale! He liked the fact that I dominated him…deciding his outfits for the events we had to attend. I taught him to coordinate his look. I advised him to opt for bright colours. Saying black made him appear much too glum. I got him a stylist. Got his hair fashionably cut, his beard trimmed. Avi…he, he’d begun to lose a lot of weight, dull hues tended to make him look even more worn out…like he was having sleepless nights, or something…’ I lit a cigarette.
‘Was Avik having sleepless nights? And were you?’ he looked at me, pointedly.
‘Avi wore me out. He’d fuck me for hours. He loved the doggy thing, especially. In bed, he wanted to be the boss…like he wanted to show me…his mardangi…like he owned my body…like he could not bear to have me out of his sight, for a single second…’ I sighed in a dramatic way, placing my right hand on my cleavage.
‘What went so grossly wrong, then?’ Dr. Pastakia ignored my histrionics.
‘He, he was there, again, doc, standing before me... silently, rain-soaked…as he had that night, his first night, with me, in Mumbai. Looking distraught. H
is clothes dishevelled He was trying to say something. But, but he just couldn’t. His eyes were filled to the brim. He hadn’t shaved…“I’m sorry…sorry for what happened to us,” I whimpered. Reaching out. He moved away. I, I am saying it, now. Admitting that I was the one to blame. I was weak. Weaker. I shouldn’t have…’
‘Shouldn’t have what, Maya?’ Dr. Pastakia, cut me short, dragging his chair closer to mine.
‘I betrayed Amitabh, doc, it was probably deliberate, looking back, now. Oh God…oh God…how can I ever forgive myself? For what my actions did to Amitabh, all those years ago? Oh God…what have I done? I would’ve told Avi everything, too, one day, trust me,’ I broke down.
My body was wracked with sobs: ‘It’s just that I feel so dead inside, especially after Amitabh died. That’s why I stepped out of that Nadiadwala big budget project. I just couldn’t do it, the same gig, mouth the same old lines, sing, dance, strut my body on screen, do sleazy item songs, starve myself, have one surgery after another, hold on to my youth, play second fiddle to some womanizing, Botoxed, 50-plus leading man who would manipulate the script, as usual.
‘You know when I joined films, I broke Amitabh’s heart in two ways: first by signing my first film Ishq and second, by signing it with RK Chopra, the reigning movie mogul…it was the late 80s; it’s why we fought like cats and dogs. Screaming at each other. Hurting each other, on purpose…Oh Amitabh…’ the tears flowed silently, unstoppably.
‘“RK! You were with RK all this while…you lied to me” Amitabh gasped, narrowing his eyes.
‘“Yes, yes, I said yes to RK Chopra, Goddammit! I need the money…we, we need the damn money, Amitabh! How do you think we’ve been surviving a city as exorbitantly expensive as Mumbai, all this while, huh? Who has been bearing the brunt of this relationship, you think? Why are most producers suddenly so wary to even cast me as an extra? Why don’t their assistants ever answer my call? You…it’s all your fault! You’re God to most of these folks…people worship Amitabh Kulasheshtra, everywhere. They think he can do no wrong. And so what does that make me, huh? A mistake. An indiscretion. An error of judgment…like your wife has publicly declared…I am not dead, Amitabh. You hear me? And, and I’m not Maya, either…she’s the dead one. A dead daughter you could never bury, both Aiyee and you, even as I paid the price for a loss that wasn’t mine. Leaving Pune, theatre…a city I was born in…a life I had…just so that you both could live happily…after…’
‘“RK can never do justice to your talent…he’s just taking advantage of the fact that you are an out-of-work struggler…” Amitabh had clenched his jaws, cutting me short.
‘“What talent? Hai kya mere pass…jo aur kissi abhinetri ke pass nahin hai? Why I should wait for your magnum opus to finally materialize? Talent, talent, talent…is that all you got? One play…you gave me one great role, Amitabh. That’s all! How long can I survive on the glory of one memorable performance? How long?” I screamed, choking. “Someday, you will know what you are worth, and, how you have failed yourself, more than anyone, Maya…” Amitabh bent down to kiss my palms. “Don’t touch me, don’t you dare…” I pulled away. Amitabh looked up, his face dark. “Has RK slept with you, Maya?” he questioned, pointing his finger at my eyes. “It all boils down to that, doesn’t it? Just like that newspaper interview. Even for the great Amitabh Kulasheshtra…ultimately you reduce me to what every man has…like, like my father…” my lips quivered with impotent rage. “Answer the question, Maya,” Amitabh grabbed my shoulders. I shoved him away, violently. “If you have the guts, go ask your Sarlu that same question…RK told me all about them, also. Said you guys go back a long way, and that, that Aiyee was the first woman he, he ever…” I couldn’t complete the rest. “You…how dare you?” Amitabh had slapped me hard.’
‘Slow down, Maya, you’re not making sense. Is it Avik Dasgupta we are talking about, or Amitabh?’
I ignored my shrink’s question; as if transported back in time:
‘Amitabh – who hated cinema, mind you,’ I wiped my eyes, wrapping my arms around myself, ‘promised that he was writing a film script for me! He was desperate to hold on to me, you see. Said he’d produce it himself, if the need arose. Put in all his money. His last futi kauri. He hugged me hard, making me swear I wouldn’t ever act in commercial movies that he believed were no platform for my talent. He even visited some financiers, I heard later. I wanted to believe Amitabh, but, but, I was restless, doc. I knew he was penniless, refusing to touch the joint account he shared with his wife. Somewhere, I began to suspect his lofty intentions, after a point, especially after Aiyee discovered my letter to him. Finding it under his pillow, after Amitabh followed me all the way to Mumbai from Pune. For months, we lived together in a dingy, one-room chawl, in Kalyan. Aiyee made up the allegations…creating a whole new story, accusing me of breaking her home, branding me a home-wrecker in Samna, the Marathi newspaper…Amitabh too was stunned with the cooked-up story, knowing fully well that nothing had transpired between us, until he came searching for me, to this city, many months later. But, Sarla Kulasheshtra’s confession naturally got the gossip circles activated. Till then, no one had really known for sure if Amitabh Kulasheshtra had actually moved to Mumbai…but everything changed after that one breaking story…as it was translated into almost every leading national daily and film magazine. That led to us…I mean…it was also the times, doc, there was no money…at home…no parts in films…no future…’
‘I can’t believe how you’ve never brought all this up before, Maya, I thought this was about Avik. His marriage…’ Dr. Pastakia pressed his hand over mine lightly, his face creased.
‘I thought so too, doc, until,…until last night. Avik called me, again. I didn’t take his call…’ I couldn’t complete the rest of the sentence.
Dr. Pastakia tried saying something.
‘He has got hold of Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s last play…a play on his life with Sarla…and…and he wants me to enact the role! Me! Me as Sarla? I mean, what do I make of it, doc? Me as Aiyee?’
Dr. Pastakia listened in stunned silence. Templing his fingers as he analysed my problem: ‘I see a distinct pattern, Maya…’ he shut his notebook, getting up from his chair. ‘It seems to me that you are to blame for pushing them both away. Something you have done with possibly every person in your life. Punishing them for loving you, in some measure. Because you feel you are unworthy; because you can’t bring yourself to forgive yourself; because you’re guilt-ridden about your past, the way you ran away from Kulasheshtra’s home, uncannily similar to how you left your own, one night, scribbling a letter for your mother, who you never saw after that day, right?
‘Maybe, you playing the role of Sarla will be cathartic; you will see that the two of you are not that different, after all, Maya. That a woman like Sarla, whom you idolized, and a woman like you, whom you hate, are after all victims of a self-punishing gaze, of endless guilt and slow-moving regrets. Maybe that’s what Amitabh wanted to tell you.’
I took a lengthy drag of my cigarette, closing my eyes.
‘Your relationship with Mrs. Sarla Kulasheshtra…that newspaper piece in Samna…it seems to me that you held yourself accountable for what happened, after that night in their Pune home, the one she supposedly fabricated…you probably felt you had actually let her down by being the “other woman” in the marriage…something she may have only suspected the time she discovered you in Kulasheshtra’s room…’
I exhaled, meeting his eyes.
‘You have never really opened up about your mother, and her, in the past, Maya…and, so, I cannot help but surmise that maybe the late Amitabh Kulasheshtra, and Maya Shirale were nothing but mirror reflections…two people running away from love…who felt they were incapable of being loved…running headlong into each other…’
I slipped my trainers back on, and fumbled inside my handbag.
‘Is that what is really haunting you, Maya?’ Dr. Pastakia wiped his face, adding slowly, ‘Are these recent hall
ucinations about Amitabh and these disturbing flashbacks from your past…the real cause of your disorientation…your desperation to talk to me…or is there more, Maya?’
‘I don’t know…’ I murmured.
‘What if you are actually searching for someone else, Maya? What if you always were? The real reason for that last fight? Why did you never try reconnecting with Kulasheshtra, either, post that? Or Avik Dasgupta, for that matter, after he stormed out of your apartment? If that is what scared you the most when he died…why couldn’t you go on acting, anymore? What if Amitabh Kulasheshtra was coming back to Mumbai, as was speculated at the time of his death? What if Aiyee was right? What if you had just not broken a woman’s home…but her heart? What if Avik Dasgupta and your fall-out with him is a mere symptom?’
Dr. Pastakia’s words echoed in my ears as Alam drove me home. What if my resistance to change and my innate non-conformism, were, in fact, a result of my own, deep-seated fears; my self-loathing?
Did Avi know all along that I could never love him back with the same desperate fierceness that he had loved me? Was that why he never called me or bothered to find out if I was repentant for the way things panned out? I never knew if Avi regretted trying to raise his hand on me during our last argument.
I placed my head on the backseat of the car, studying the shape of Alam’s broad shoulders. One afternoon, a month after he had walked out of my apartment, Alam rang, saying Avi had sent his assistant Shirish to collect his things from my house. I told Alam to help him empty out all the cupboards. Together, they arranged Avi’s belongings into three large suitcases. When Shirish left, I asked Alam to call Avi and tell him that now nothing of his remained.
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