Avi never answered. Later, he sent Alam a text. ‘Cool,’ was all it said.
And so I felt nothing when I decided to sell my Peddar Road penthouse, despite having painstakingly decorated the flat together with Avi, each corner bearing my personal touch, and moved into a more modest residence in Lokhandwala.
Frankly, all I wanted was to escape the last memory of us.
Amitabh’s sudden death, our subsequent breakup, my dependence on drinking and drugs, the violent mood swings they caused, had led to many burnt bridges, causing directors to be wary of working with me; the court case with the Nadiadwala’s and Lux – from whose big budget film and much sought-after ad campaign, respectively, I had pulled out, at approximately the same time and that were both, finally settled out of Court, had caused me staggering financial losses. However, unlike in the past, this time I wasn’t interested in plunging headlong into mainstream cinema, taking up just about any role to build back my bank balance; of course, it wasn’t like plum roles were falling into my lap in any case, either. At thirty-eight my career as a ‘heroine’ was practically over.
I wasn’t really lying to Dr. Pastakia; nothing felt the same after June 10, 2002, somehow. Not just script-reading sessions, I don’t remember, how many movie projects that I had agreed to be a part of and expressed interest in, I now obstinately backed out of. Even as the movie deals dried up, I refused to dance at the high-profile weddings of the children of industrialists and politicians, held at exotic foreign locations, or to be a part of overseas stageshows and brand-endorsements – avenues most commonly used by yesteryears actresses, who either get married and leave the industry, or, take a sabbatical to become a mother, or, are simply wiped away, thanks to their back-to-back flops.
My adversaries laughed at my failure behind my back. I had never been a part of any camp in the past. It was payback time. Speculation was rife on why and how I had become a recluse, after 2002. Movie critics blamed my recklessness and trademark don’t-care-a-damn attitude. Tabloid editors speculated on my current relationship status. There were rumours I was marrying a Sheikh in Abu Dhabi. That he had made me change my religion…my name…paparazzi traced down a woman in a hijab, alleging it was me they had spotted in a mall in Sharjah.
My trusted astrologers, the famous Jumani brothers, pointed out that my Mangal and Shani dasha were seriously messed up. Leading men sniggered about my fall from grace at premieres and mahurats. Some I had slept with; others, who weren’t able to get into bed with me, tried their luck, now. ‘Movie offers nahin, toh kam se kam, apna sex drive ko toh healthy rakkha karo…’ one of them audaciously texted, once, going on to crib about how his divorce had cost him a bomb.
I never returned calls or answered mails, till my mailbox was spilling over, forcing Alam to make the same excuses for me, time after time. A part of me knew that this was sheer professional hara-kiri, that a woman, above the age of 35, no matter what her past box-office track record had been, could not afford such aloofness in our trade, that placed the highest premium on a heroine’s age and networking skills. I was aware there were a dime-a-dozen, younger, prettier, more talented actresses, ready to fill my shoes, have no qualms about sleeping around for a break, willingly play second fiddle to a famous hero, say yes to starving herself to death just to bag the coveted position of a heroine…to be the next Maya Shirale…
And so, just like that, I had watched, almost in third person, as the last couple of years of my life slipped out of my fingers. My erratic lifestyle, my unlimited extravagance, my hunger for diamonds, single malt, the occasional cocaine, and, imported cars finally got the better of me, as everyone whom I had rejected or not bothered giving a second glance, had predicted, at some point, or the other. I had anyway used most of my addictions to fill one kind of abyss, subconsciously knowing that they would consume me, eventually, like a lethal slow poison.
My bank accounts were depleted one by one. I was forced to let go of most of my cars and real estate investments. I pawned most of my jewellery next – my fate sinking to no better than the lowliest of Bollywood starlets. I had lived my life on the edge, since the time I had started out, but, now, I was close to being pushed off the brink.
Till, one day, two weeks before I had met Dr. Pastrakia, I received an unexpected call from a TV dance show.
‘Your career is not yet over,’ Rosy had snatched the phone away from my hands, scrutinizing the number that flashed on the screen.
‘Career nahi, Rosy, jawani…’ I unzipped a short, lace dress.
‘Anubhuti Productions has bought the rights to this show…aap ko pata bhi hai kuch, aaj kal?’ she hissed, handing me a wet tissue a few minutes later, muttering angrily to herself, ‘AD sahib owns the company now. All these men are the same, madam. Raat gayi, baat gayi…’
In my absence, and mostly behind my back, Rosy, my hairdresser and make-up person, had called Avi, in the initial months of our separation, especially during spells when I remained untraceable. Occasionally, Avi’s cell-phone was answered by someone else, claiming he was either in a meeting or on location.
‘Go home, Rosy…your daughter is waiting for you…’ I had cut her short, continuing in a cold voice before she could add another word, ‘I know this is your pent-up anger against Avi talking. But they are paying me a whopping fifty lakhs upfront, understand? Two years…do season ka contract hai. It’s not an offer I can afford to ignore…’
‘You shouldn't have agreed so easil…Maya Shirale ka ghamand hi usska pet palti hai,’ Rosy made a face, handing me over a change of clothes.
I lit a cigarette.
‘Madam, I am more savvy than you in these matters…wohich AD, unhone hi aap ko aur zalil karne ke liye itni badi rakam offer kiya hoga…he wants to humiliate you…’ she bit her lip, looking away in anger.
I remember staring at her reflection in the floor-length mirror, replaying the conversation I had just concluded. The way I had gushed on the phone, as if overcome with gratitude. As if, I was hungry, all over again…‘Haan, mein hi hun, Maya Shirale. You have dialled the right number. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to judge Dhak Dhak India, India’s biggest dance reality show on Sony Television.’
‘Dance is my lifeline, like television,’ I had said in the fake, bright, super-excited way expected of TV show panellists when my name was announced and I strutted on to the revolving stage of a Goregaon studio, surrounded with psychedelic laser lights and flabby extras, holding cheery pompoms, sporting outlandish costumes from my past hit films…supposedly my lookalikes.
I waved at them, widening my eyes, feeling the stiffness of my lashes. Fighting the suffocation of a heavily embellished, satin gown with a silk lining, with a sweeping feathery trail.
As the camera zoomed in on my cleavage, my thoughts travelled back to how I had superciliously rejected offers to host shows on television in the past, laughing when top channel heads narrated stories of superstars such as Mr. Bachchan reinventing their financial fortunes via this medium: ‘I am not a yummy mummy yet…like that Madhuri Desai who returned with her engineer husband after bidding tata bye bye to showbiz…to then star in ads for water purifiers…Maya Shirale ke passport aur taqdeer pay, abhi expiry date ka thappa nahin laga hai…’ used to be my pet line.
I took a deep breath.
In my heart, I had known Rosy was right. That she had been right, all along.
‘Television to me is about selling big dreams on the small screen. It’s why, why I am here. The reason we brought this show to India, to make the aspirations of a billion people a reality. Presenting before you, Indian television’s most awaited reality dance show, Dhak Dhak India,’ a voice had thundered from behind me as I swerved, nervously.
‘Dhak dhak karta hai mera dil,’ the two-bit anchor crooned, making moaning sounds.
‘Miss Maya Shirale, ladies and gentlemen. What an absolute honour to have you back, with us. The Maya Shirale, for the first time, on primetime television, on none other than Dhak Dhak India. And seen her
e, after two years, close friend, and acclaimed director, Mr. Avik Dasgupta…ladies and gentlemen…’
I stared speechless as Avik joined me on stage where the panel of judges was being introduced!
‘Khub jamegi yeh shyam, jab mil baithenge itne saare purane yaar, dost, itne bade bade fankar…bahut rang layegi…Dhak Dhak India…ladies and gentlemen…’ the co-anchor, a popular face on television, quipped, her high-pitched voice echoing ominously as the studio audience laughed on cue.
‘Shukriya, thanks Mr. Dasgupta and Sony Entertainment Television…I mean…Avi….’ I tried looking composed, conscious of the camera panning into my face.
I had stormed off the set, as soon as the promo recording had concluded.
Avik had followed me to my vanity van.
I had not seen him in a year.
‘I’m sorry, Maya. I didn’t want to be a part of the shoot today. I’d even told my guys to keep it from you, that it was my production company that had bought the India rights of this show. It was my fault, Maya, and you have every right to be pissed off seeing me, all of a sudden, that too, on camera. I know you hate surprises,’ AD had grabbed my right arm, banging the door shut, when I held it open, requesting him to leave.
‘Anubhuti Productions was a dead fucking giveaway,’ I remarked sarcastically, asking one of the production team assistants who was waiting with next week’s shooting schedule, to leave us, alone, locking the door.
‘Look, the truth was, I mean is, Peddar Road ka ghar nilam ho gaya hai, and, that bloody settlement with the Nadiadwala Brothers…the last few years…I haven’t done anything…nothing interests me…I, I needed the advance money to stay afloat. All these people, my staff, the few I actually still have left…Alam, Rosy…their whole lives depend on how much I make at the end of the month,’ I shot Avi a sideways glance.
‘Maya…’ Avi tried to cut in.
‘Don’t, Avi, I don’t want any man to patronize me, least of all you. And, do me a favour, will you? Don’t blame yourself for us meeting this way…I am not used to this weird distance between us…it was what probably made me go blank, initially…during the formal introductions…being referred to as close friend,’ I added, somewhat tongue-tied, still.
‘Maya, trust me on this, I couldn’t be happier that you are putting yourself out there, again. The camera has missed you, and how,’ Avi said passionately, standing behind me.
‘I know what you are going to say, okay. You’re a big guy, now, in this business. And, I am happy…it’s what you’ve wanted all along, right? The acceptance, the fame, the money, your brand of commercial cinema that was noir and dark at the same time, that was populist and cerebral at the same time, and now your foray into television, with the hope of changing the rules, once again. Anubhuti Productions!’ I widened my eyes, adding impatiently as I shrugged his hands off me, “Buzz!” Isn’t that what you used to say your career lacked, back when we met? I still remember that word. It was your thing. I’m glad life rewarded you with everything you ever aspired for. Makes you one of the lucky ones, I suppose. Ab toh tum producer sahib bhi ban gaaye ho…Maya, Maya Shirale tumhare isharon pein nachne wali hai…khush? Dil abhi bhara nahin, kya?’
‘Still have that badass humour. At least, something’s stay the same,’ Avi broke into a wry smile.
‘Still think of me, kiddo, sometimes?’ I clicked my tongue.
‘Every day, every, single fucking day…’ Avi breathed hard.
‘Avi, relax, you don’t have to be politically correct, off camera, anyway. I have dinner plans,’ I unclipped my hair extensions.
‘Cut the crap, Maya,’ Avi ordered, pulling a file from the satchel he was carrying, ‘take this, and, read it, okay. I leave tonight for L.A…my flight leaves in a couple of hours from now.’
‘Kya hai yeh, Avi? Script? A new film you’re directing? A TV serial, huh, this time?’ I sniggered, throwing the file on his chest.
Avi pressed his hand over mine.
‘I’m getting back to the stage. To do what I’ve always wanted, back to source…I am all set to direct my first play. Theatre has always been my thing, Maya…the reason behind me trying so hard to gain admission into the coveted National Centre of Drama…it’s probably, why I’m even here, today, this city, Mumbai…even us, in some way,’ his eyes glinted fiercely, his face flushed.
‘What we shared is behind us, officially,’ I cut him short, gesturing to the platinum wedding band on his left ring finger. ‘Besides, what’s with this sudden passion to return to theatre?’
‘This is about us, Maya…’ Avi took a deep breath.
‘Avik Dasgupta, if this play is a means to come to terms with your residual guilt…of, of sleeping with an older heroine, using her fame and contacts, royally, as some alleged you did…what we both had, once, the way you just walked out of my life, never bothering to call or text, even when the Press was throwing muck at me…of getting back, getting even with me?’ I coughed.
‘There is nothing left to settle,’ Avi touched my shoulder.
‘Left to save, then, maybe? Your bruised ego? Your male pride? You know how much I have kicked myself about hurting you…you think it was easy for me to let you go, after the way you chose to finish our relationship? You think you can always walk away being the nice guy…Avi…’ I choked.
‘I was saving no one, Maya. I can’t. It’s what I realized after leaving you. We can’t save each other, Maya…finding love doesn’t save anyone,’ Avi settled a stray strand covering my left eye.
‘Avi…don’t…please…not now…’ I shuddered, weakened by his touch.
Rosy was outside, banging on the locked door.
‘Maya, Maya, look at me, once,’ Avi pulled up my chin, staring urgently into my eyes, ‘Maya, promise me you will read this script. It’s Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s last script; the one he was writing all those years holed up in Pune; his curtain call.’
RK CHOPRA
I was sitting near a large window, sipping slowly on a glass of single malt, alone. It was my last bottle picked up from my last overseas trip. Before the raids. Before my offices were sealed. I watched through the hotel window as aeroplanes took off and landed. A part of me had longed to fly down to Pune every day since Amitabh had died two years ago. But the case dragged on and on and I was constantly scuttling residences, and being advised to lie low, till we had bought some more time. I wanted nothing more than to drive straight to Banno’s residence…to ask if she had read the manuscript that I had had specially hand-delivered. Risking joining hands with Chotta Shamim, Bhai’s sworn enemy, to lay my hands on the whopping funds I knew Amol Rawat would never refuse…to procure it just for her. I wanted to know if Banno had known it was really from me. If she resented the intrusion or saw it as a gesture worth appreciating – whether to her it was an act of cowardice or courage.
How would she react if she knew that I had sweet-talked Rawat, literally winning him over, dazzling him with black money accrued from illegitimate sources to get the cloth bag retrieved? Convinced him that Amitabh’s last material posession should be returned to his grieving window, at the earliest – how that would be the best way to her being silenced, forever, in a sense. Making up something about rumours I had supposedly heard about the Malegaon case being reopened. Citing the example of Prakash Lele’s daughter and how she had been bought out, in the end.
Rawat had looked stunned when I told him the amount I was ready to shelve out.
‘Bahut khas dosti thi, kya? Was he a special friend?’ he had asked, picking his teeth.
I stuffed a tikka kebab inside my mouth.
‘Kuch aisa hi samajh lo…’ I replied, winking at my lawyers.
Mahesh and Jayant had been livid how a discussion that was supposed to be about my pending cases, had suddenly veered towards Amitabh Kulasheshtra.
Rawat had a large mole on his nose. He wore a popat topi and white, open sandals.
‘Yeh Sarlaji kya karti hain, aaj kal, din bhar? Buddha toh gaya…’ he shot me a c
ursory glance, as he pushed back his chair.
‘Kal…mein khud aunga lene…yaad hai na?’ I got up at the same time, my hands folded in a gratuitous Namaste.
One of Rawat’s men pushed me back in my chair.
‘Nahin…’ Rawat swerved.
Then before my lawyers could react, he retorted, ‘My driver will have it hand delivered to your address. Khush?’
I waved again.
It was how the meeting had culminated.
‘You blew your chance, RK! What was all this about, all of a sudden? We were supposed to get your case scuttled and instead you settle for an old cloth bag?’ Mahesh frowned, unable to mask his irritation at his client as I sat beside him, in his swanky new Merc.
I closed my eyes.
‘Koi aur mantri mil jayega…koi aur party…besides, Rawat likes me…I can always tell such things…’ I muttered.
Mahesh started the engine, shrugging his shoulders, like he had trouble believing me.
From the back seat, Jayant too eyed me suspiciously.
The cell-phone now lying next to me beeped loudly.
‘RK?’
‘AD? Is that you?’
‘Yes, it’s Avik Dasgupta…’
‘Bol puttar…kaise…meri yaad aayi tujhe…’ I pressed my lips closer to the speaker.
‘You knew Sarla Kulasheshtra, right?’
‘What has knowing Sarla got to do with anything, puttar? I am a finished man. My production house is bust. My houses all mortgaged by the behnchod bank. My son Monty, Ma ka…never mind…I am living in Andheri these days, in a downmarket service apartment, was forced to leave Hyatt, the haramkhor daru burnt a hole in my pocket, anyway, I, I am desperately trying to restart my career in some way, AD, dabble in television, maybe…’ I laughed nervously.
‘Did you love her, RK?’
‘What?’
‘Will you be interested in associating yourself with a play?’ My mind was racing. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that Banno would actually reach out to AD with Amitabh’s script. But the moment I thought about it, I had to hand it to her. Her instinct was spot-on as always. AD was the perfect director to entrust this venture to. If anyone was the new generation Amitabh, it had to be Avik Dasgupta.
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