Cut

by Sreemoyee Piu Kundu

  ‘Play? AD? Play bola tune, puttar?’ I hammed, raising my voice by several notches.

  ‘You heard me. I want to know if you’ll be interested in being part of a new play, RK?’

  ‘Yaara, I’m bloody broke myself…meri toh gaand…aur gurdan…dono ke upar hi Bhai ne mehengi rakam lagiye huwi hai,’ I tried acting over familiar.

  ‘This is not about the money, RK,’ AD cut me short.

  ‘Phir kya fayeda, puttar? If there is no money…’ I wondered if AD knew anything about Rawat and my underhand dealings. If he was aware that it was I who had actually salvaged Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s last written word. Conning not just the cops, but one of the most notorious ganglords of this city.

  Had Banno made AD call me?

  On her behalf?

  Was this also her idea?

  Just then, there was some disturbance on the line.

  ‘What if I said, the play I’m talking about happens to be penned by none other than Amitabh Kulasheshtra?’ AD resumed after a pause of a few seconds.

  ‘Bhai Jaan? I mean, Amitabh…’ I feigned shock, trying to fight the image of Banno in my arms, at dusk, her lips pressed over mine.

  ‘Cut. It’s called Cut.’

  ‘Cut?’ I repeated, feeling the dead weight of Rawat’s slanted smile, the way he snidely brought up Banno.

  ‘In or out, RK?’ AD sounded dead serious.

  ‘Banno? I mean, Sarla, did, did she ask you to contact me?’ I could no longer camouflage my feelings.

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ he cut me short.

  ‘No, no, AD, you don’t understand. I…I have been trying hard to…I mean…I called Banno…as in, Sarla, recently, again on her land line…you see, I want to talk to her…I need to talk to her, AD…I couldn’t watch her the way I saw her on television when they broke the news of his death…the way she appeared…so pale…completely insignificant, insipid…I failed Banno, AD…not once, but twice…’ I couldn’t bring myself to complete the last sentence.

  ‘Twice?’

  ‘Yes, twice, puttar…there is so much I want to say, to be able to…’ I tried rephrasing myself.

  ‘I don’t believe in second chances, RK,’ AD said abruptly.

  ‘Amitabh didn’t, either…you sound a lot like him, strangely,’ I added, softly.

  ‘As in?’

  ‘Ek ajeeb si bechaini thi Bhai Jaan mein…as if he was searching for something, constantly…like he was always running away…as if the stage was his only refuge…his sanity, his salvation, in a way,’ I spoke slowly, walking towards the unfinished glass of whiskey.

  ‘You mentioned being put up at Andheri, that’s not too far from my office...I will come and see you personally to discuss this further. All I can say now is that I want this project started, as soon as possible, since Maya, too…Maya too may…’ AD went on, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Maya?’

  ‘Maya Shirale,’ he clarified.

  ‘What has she got to do with Cut?’ I frowned.

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Mein samjha nahin?’

  ‘Maya plays the lead role,’ AD replied, tersely.

  ‘Does Banno…Sarla…know about this? Have you talked about casting this magnum opus?’

  ‘It’s her idea; in fact, she insists on it. On only Maya Shirale essaying her role.’

  ‘So, it was Sarla, then, huh?…Why did you suddenly pick up the phone, puttar? I mean…I am a veritable untouchable in this industry now…mera toh number hi aadhe se zyada logon ne block kar ke rakkha hai…chutiye sab saaale…’ I paused, rubbing my eyes.

  There was a long silence. ‘Puttar, you, you there?’ I cleared my throat. ‘Dekh, days are bad and my stars are royally messed up, and I don’t want the production of this play to suffer thanks to my ill-repute. This was after all Bhai Jaan’s last chance…’

  ‘It’s my last chance, too, RK; and yours as well.’ AD said before hanging up.

  MAYA SHIRALE

  Avi was late.

  I was waiting at the coffee shop at Taj Lands End, as pre-decided. My hands trembled as I clutched the script he had handed me a few weeks ago. I hadn’t slept a wink last night, and the night before, nor for many nights now. I checked my phone nervously. Alongside its main narrative about the the complex relationship shared between Aiyee and Amitabh, Cut etched the story of our forbidden love, details of the short relationship that Amitabh and I had been involved in, how it started, the year our paths first crossed in his Pune home, what happened after he followed me to Mumbai, how shattered he still was after the death of his only daughter…

  Cut could easily be considered autobiographical.

  Except, it was not. Cut painted a sweeping, almost cinematic canvas of Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s tumultuous life, and career as seen by Sarla Kulasheshtra. The screenplay commenced on the night Amitabh returned from Mumbai. After our last fight, it had been Aiyee who greeted him, at the gate. Pointing him to the outhouse. It was where he had lived till the morning of his mysterious disappearance. His body being discovered on a train to Mumbai, hours later. Aiyee had identified the corpse.

  Cut brought alive Sarla Kulasheshtra, a woman the world hardly ever saw except during rare public appearances, where she remained aloof, walking silently by his side. Aiyee never interacted much with the media or his troupe members. Never attending any of his plays, either. She remained her husband’s only constant, a consort, a comrade, and, yet, no one had ever heard her voice.

  Her thoughts. Her dreams. Her failures.

  Except Amitabh.

  Cut, a short play in three acts, drew its inspiration from the Kabuki tradition of Japan, an ancient theatrical form, characterized by the stylization of its drama and the elaborate make-up worn by its performers. Its first scene involved a lengthy monologue – a widow refusing to give up wearing colour and erase the vermillion from her forehead – who had supposedly despised her husband, in the time he was alive – it was she who now pieced together his last years. The screenplay, a retrospective of sorts, a heady mix of flashback and fast forward…the present and the past colliding…

  I asked myself again and again why Avi chose me? How he could ever expect me to essay the role of Sarla Kulasheshtra?

  How I could ever do justice to a woman, such as her? Who allowed me to steal her most treasured possession, before making me pay the price?

  Had Aiyee always known Amitabh and I would never make it as man and woman?

  Was Dr. Pastakia right in his assessment about me? And, Amitabh?

  Were we the same, in the end?

  I slowly opened the script. Reading to myself. Running my fingers over the word ‘wife’. Many times…

  Nowhere was Sarla Kulasheshtra’s name spelt out.

  ‘Wife…’ I whispered under my breath, feeling the way I had, the afternoon Aiyee took me in.

  It was what she had called herself.

  It was her title.

  It was her territory.

  I loosened the silk scarf around my neck, looking around me, listlessly. At the opposite table, a young woman, possibly a newbie model or an aspiring actress, showed her portfolio to a man old enough to be her father. His pock-marked face was unusually familiar. I couldn’t quite recall his name, though.

  Our glances intersected briefly.

  I looked away. It was here, in Taj Lands End, that I had met RK Chopra for the first time, when Amitabh and I were living together in Mumbai. Like now, it was about to pour, that evening. The sea unusually tumultuous…

  I had lied to Amitabh. Told him I had to pay the electricity bill. When the truth was the connection had been cut a week ago. There was hardly anything to eat. Amitabh had purchased some bread and a few eggs. He hated eggs. I told him I would return in an hour or so.

  I had begged the landlord for some time to pay last month’s pending rent. My stomach churning when he mentioned noticing a strange man in the house, and how that meant extra water usage…something always in short supply in Mumbai.

  I had n
ever discussed all this with Amitabh. I couldn’t.

  Like the young woman in front of me, I too had kept stealing glances at my wristwatch that time when RK had deliberately kept me waiting, wrapping up a lengthy meeting with his screenplay writers, before he had beckoned to me, clicking his tongue, insisting on me accompanying him up to his suite.

  I had been avoiding RK’s overtures to reach me, ever since I had moved to Mumbai, literally begging me, at times, to come down to his office for a look-test. He had promised that I wouldn’t be put through any harrowing audition.

  ‘So, Miss Mrinalini Shirale, tell me about your buddha ashiq? What is his highness upto these days? Heard he’s knocking on the doors of some financiers…eating humble pie…street plays, over!’ he had poured himself a glass of single malt, before wrapping his hairy arms around my shoulders. I had left my dupatta at home. I sat down quickly with my legs crossed. RK had quite the reputation. All the heroines he was famously known to have discovered, he had first slept with. Staring at me, lust-ridden, playing with a thick, twisted gold chain that dangled around his stubby neck, RK had dialled Room Service and asked me what I wanted to eat.

  ‘Who told you Amitabh and I are together, RK? That, that, my real name…is Mrinalini, and not Maya? Been spying on me? On us?’ I took a tough stand.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ RK had chuckled, scratching his chest, ‘The cat is out of the bag, janeman. Amitabh and you are no longer classified information. Apparently, his wife Sarla Kulasheshtra has finally broken her vow of silence and spilt the beans on your clandestine affair, openly admitting, that it was she who first discovered Kulasheshtra and you together.’ He tapped the newspaper lying folded beside him. ‘So, it is not some inane gossip magazine; this info comes straight from the horse’s mouth. None other than Mrs. Sarla Kulasheshtra who claims that their married life was peaceful until the point you suddenly wandered in, betrayed her trust, and destroyed her ghar ghirhasti.’

  I had grabbed the newspaper and read the article in shocked silence.

  For a while, RK had said nothing. Then refilling his glass, he sidled closer to me on the leather couch, gently rubbing my thigh: ‘Sarla, I know her…she will never forgive you for snatching her husband away from her, Maya; from theatre, from their safe home in Pune…everything he built. Everyone he loved. It’s all over for Kulasheshtra, this time! Saala do takke ka director. Can’t even keep a woman like her satisfied. Sarla – a noble woman, a dutiful daughter, a good wife – who sacrificed her own happiness, her dreams of acting in films…and, you know something else, Maya? I was the only man Sarla ever loved, Yes, me. The one and only RK Chopra who controls half of Bollywood…Sarla and I used to be lovers…’

  ‘Aiyee? And You? Lovers?’ I was taken aback, running my fingers over a picture of Amitabh and her, on the front page.

  ‘Meri baat man lo, jaan,’ RK had pointed at the headlines, adding, snidely: ‘Nobody will offer you a film after Sarla Kulasheshtra’s shocking confession…the way she’s described discovering Amitabh, half-naked with you, after the last day’s performance of Maya in Pune, his head sandwiched between your breasts. Samna is the biggest Marathi daily in the region. It’s bound to be tomorrow’s biggest headline on TV and be played up doubly by the film magazines.’

  I tried saying something, when RK had suddenly grabbed my wrist: ‘Do you have any idea what this article makes you, Maya? How this news will be blown out of proportion? Also, let’s face it; the media has always nursed a love-hate affair with Kulasheshtra. This is everything they need to crucify him, again; this scoop will sell like hot cakes. I mean, haven’t some papers already carried pictures of Kulasheshtra, in an auto, a while ago, speculating he was possibly involved with a struggling actress, rumoured to be living-in with her in a chawl in Kalyan.’

  RK impatiently unbuttoned his polyester shirt. ‘Janeman, jaane tamanna,’ he burped loudly and pulled my chin up, roughly. ‘Can’t you see where all this is finally headed? Tumhara career thhap, finished; even before it has officially started. Listen to me…Maya…meri taraf dekho…accept my proposition to star in my son’s debut feature, Ishq…I'll pay you as much as you want...'

  The girl facing me now pushed back her chair. Like I too had risen up in a huff.

  ‘I’m not scared for him, Maya,’ RK had blocked my way, ‘there’s no love lost between Amitabh and I. In fact, this serves him right. We all get what we deserve. Which is why Maya, Maya Shirale, you musn’t allow this golden opportunity to get away. Let the world see your talent. Kulasheshtra ke pyaar mein phasna asaan hai…nikalna namumkin…’

  I remember thinking of Amitabh just then, standing at the lone window where he watched me go, whenever I left home, alone. The one that overlooked a squalid housing colony at the far end of a dimly lit bylane, dotted with open, filthy drains. Where scrawny, bare-bodied boys played cricket on balmy summer evenings and autorickshaws parked in a haphazard line. Where stray dogs guarded the entrance, baring their fangs at passersby. Where on most days, there was no drinking water.

  Had he read this article in Samna?

  Did Amitabh hate Aiyee?

  Could he ever hate Aiyee?

  ‘I hope you’re not aspiring to become the next Mrs. Kulasheshtra, now?’ RK had laughed, clutching his ugly paunch.

  ‘You’ve changed…’ I murmured, studying Avi when he arrived finally, flopping down on the wicker sofa beside me and ordering an Espresso for himself and a green tea for me. Nodding at the waiter who beamed seeing us together in the same corner we had occupied in the past, facing an azure sea.

  AD wore a black shirt and dark denims. His breath as always reeked of nicotine. He asked for a lighter and an ashtray. Then before I could finish talking, he held up his hands, holding his cigarette between his fingers: ‘I know I have kept the great Maya Shirale waiting, and not the other way round. I am so sorry. I was caught up. But, please, let’s not get into an argument on this. Let’s get straight to the point of why we are here.’

  He took a lengthy drag.

  ‘You’ve changed a lot since the time we stopped seeing each other, Avi. I wanted to say that to you, last time, as well as now. A lot has changed in here too, in this hotel, in this city, this industry. Maybe, I should have listened to Rosy; avoided the damn shoot for the promo of Dhak Dhak India. Running into you was never going to be easy…’ I lightly touched Avi’s tight fist.

  ‘Was running away from me easier, Maya?’

  ‘Avi,’ I dropped my voice, leaning in close: ‘I had no idea your wife has left you. I know you were there when I texted. Your office told me about your sudden Pune trip.’

  Avi pulled back, at once. ‘Reema has gone to visit her folks who live in Pune, and, I was there on work, Maya. Stop drawing useless parallels. Besides, how does the status of my marriage affect you?’

  ‘So, so you’re saying that the grapevine about you…and, and…Reema Karnik are baseless rumours?’

  Avi finished his cigarette. ‘Actually, it’s Mrs. Avik Dasgupta,’ he brought the cup closer to his mouth.

  ‘Is that what you call her, Avi? Is that how you see her?’

  ‘Please, Maya, I don’t wish to dissect my personal life. That’s all. What matters is we got married, when we did, and it’s been a little over a year, so it’s still an adjustment period for both of us, I guess. Besides, every couple squabbles…’

  ‘Are you happy, Avi?’

  ‘Maya, I thought you wanted to meet and discuss my offer on the play.’

  ‘I can’t do it, Avi; I cannot accept your offer on Cut,’ I cleared my throat, looking away at the silhouette of the waves. ‘I just can’t be her…it’s too hard. I’ve really struggled with this script and this decision…but I’m afraid I won’t be able to do justice to the play…’ I confessed slowly, meeting his hard stare.

  ‘Afraid, of just what, Maya? What scares you the most, huh?’

  ‘That it is Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s story. That it is the man we never knew. The poet. The patriarch. The patriot. The p
assenger on a train to Mumbai…I don’t know why, but I feel he’s actually alive, still here, every time I read the scenes, like he’s trying desperately to say something…like Amitabh is not dead,’ my lips quivered.

  The waiter cleared the cups.

  ‘What is he trying to say, Maya? What is Amitabh Kulasheshtra trying to tell you?’ Avi restarted the conversation, staring back in my direction.

  ‘This play; the script you gave me, it feels like Amitabh is attempting to lay bare his own life for the first time. The man he was, not the messiah he was worshipped as; who he loved compared to what he lost, the scars and the secrets…Like this was the last thing he wanted to say…the whole truth, this time…’

  ‘Maya, your instincts as an actor are impeccable, Cut is in fact, Kulasheshtra’s last work…is in reality a play about a woman he wronged…his exile years when he grappled with his own memory and the myth of the man he was once…fighting charges of being labelled a murderer for the Malegaon episode and, at the same time, being accused of being an anti-national. Kulasheshtra’s autumn years, Maya, a different Amitabh than the one we all knew, introspective, conflicted, anguished, abandoned…’ Avi ran his fingers over the script, pulling it out from my hands.

  ‘You know what they all said about him, Avi? That he had begun to lose his mind…that he suffered from Alzheimer’s…that he had forgotten even his name on the train…the way he died…oh, Avi!’ I covered my face.

  Avik walked over to my side of the table, and stood behind me.

  I said: ‘Aiyee…that’s whom Amitabh wrote this for…I know it’s for her. Cut is the story of a man as seen through the eyes of his wife, Avi, not me – his so-called mistress; the silent caregiver, who happened to be his one constant companion; the manner in which they were a whole, again; the cracks in their marriage…and, and, how the light finally got in…’ I exhaled.