Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  But Rishi Kapoor was now in the audience, looking jolly, well-fed and handsome, while she was stashed in the so-called ‘Green room’ waiting her turn to stride onto the stage and gift the Best Actress Award to Kavita Vohra for her role as a blind piano teacher in Purgatory. Purga-what? What kind of movie title was that? Yet another sign the industry was leaving her behind. More and more movie titles were in English. The trend had started with Black and 3 Idiots, followed by Hinglish crap like Love Chaat, Ladies vs Ricky Bahl, Double Dhamaal, Mere Brother ki Dulhan, Break ke Baad and others too numerous to remember. And now Purgatory. She dreaded having to say the word.

  ‘It’s not par-ghat-ori,’ Bindu had said, wearily.

  She’d practised saying it the correct way with Bindu a dozen times, but come the moment, who knew what she would blurt?

  Still, in the list of unavoidable interactions, at least she didn’t have to include General Dorabjee for now. The uniformed father of all unavoidable interactions was still busy dealing with the aftermath of the assassination attempt. Dorabjee’s school friend had been part of the collateral damage and consistent with the selective conscience of villains, the General had wanted her sympathy, overlook the exact same grief he must have visited on others. Then he had become vengeful.

  ‘I’ll show them what’s what. I’ll smash the nest of vipers who did this and nail their hides to the wall. Phiroz was dear to me.’

  When she’d heard of the assassination attempt, she’d gone almost mad with joy.

  First, disbelief. Mir was in Mumbai but she’d had Bindu call him up on Skype. Was the General dead? Mir, was he truly dead?

  ‘My sources tell me he is truly dead.’ A smile wriggled around Mir’s lips. ‘Of course, they’ll suppress it for now. But the unofficial word is that he’s dead. Shot in the gut and then the head. A Russian pistol. A Maoist assassin, it seems. He died very painfully, my sources say. Dearest, why are you taking off your clothes?’

  Second, ecstasy. She was too high, too much on edge, she needed to calm down. She had Bindu service her as Mir watched. But it hadn’t really worked. For some reason, physical presence was essential for the kind of thing Mir liked, and Skype was an unwelcome witness. When she orgasmed, she glanced at Mir and his absent-minded expression told her he’d most probably been thinking of something else. But she was too happy to care.

  Third, music. Loud, noisy, boozy Hard Kaur. Oh, she loved the bitch! So she’d called Kaur up and told the surprised rockstar exactly that. Sister, sister; kiss, kiss. Must meet.

  Fourth, she’d got a massage, showered, eaten lunch, and then slept.

  Oh, what a sleep.

  Fifth, there had been a call from Darius, an Irani guy who introduced himself by saying he was now in charge of the General’s security. The General was fine, she was not to worry. General Dorabjee would call as soon as he had taken care of a few things. The perpetrators would be brought to justice.

  But her security needed to be enhanced. As the General’s—Cyrus hesitated—companion, she was at risk. She had been assigned an experienced, discreet, and reliable woman name Bilkis Ansari to manage her security. Her own security wouldn’t be displaced, they would simply answer to Ansari.

  Saya would have protested but the name struck a chord. Bilkis Ansari? She had known a Bilkis Ansari. Somehow the name commuted the crushing disappointment she had felt at the General’s escape.

  And when Bilkis had walked in a few days later accompanied by Cyrus, Saya had known without a doubt that this large gentle-faced woman was indeed her Bilkis. She’d leapt out of her chair, embraced the startled bodyguard.

  ‘This had to happen,’ said Saya, over and over. ‘I knew this would happen some day. Don’t you remember me, Bilkis! We were at the same madrasa.’

  ‘In Chandni Chowk?’ Bilkis was staring at her, incredulous, as if trying to will a recognition. ‘Jehan? Jahanara?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Saya had lived in Chandni Chowk. She was determined not to let go of the possibility. ‘I’m Jehan, who else!’

  ‘This is like a movie!’ Bilkis had burst out and the resulting laughter had slithered into the missing details and sealed all doubt.

  ‘It is time, madam.’ The program director handed her an envelope. Razia did a final inspection. Daub, pat, wipe.

  ‘Leave her be,’ said the director, impatiently. ‘Saya-ji, you look like a million dollars.’

  I’d better, thought Saya. She had spent a fortune on the evening’s outfit. As always, the world inflated to encompass the audience and the stage, crowding out the sadness, the worries, the detritus of yesterdays. She felt neither happy nor sad, neither cocky nor worried, neither here nor there, neither in nor out. To be on stage was to be. She strode onto the stage from the right, acknowledged the applause with a smile, pecked Ilam Khan on the cheek.

  Flash. Pop. Whirr.

  Ilam reached for the envelope, she play-slapped his hand. Oh, how the audience loved it, how they roared. The award for best actress goes to: Kavita Vohra for her performance in—smile, let Ilam Khan lean forward, just behind her, his head close to hers, let him finish the sentence—Purgatory.

  Mumtaz 2.0 climbed onto the stage. A hug for Ilam Khan. Kiss-kiss, a whiff of sweat. Why, the poor girl was shaking with nervousness.

  ‘Relax yaar,’ whispered Saya.

  ‘Thank you Saya-ji, thank you, thank you.’

  Kavita’s nervousness was understandable. The first acknowledgment of arrival was always a doozy. Better than sex. Better than love. Better than every other award that would follow. Life would never again get as sweet, as intoxicating, as full of ras as this moment. Did the teenager know this was the high point of her career?

  ‘How was I?’ she asked Bilkis, as they returned to the green room.

  ‘I was looking at the crowd,’ said her friend, uncomfortably. ‘Sorry. My job, you know. Keeping you safe.’

  ‘Yes, yes. My job too.’ She laughed, glancing at Bilkis to see if her friend realized it had been a joke. She didn’t remember Bilkis being so serious.

  As Bilkis opened the door to the green room, Saya thought it was time to retire. But then her mind shrank from the decrepit word. Never. Never, never, never. It was too late to quit. Ordinary people could retire. Their existence didn’t depend on being seen. They continued to exist. But her kind, the unbelievably famous, they were different. They didn’t have bodies, not really. They became all surface, bereft of volume. As she had told Razia, the fine clothes were all; there was no woman underneath. What was the use of a mannequin if it wasn’t being stared at?

  She let Bindu settle her into the chair, fan her gently as she rested. She had one more award presentation, but it was some thirty minutes further into the song-and-dance. She knew she should go hang out with her co-stars, models, and the rest of the glitterati but she didn’t feel like performing. She closed her eyes, practised the Buddha-breath. Opened her eyes. She noticed Bilkis’ inquiring glance, nodded instinctively—how could one say no to her—before she realized what Bilkis had been asking. That small discrepancy was sufficient for Dodda Gowda to push past Bilkis and hurry towards her. Smiles. Teeth. He looked as he’d always looked: hairy and oily. ‘Saya, Saya, Saya. Wah, what can I say! You’re even lovelier than that fateful day you walked into my office.’ Then he gasped with fright as Bilkis simply lifted him off the floor. ‘Saya! Please!’

  She gestured Bilkis to put the man down. For the first time in her life, Saya felt a measure of safety. Bilkis and she were bound by a telepathic understanding. She blew a kiss at her friend, then glared at Gowda. The director hurriedly ran his fingers through his hair, smoothed his shirt, shot a poisoned look at Bilkis and then his expression morphed into a smile.

  ‘Can you spare a few minutes for an old friend?’

  ‘She can’t,’ said Bindu, also earning a poisoned look from Gowda. ‘She has an interview with Stardust and Femina. You should make an appointment like everybody else.’

  ‘Saya-bebby, please explain to your sta
ff some day that I’m not everybody else. Please explain. Yes?’ Dodda Gowda had already settled his apple-bottom cheeks on the make-up table’s edge. ‘Only a few minutes. Just you and me.’

  Saya nodded to Bindu. ‘I’ll deal with the mediawallahs later. Bilkis, you too please. But stay close.’

  Bilkis insisted on frisking the director, who giggled and twitched as she ran her hands around his crotch.

  ‘I’ll be outside,’ said Bilkis. It was a warning for Gowda.

  Saya observed Bilkis didn’t shut the door all the way. It was comforting to know her friend stood guard at the threshold. She turned to the director. Gowda was staring at her with a familiar hunger. Eyes bulging, quietly wheezing, as still as a reptile, his mind’s 70mm camera recording every sweaty pore on her skin for a later self-abuse session in slow motion. He had never bothered to hide his lust. Perhaps he thought she’d find it flattering.

  ‘So. What do you want? If you came with an offer why didn’t you make an appointment like Bindu said?’

  ‘I haven’t come with an offer. I have come to ask for your help.’

  ‘Go to hell, Gowda.’

  ‘Now look here, Saya-bebby. We tease each other all the time, but I’m in real trouble this time. The Lokshakti is after me and I don’t have too many options. I am a desperate man.’

  ‘Then why come here of all places? You must have been recognized.’

  ‘The best place to hide a zebra is among other zebras. I’m rich and famous, I belong with the rich and famous. I am worried, yes, but I am not a coward. I’m totally innocent. I have done nothing wrong. Just minor things. I’m a human being, God knows. However, thank you for your concern. I will be careful.’ Dodda acquired that dignified expression unique to the gentleman groper. ‘I can take care of myself. But I’m thinking about Mir. We have to protect him. We can’t let the Lokshakti use me to get to him.’

  ‘Mir? How is he involved? Tell me what you want, Gowda? Is this about money?’

  ‘Money!’ Dodda Gowda sat up. ‘Saya-bebby, so you’ve forgotten who made you—’

  ‘You did nothing, bhenchod. Don’t insult my intelligence or I will show you who I can be when I’m not acting. How is Mir involved?’

  ‘Please don’t get angry, bebby! It’s because of this nuisance, the Director of Cultural Affairs, Vyas. He’s after my blood because of the movie we made. Ajaya.’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘Durga-ji’s PA, Shabari. She has a certain affection for me. This fellow Vyas went to question her. Because of your association with the General, they want to make everything in your past is clean-clean. Now he wants me for questioning.’

  ‘So go answer his questions.’

  ‘And never come back?’ Dodda Gowda twitched with irritation. ‘We all made the movie together. Why should I take the blame? Arre wah, this is hatyachar. The world has so many problems, and my movie is the pebble in the fucker’s shoe?’

  She was puzzled. Why all this fuss over a decade-old movie? So what if she’d done a nude scene? The movie was an art movie, so it was okay. It had been erotic and that too subliminal. Gowda had been very clever. People would have to watch closely, very closely, to reconstruct the nude scene from the flashing fragments. And even if they did, what of it? Nudity was just another one of her infinite dresses.

  In the worst case, the movie would be banned, all existing copies destroyed, and a massive fine levied. The Lokshakti harassed the film industry but didn’t go so far as to physically harm anyone. Dodda Gowda would be fined, his movie destroyed. He could easily make a deal. Gowda was a sewer rat. Such rodents didn’t scare easily, so why was he scared?

  ‘I’ve met this fellow Vyas,’ she began. ‘So has Mir. He seems reasonable. He didn’t say anything about Ajaya to us. Anyway, we don’t have anything to hide. It’s just a stupid movie. Why don’t you meet him, explain we were all just having timepass, and that we have no intention of releasing it?’

  ‘I can’t commit to that, how can I commit to that? I make movies to be seen. I have every intention of releasing the movie.’

  ‘Bevkoof, you couldn’t release it ten years ago, how will you release it now?’ Saya shook her head in exasperation. ‘That movie is dead. Be logical; I know that’s hard for your sex, but try. Dodda Gowda, Durga Dhasal is dead. Dead. Despite all his friends, all his good works, all his mass support and all his cleverness, he is dead. What do you think your fate will be if you cross the Lokshakti?’

  ‘Yes, I know very well,’ said Gowda. He placed an imaginary gun to his head, pulled the trigger. Then, extracting a large handkerchief, he mopped his forehead. Please use your influence with the Bawa. Please bebby, you can’t refuse me. I have always worshipped at your temple. I gave you a steady income as a model. I gave you the first break in Kati Shastra. Remember you had wanted the sister’s role and I made you the sister-in-law? Tell me I didn’t change your life. Tell me, and I will cut my throat right here.’

  ‘You didn’t change my life.’ She bit her lip, considering. ‘I should have never done Ajaya. A great story changes you. The Hindus, like the Muslims, no longer wish to change. But Mir and Durga-ji were drunk with the desire to change things. I always knew there would be a reckoning. Best to get it over with, Gowda.’

  ‘I can’t!’ Gowda hesitated. His lips smiled, but his eyes were shifty. She had seen that expression before, knew what it meant. He was going to try opening her buttons another way. ‘This fellow, the movie is just his excuse. Vyas wants to get rid of me. I have some information on him. I can destroy him and he knows it. But it is an opportunity for us.’

  ‘What information?’ Then she changed her mind. ‘No! Wait. I don’t want to know. I want no part of this. You’d better leave.’

  ‘Think, think. We can kill two birds with one arrow. If you were to deliver a traitor to your General, he would be grateful, no? I would be in the clear too. You can tell the General I gave you the information.

  I can’t approach the Bawa myself; he’s too well-protected and I don’t know whether his handlers are in cahoots with Vyas. Yesterday, his department went after Durga. Today it’s me. Tomorrow, who knows? What if your reasonable man takes into his head to go after Mir? Trust me, this information—’

  ‘NO!’

  Bilkis popped her head in. Saya smiled, shook her head. Bilkis withdrew her head. ‘I have no interest in your stupid information or your stupid intrigues. No one will touch Mir as long as I’m alive. Is there anything else?’

  She was amazed by his stupidity. He must be distracted by her presence. Didn’t Gowda realize she had no need for the actual information? What prevented her from going to the General and sharing this conversation? Dorabjee would be appreciative, irrespective of whether there was any truth to the allegation or not. For that matter, what prevented her from going to Vyas?

  ‘I understand, I understand.’ Something collapsed in him. ‘Please bebby, I just want to return things to the way they were. Make beautiful movies. Fuck a lot of women. Make money. Enjoy life. You know me, you know I am not political at all. Please help me. Speak to the General. Call the bastard off my trail. For old time’s sake. For the movie’s sake.’

  She sighed. How could it be a movie if no one would ever get to see it? And even if they did, so what? Movies weren’t like novels. Novels were dangerous. They hung around for centuries. Whereas movies existed at most for a generation. Who cared about the movies from the 30s, 40s or even the 50s? The princess Zubeida Begum Dhanrajgir had acted in the role of Draupadi in 1931; who cared, who remembered? In another fifty years, exactly the same fate would befall the movies from the 60s, 70s and 80s. Even Kubrick and Guru Dutt, whom Gowda worshiped, would be forgotten in time. Pal do pal ka shaayir hoon. There was such bitter honey in Sahir Ludhianvi’s words.

  The wise thing to do was to cut off all links with Dodda Gowda. This was an avoidable interaction. She glanced away from the sweating, defiant, horny director.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Saya, with compa
ssion. ‘Stay out of sight, go underground. Do not contact me again.’

  14

  HE HADN’T KNOWN PHIROZSHAH MISTRY WAS A CHRISTIAN, BUT when he thought about it, Anand concluded he’d always known. He just hadn’t allowed the knowledge to signify. Fuckshaw’s Christmas mail at Brigands, the hymn book tucked under his pillow, the knowledgeable way he held forth on the virtues of rum cake, his relatives’ penchant for suits and frocks, the way he’d crossed his heart when Dora-bai burst into their dorm room declaring Bampot’s naked body had been discovered in the pool.

  Now Fuckshaw was being buried and the fact signified, but it still had an unreal quality, as if the men and women here at the Gurgaon Epiphany Cemetery had gathered to bury another Fuckshaw, somebody else’s schoolmate.

  When Anand arrived at the cemetery, he was escorted to the best seat in the house: by the General’s side, at his right hand, right in front of the two caskets.

  It was a good day to bury the dead. Cotton-ball clouds, blue sky and a sun that Anand’s hungry stomach compared to a perfect golden omelette.

  There were about two hundred people in attendance. It should have been more. Phirozshah Mistry had been the Vice Chancellor of DU after all. But Dorabjee hadn’t wanted the funeral to become a tamasha and had decided to make it a private affair. However, he had invited carefully chosen members of the media; they were on their best behaviour, blank-faced, apologetically intrusive, almost like waiters at a catered event. Anand observed mourners eyeing Dorabjee, that strangely oppressive glance with which people mentally debated whether to approach someone for a favour. The General looked above their heads, past their faces, towards the edges of the gathering rather than its many-eyed core.