by Anil Menon
She had asked for a list of all the employees, interviewed each one, installed new locks, asked for a guard to be stationed at each door, measures which impressed the staff but didn’t endear her to them. There was nothing to be done about the easily breached wall that surrounded the compound. Intruders would have to be stopped inside the compound or inside the house. There wasn’t much rhyme or reason for how money was spent. Simple measures, like motion-sensitive lights, were arbitrarily ruled out, but Vyas could arrange for a black Lexus identical to the one Saya preferred to use. He had also arranged for a duplicate-Saya, some slut with the same height and general profile, but whose awareness that she was expedient made her determined to live her vagina la vida loca. Not only had the duplicate caused havoc in the meat market that was Saya’s household, but her appearance also frightened the actress terribly—weeping fits, trip cancellations, nakhras of every kind—until everyone agreed it was simpler all around to replace the duplicate-Saya with a canvas crash-dummy.
The canvas-Saya greatly appealed to the actress. Sometimes she would insist on bringing the dummy in, giving it a seat at the dinner table, and shriek with laughter as her hijra, Mir Alam Mir, recited dirty love poems to the mostly indifferent dummy.
In her daily report to Vyas, she’d been perfectly frank.
‘Vyas, to be perfectly frank, the woman is mad. Now she wants the dummy to be dressed in the same clothes as her. Can you imagine the hungama every time we go out? It takes three women to dress the dummy. Why Saya couldn’t stand the duplicate but is head over heels in love with this canvas lump is beyond my understanding. At least the duplicate resembled her a little.’
‘Yes, we like to think we’re unique works of art.’ He laughed but it sounded sad, not happy. ‘Listen, today is the muhurat for Love Ka Logic. The General will be there, your actress is going to be more fragile than usual and things may get a little dramatic. I’m counting on you, Bilkis.’
Which was another one of the job’s drawbacks. She hated to fail and to fail her friends was doubly unbearable. Of course Vyas wouldn’t say anything, not to her; he’d simply make other arrangements. Still, she cherished that he’d confided his expectations. He rarely shared his weaknesses. She walked up the flight of stairs, crossed the lawn, towards the outhouse that had been meant for storing garden tools but had been converted into an office. She found her men lounging about, the air thick with Punjabi curses and jokes. A sudden silence as she entered. She went over the day’s itinerary. A muhurat at ten, then a ribbon-cutting ceremony at Josco Jewellers at five, and in the night, a birthday party at Imran Khan’s house. They brightened at the mention of the party. There had been an assassination attempt on the General’s life, she reminded them, so they’d need to stay alert. But. If anything did happen at the muhurat, their first duty was not to the General but to the actress.
‘Sir-ji, nothing will happen to Saya-madam. We will give our lives if necessary.’
‘Very good.’ She nodded, pleased. ‘But she also has engagements tomorrow and will be needing your services, so let us all try to stay alive. I will personally cover Saya-madam.’
Her four men would set up a virtual boundary around Saya that no stranger would be allowed to cross. It required four people, though three would do. She had done several practice runs and was reasonably sure they could block most threats. It wouldn’t stop the kind of inside-the-trust-zone attack that had been used on Dorabjee, but this was where she came in. She would be Saya’s living shield.
She went to check on the goddess. Of the many small rituals that a new assignment entailed, the interactions with Saya made her the most nervous. Saya was apt to go berserk on her slaves, especially the hapless Bindu. Still, the actress had been nothing but pure sugar with her. Saya was constantly attempting to gift clothes, sweets, jewellery, electronic devices, all kinds of shit. And so affectionate! Kisses, hugs, soft booby presses. Sometimes the actress would just sit across from her and stare for long minutes, a small pleased smile playing about her pink-infused, lavender-painted lips. It was impossible to maintain a professional distance when your client had their fair arms around your neck and was whispering all sorts of loving nonsense in your ear. Vyas could laugh but it wasn’t funny. If the tenderness had been truly directed towards her, one could have adjusted, even enjoyed the attention. Who doesn’t appreciate a little tenderness? Everyone appreciates a little tenderness. But when one is just a substitute, merely a convenient receptacle for a ghost, some fantasized childhood friend, then it was definitely nerve-racking. Who knew when the actress would turn?
The actress could be ruthless. Bilkis had heard her turn down the former assistant of a close friend, now dead; the woman who called had a sob story about a diabetic son. ‘I’ve already sold myself for that friendship,’ Saya had said, her voice cold and devoid of all artifice. Instead of begging, you too should find something to sell.
‘Baby misses her friend a lot,’ Bindu had confided. ‘It would help if you didn’t keep reminding her you’re not the Bilkis she knew.’
‘I’m not that Bilkis.’
‘I know. But still. Can’t you go along, for Baby’s sake?’
‘No.’
Bindu hadn’t been offended. On the contrary the demonstration of grit seemed to have aroused a desire for friendship. Bindu would share significant things. She wouldn’t actually share a secret but she intimated she knew secrets. The first couple of times Bilkis had been fooled.
‘Oh, there’s a reason Baby likes lavender.’
‘Why does she like lavender?’
‘Long story, I’ll tell you some other time.’
Bilkis knocked on the large creamy-white door leading to the inner quarters or the zenana as Saya referred to it. Bindu opened the door.
‘She’s not ready, Captain. It’ll be another few minutes.’
Of course. The ‘few minutes’ meant forty minutes. In the three months Bilkis had worked at the madhouse, Saya had been on time for an appointment exactly zero times.
‘I wanted to make sure the schedule hasn’t changed,’ said Bilkis. She liked the sound of ‘captain’. The promotion had taken a long while and she wasn’t sure whether Vyas or merit had played the bigger role in its achievement but both the uncertainty and status were hers to keep.
‘The schedule’s the same. But have you been to a muhurat before—’
‘Is that my donkey?’ Saya’s voice sang out from one of the inner rooms. ‘Send her in. I have a surprise for her.’
Donkey. It was said with a lot of affection, yes, but still. Donkey?
She knew how the actress could get away with it. It was the woman’s beauty. Even General Dorabjee was reduced to coos and breathless squeaks.
‘Baby had a rough night,’ hinted Bindu. ‘Very rough.’
Bilkis knew better than to ask why. The cause could be anything from a pea under seven mattresses to pneumonia from dancing too long in the rain. She managed a sympathetic face and headed for the inner rooms.
First piece of news: the delay was on account of the canvas dummy. A seam had split and the right breast’s stuffing—mottled brown sponge—had begun to show. The dummy lay sprawled on its back on a dressing table, its lower half covered with a quilt, as an old woman in an equally ancient burkha repaired the seam with twine. She was certain the hag had been allowed to stroll in. No one must have given the least thought to security. She scowled at the old woman who returned her glare with one of her own. It said: when your time comes, I will stitch your kafan with equal nonchalance.
Second piece of news: a request.
‘Bilkis, you’re the only friend I can completely trust to kill for me in this whole world. Now listen—’
‘I will not kill for you.’
‘Yes of course, only if it is absolutely necessary. Now listen, the General will be attending the muhurat and that means I have to endure his filthy hands on me for at least two hours. You must not leave me alone. Not one minute, not one second. That will make it easier. W
ill you do that for your poor friend?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Saya’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Sweet, dear, brave, noble Bilkis. Oh, the torture of these many years without you! Don’t you ache to return to those innocent days when you were just you, and I was just I, and we sat talking of the husbands we would ride? Can I borrow your gun?’
In some ways, the actress’s whims and fancies helped protect her. Probability had a hard time sinking its talons into crazy people. Bilkis remembered how at her first security workshop as a cadet, the American expert, supposedly an ex-Secret Service agent but later discovered to be nothing more than an English tourist, a mere accountant, had curled his fingers into the murderous talons of an imaginary eagle.
A few minutes before departure, a mere forty minutes late, the dummy, dressed in a bizarre fashion ensemble complete with a garter belt, was ceremoniously carried into the second car. Saya and Bindu got in the back seat of the first car. Bilkis did a final check, then sat in front next to Jaswant, the driver of the first car. Bilkis notified Intelligence they were on the way, swivelled in her seat to smile at the actress.
‘We will be there in fifteen, twenty minutes. Just sit back and relax.’
‘You never say my name. Why do I always hear a madam at the end of your words?’ She sounded peeved and strangely enough it reminded Bilkis of how Balbir’s army truck had made this grinding sound every time the gearshift got stuck. ‘What have I done to offend you? Tell me Bindu, is this uniformed hunterwalli anything at all like the friend I told you about? My friend was sweetness itself.’
‘Just doing my job.’ Bilkis glanced at Bindu, hoping for some support, but the PA merely smiled ingratiatingly. ‘My priority is to keep you safe.’
‘Keep me safe, keep me safe. The wolf has asked the fox who has asked the hound to keep the hens safe. Your presence is just another ill omen. After all, you appeared shortly after my dream of the furniture movers—’
‘Let’s talk about happier topics,’ said Bindu, then squealed as the actress pinched her savagely. It was all for show; the assistant bore her wounds like love-bites.
‘Interrupt me again and you’ll truly be sorry,’ continued Saya. ‘I’m talking with my ex-friend Bilkis. Listen, I woke up from sleep, disturbed by heavy moving sounds, and I was going to shout at Bindu, when I realized I wasn’t in my bedroom but a hotel room. One of those coffin-like rooms, where every object seems to be aching to release wind. It wasn’t night at all. Or perhaps the room’s lights were on, I don’t remember. There were men dressed in suits, very smart, the kind that reminds you of penguins. They wore stockings over their faces, you know—’ Saya indicated the preferred face-wear of bank robbers everywhere—‘and they were busy moving furniture in my room. Some were carrying chairs and sofas out, others were bringing stuff in. Stuff I needed, stuff that was mine, simply being taken away without permission. They moved in a funny way too. Very precise, in straight lines, almost as if they were dancing. I called out to them, I believe I shouted, but of course I was unable to move and they couldn’t hear me. Now as a security officer, Bilkis, tell me, what does the dream mean? Am I to be violated?’
‘A dream just says it is a dream.’
‘Yes, nobody is interested in other people’s dreams,’ said Saya.
‘I didn’t mean that. I won’t let anything happen to you.’
Saya smiled. ‘Not even Allah can promise us that, beloved. But you’re not an actress so I’ll forgive your lie. You haven’t died a thousand deaths. If you had, you would know: life clumps. You meet a friend. Then you are sure to soon meet several friends. You lose a job. Later, you are certain to be made unhappy in a different way. I had gone for a whole year without signing a movie, and then just after New Year I signed four in a week. Now I am within kissing distance of a man who was almost killed. Life clumps. You do one thing you hate.
Others will follow. I hate muhurats. I hate food on toothpicks. I hate being on display. Why did I agree to any of it, Bindu? Why can’t I only do things I love?’
‘You agreed because there will be lots of cameras and lights and VIPs. You agreed because at the time the producer came to ask, I’d been locked in the dress closet simply for saying Reena Roy had been a better dancer than Hema Malini. You agreed because you are the heroine of this movie. Your absence will be noticed, baby.’
‘The movie will be a flop. I feel it in my bones. My star is sinking. I’ll be reduced to showing my armpits in Bhojpuri movies. Last month, People Magazine listed Kavita Vohra at number seventeen and me at number twenty-four. Twenty-four! I have let down my fans, that is, the few retirees and pensioners that remain. You know the hate mail I received from rickshaw drivers. An Arabian mare ranked below a Hindu mule? I, the reincarnation of Begum Sahiba Jahanara, most beloved offspring of Shah Jahan son of Salim Jahangir son of Abu’l-Fath Jalal ud-din Muhammad Akbar himself; I am ranked below a mongrel like Vohra?’
‘Who cares what People Magazine says,’ said Bindu, fervently. ‘You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. No wonder Allah reincarnated you.’
‘That sounds reasonable. I wonder who my ex-friend Bilkis was in my court. What do you think, Bilkis?’
Bilkis felt the slight constrictions of an impending headache. She regretted ever telling the actress about Jehan. The bitch had no scruples; she had everything and yet still wanted more. Now Jehan had been appropriated into Saya’s past, just one more role the actress had played. Never mind, the day would soon be over. But it was stressful to share a closed space with a nutcase who wanted to eat your memories. Still, the car journey always felt a thousand times longer than the actual event. The event would be a blur of people and potential threats that never materialized. One had no time to think.
‘My worries are of this life,’ said Bilkis. ‘Bindu-ji, how long do you think we will be at Imran Khan’s party? If it will be very late, I’d like to send two of the men home after the muhurat, so they’ll get some time to rest.’
Saya gave no indication she had even heard the question.
‘Don’t worry about the party,’ said Bindu. ‘Take my word for it.’ It was too soon to tell Vyas she wanted a different assignment. He had already done too much for her. In any case, she knew what he’d say. He’d tell her to ‘hang in there.’ Where else was there to hang?
When the car arrived at the shoot, she was pleased to see there was a Black Cat detail waiting. Chalo, at least some things were professional. The commandos pushed back the photographers, opened her door first. Flanked by two bodyguards, she let Saya out. Bindu didn’t matter.
Bilkis walked a few feet before the actress, trying not to stumble on the red-carpeted pathway to the studio. As the fraud American expert had advised, she watched the crowd for the nervous face, the unenthusiastic face, the assassin’s face. Bilkis ran up the few steps, then hesitated as her path was blocked by the heroes posing for the camera. She turned and despite herself found she was unable to take her eyes off the actress. Saya: her face wreathed in a brilliant smile, bare arms spreading away from her waist, her beautiful head acknowledging no one and therefore everyone.
At the entrance, waiting for Saya were her ‘husbands’, the five leading stars of the industry: Rajpal Yadav, Martin, Hrithik and the two Khans, Ilam and Shahrukh. For this masculine overdose, a sari was the cure, and Saya’s Anuradha Vakil turned her into a resplendent butterfly of curves, fair waist, red lips and black hair. Bilkis had heard Saya and Bindu bicker endlessly whether to wear the Anuradha Vakil sari or the flashier Rabani. On both counts, Bindu’s choices felt right. When Saya ascended into the male mix, the five men instinctively reacted with gestures of filmi appreciation. They worshipped, hands framing camera angles, their bodies the vectors of five fingers cradling a flower, from comic Rajpal who fell onto his knees through the amused smile of Ilam to the toughest, Shahrukh Khan, beaming with paternal pride. Perhaps she truly did stun them, perhaps they were just faking it, but the cameras had found their m
oney shot. Whistles, cheers.
‘Your classmate has a genius for the tilism,’ said a voice behind her, and it turned out to be Mir Alam Mir. ‘This pose, it will be printed and reprinted a million times over. Now this moment is a world and it has a history and a future. She has become Love Ka Logic and turned the men into the five Pandavas. Not a word uttered and yet here is the whole movie.’
‘Please excuse sir,’ said Bilkis in English, hiding her irritation. ‘Please stand to side.’
She followed the stars as they escorted her charge into the set. The place was swarming with human ants, ants in charge of ants, and ants in charge of ants in charge of ants. She wasn’t familiar with the industry well enough to know which ant to push aside and which one to allow into the cage, but her crew managed that problem quite well. They allowed her to focus on the one or two people directly in front of the actress. As she’d promised the actress, Bilkis never strayed from the actress’s side.
Focus was a matter of knowing what to ignore. Some pen-pushers wanted to interview her: ignore. Dozens of flashing smartphones: ignore. The PA of one actress approached her and asked for her rate: ignore. A child with a grasping face wanted an autograph: ignore. A producer-type asked if she wanted to work in the movies: ignore, bend his groping index finger until he leaked oil.
She dimly understood that this muhurat had become something more than just a muhurat. It was the marriage of Bollywood and the Lokshakti. Stars had always adorned Uniforms and Uniforms had always understood the power of masks. By the time the General arrived, the muhurat had acquired the aura of a celebration. The General, such fine white teeth and ruddy pink health. He would live for a thousand years. The General’s voice boomed. When he spoke, his voice seemed to float a few feet above everyone else’s. And such phatta-phut English. It was as if the British had returned. The crowd nearly wet themselves with joy, laughing at his every witticism, enforcing his geniality by applauding every sign of mirth.