Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  Gowda gave me a shrewd smile. ‘Married?’

  ‘I’ll ask the questions. If I’m not satisfied, the next set of people you will meet won’t be interested in questions. They know all the answers.’

  ‘Vyas-ji, I will cooperate. I was born willing to cooperate. Ask me anything. Anything! I’ll clear up this misunderstanding here and now. Why am I under arrest?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t you be? You are guilty.’

  ‘Yes!’ He seemed struck by my answer. ‘Perhaps I am. What am I guilty of, Vyas-ji? Please clarify.’

  ‘Of making a dirty movie, Gowda. Of making a dirty movie with the General’s future wife. Of making a dirty movie with the General’s future wife based on a screenplay by the seditionist Durga Dhasal. Of making a dirty movie with the General’s future wife based on a screenplay by the seditionist Durga Dhasal and attempting to distribute it. Does this clarify things for you?’

  ‘Durga-ji’s screenplay?’ Gowda sounded offended, not intimidated. ‘Yes, Durga-ji tried to help with the script for Ajaya, but he had no talent. I and Mir Alam Mir wrote the screenplay. All of Durga-ji’s characters sounded like sages. All too high-funda, ridiculous. I told him that, I told him. Just like this, we sat, him and me, and I told him: Durga-ji, you’re a genius but you don’t know how to write a story. But leave all that; I did make Ajaya. As an art film. A hobby. Is it a crime to produce a home movie?’

  ‘Obscenity is always a crime. Home movie, office movie: it doesn’t change a thing. Get up, Gowda.’

  ‘Wait, wait. This is all only a misunderstanding. No need for threats. Vyas-ji, let us resolve this. Maybe I have something you want?’

  ‘You have, do you?’

  ‘Yes. I know what you’re thinking: if this bhenchod had something of mine why didn’t he bring it to me earlier? A polite gentleman would do that. I understand why you are upset. But please understand my position. I was trying to be tactful. You have seen the movie Baisers Volés? Of course you must have seen it. Your nose tells me you’re a refined man. Then you’ll remember that in the movie, Delphine Seyrig explains the difference between politeness and tact. I met Delphine-ji. Jolly memsaab; we shared a smoke. She explains, yes. Suppose you inadvertently enter a bathroom and see a naked lady showering. If you say: ‘Please excuse, Madam’ and close the door quickly, then you’re polite. But if you say: ‘Please excuse, sir’ and close the door, then you’re tactful. Naked lady, what naked lady? Tact is better, no? Similarly. Letter? What letter? But Vyas-ji, now that you are here and I am here, there is no need for any misunderstanding. I have kept your letter in safekeeping. I want nothing in return except for you to consider me a friend.’

  ‘You don’t want to know what I’m considering. The letter was for one and only one pair of eyes, Gowda. You took what wasn’t yours and now you offer to return what was mine, after you and Dhasal fingered it?’

  ‘Durga-ji and I were most respectful. Such beautiful thoughts! But also such fantastic English. The reason I took the letter, the only reason, is that I’m always hoping to improve my English. I felt, let me learn how to write from a master. I said to Durga-ji, this lady he describes, she must be a goddess—’ Then Gowda paused. He shot me a glance. ‘We were respectful. Most respectful.’

  ‘No, you weren’t,’ said Shabari in a sleepy voice, eyelids half-shut. She was enjoying Rathod’s exploring hand. ‘You laughed. You laughed and then you stole the letter.’

  ‘Arre wah!’ Gowda shook his head. A wheezy laugh. He reached for another wing, changed his mind and set the plate aside. ‘May I humbly suggest an alternative, Vyas-ji? This bitch is lying. We’re men of the world. You know the presence of a woman makes it impossible to discuss anything. You know that. They simply cannot bear men paying attention to anything other than themselves. If she was in the room, then Durga-ji and I were paying attention to her, not laughing. Vyasji, don’t worry about the letter. I will return it to you, mint condition.’

  ‘Yes you will.’ I studied him. ‘Unfortunately, there’s also the matter about Dhasal’s dirty movie.’

  ‘Vyas-ji, when you say dirty movie, I don’t mind. But when you say Dhasal’s dirty movie, my heart stops. It’s my movie. I wrote it. I produced it. I directed it. I’m not saying Durga-ji couldn’t direct a movie. Everybody is a director these days. S’alright.’

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘It is not a question of approve or disapprove Vyas-ji, it is a question of professionalism. Our whole industry is unprofessional. Anybody who has seen a movie thinks he can now be a director. You know a star, you know a star’s stylist, you know his assistant’s daughter’s pimp, chalo, you’re a director. What do these jokers know about camera angles? Do they know what synchronized sound is? Mise-en-abîme? Do they know, mise-en-abîme, what it means? Can they solve the three-body problem? If they—’

  ‘What three-body problem?’ I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right. Last I heard, analytical mechanics was not a required subject in film school.

  ‘Vyas-ji, the three-body problem is where stories start. One person, you have nothing. With two people, two stories: they get along, they don’t get along, that’s all. Bo-ring! But if you have three people, you have infinite stories. All the movies I make, they’re all three-body problems. I didn’t realize it until Durga-ji made me look in the mirror. So when he came to me and said, Gowda, I have an idea for a movie you will like. When I heard it, I told him it sounds like the Ramayana. And he said, no Gowda, it sounds like the Ramayana our world should have had. He was right. We called it Ajaya.’

  Shabari was grinding against Rathod, her tongue flickering in his ear. Rathod made a half-hearted attempt to push her away, but he was too far gone.

  ‘No formalities,’ said Gowda, his teeth gleaming white in the dark. ‘We’re all mature people. All friends. I’m an auteur. My eyes are cameras. The auteur’s mind is a reel.’

  ‘What is this otter-otter?’ asked Rathod, in Hindi.

  ‘Rathod, take it to elsewhere.’ I gestured with my head. ‘Gowda and I have something to discuss.’

  Rathod scooped Shabari up; she wrapped her legs around his waist, looped her arms around his neck, as if he were a strip pole. She was indifferent that the romper’s top had been pulled down, revealing an erect nipple and a large brown areola. He mumbled something about being just a shout away, but I’d already turned my attention to Gowda. The pervert seemed to think the meeting was going well.

  ‘You’re surprised, Vyas-ji? You thought I was just a B-movie producer. Yes or no? A pervert? You can tell me, no problem, I don’t mind; people call me a pervert straight to my face, I’m used to it. Every year, I get someone from your department, oh ho ho Gowda you bhenchod, we’re going to shut you down, you’re corrupting our children with your dirty movies. Let me tell you something, Vyas-ji. It’s a western mental problem, this idea that sex is dirty. S’alright, I don’t mind, call me a pervert.’

  ‘On the contrary. Gowda. I know a poet when I see one.’

  ‘Poet! Thank you, Vyas-ji, thank you. No one has ever recognized me as a poet. I feel like a maiden touched for the very first time. But I’m no poet. I prefer the word rasika. An appreciator. I taste, I sip, I savour. I don’t try to ruin other people’s enjoyment. I’m not a critic. Criticism is a western illness. Don’t get me wrong. I have many white friends. Oliver Stone, you know him? We chat daily. I can introduce if you like. But truth is truth. For the west, fiction is war. Action, conflict, double-crossing storytellers, colonizing the reader. Kill your darlings, you’ve heard this quote? At FTII, this professor fellow said: don’t be afraid to kill your darlings if it’ll make the story better.

  ‘But Durga-ji opened my eyes, Vyas-ji, he opened my eyes. This man who couldn’t write opened my eyes. There is another way. Our way. The way of love and rasa. Rasika, from rasa. The juice! You follow? What I try to bring out is the juice. There’s juice in everything. People, tables, flowers, food, everything. Shabari—she’s soaking in juice but I had to squeeze her so
that she could savour herself. You get tired of war, but you will never get tired of savouring.

  ‘Durga-ji understood me. Every artist needs one person to understand him, no? Durga-ji understood. He said to me, Dowda, you’re a rasika of the triangle. The triangle between a woman’s legs, the triangle that binds the Trimurti, the triangle of space, time and story. Let’s make a movie about triangles. He knew nothing of writing stories but he knew all about reading them; how could I say no to such a request? If someone wants a story, how can you say no?

  ‘Vyas-ji, I have been babbling and you are very kind to this funny fellow. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for listening to me. I think you’re also a rasika, I can tell.’ He waved a fat finger at me. ‘I like you, I like you, Vyas-ji.’

  ‘I saw the movie.’ I’d begun to like the cocky bastard too. ‘You know it can never be released.’

  ‘Vyas-ji, who is talking of release? It’s a love letter to the Goddess Saraswati. I made the movie with my own money. Every rupee did the work of six. So we had nothing, thank God. No nakhras from famous actors, no special effects, no fancy costumes, not a single unnecessary detail. We were all on fire.

  ‘At first I had been thinking, what do I have to lose; worst case, I can focus the camera on Saya. But after the first week of shooting, I knew I was making the greatest movie of my life. I knew I could now stand shoulder to shoulder with my gods, Guru Dutt and Stanley Kubrick, and say: my beloved brothers, I too am a director.

  ‘Saya. Not a single nakhra. So quiet, so grave. She was a woman possessed. Anything I asked, she was willing to do. I squeezed the ras out of her every day. I wrung her dry. And then I asked for more. Yet, in the end, it was I who was defeated. Durga-ji told me about the latest brain manipulation ideas. Latest! Some scenes with Saya, your lingam will jump to attention, and you’ll say, puzzled, arre mere bhai, there’s nothing on the screen, sit down.’ He laughed, then continued. ‘We finished the movie in forty-five days. Forty-five days! We hardly paused to eat and sleep. At night, we all had the same dreams and come morning we could hardly bare to look at each other: it was like gazing into the face of love itself. Mir and I gave Saya a beautiful death. Her face was like the end of time itself: Kalantaka. But it was we men who died.

  ‘After the shot, I rushed to Sita, touched her lotus feet. Because the goddess herself had walked in human form that day. That was the movie I made, the greatest movie in Indian cinema, and that is the movie that no one would touch for twelve years. Twelve years. It sat rotting for twelve years. We couldn’t get distributors. How I begged. Imagine my pain. But I don’t care, the act cannot be undone. What I achieved I achieved. Who cares about any release. What I did cannot be undone.’

  We sat gazing at each other. His eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘Vyas-ji, I have done nothing wrong. You will have your letter back. If I wanted to run, I would have. Singapore. UK. Thailand. Why am I in Delhi? In this club? I’m not afraid of being arrested. I’m not challenging you, I’m not stupid. You know what it is to wait in love. Now that I’ve met you, I’m confident. You understand what we achieved.’

  It was time to go. I felt sorry for him. I would get my letter back. It didn’t matter so much now that his grubby hands had pawed over my letter. But Gowda wouldn’t get what he wanted.

  I looked over to the dimly lit corner. Rathod was really sticking it to Shabari. I saw a dark spider with eight limbs, moaning, twisting, rutting. Incredibly, Shabari was trying to answer her cell even as Rathod plowed into her. Our eyes met, I got the impression she was trying to say something. As the orgasm shuddered through her, the cellphone flew out of her flailing hand.

  I looked away, feeling unclean. Why was I among these people? I caught Gowda’s eye and he smiled at me and raised his glass. The club’s dim lights glinted in the blood-red liquid.

  Something in my expression must have alerted him to the danger he was in. He sat up, held out a hand, placating.

  I gestured with my head. ‘Collect your things.’

  ‘But I thought you understood—’

  I stood up.

  ‘Director-sahib, do I really need to be arrested? I’ve many projects to complete. I’m going to make a movie with Shabari. Can’t we come to an understanding? You’re an honest man, I can see that; I wouldn’t ask otherwise. We are on the same side, Director-sahib. What must I do?’

  ‘You mustn’t lose heart,’ I said, gently. ‘A true artist lives in hope.’

  He was silent. Then a great shudder—I realized it was a laugh— was wrenched from his body, a swollen tsunami of hysteria building on the mind’s waterfront. He shook and shuddered. I waited. It’d taken a while but reality had finally begun to sink in. He gained control over himself. I watched as he finished his drink in one quick gulp, picked up his club jacket, got to his feet.

  I’ve seen people at this moment, time and again. They say things like: this is a nightmare. It can’t be happening, this cannot be happening. They cannot understand how their world of school holidays, movie theatres and mall shopping, this world once so predictable and mundane, has become the precious dream; while this fantasy of a world, where nothing is trivial, where everything is controlled and yet anything could happen, has become their reality. They’re scarred for life. And unlike Odysseus, whose old nurse Eurycleia recognized him from an old hunting scar upon his return to Ithaca, these unfortunates are rendered unrecognizable.

  ‘Sit down, Gowda,’ I said. I had my letter. I had no use for it other than to compare it with the copy I’d given Tanaz a few days earlier. I had my closure. I didn’t want any more paperwork. ‘It seems I’m in a forgiving mood after all.’

  He sat down. All his bravado was gone.

  ‘Remember this moment,’ I told him.

  He nodded, bent his palms in a grotesque imitation of a namasthe. ‘I’m in your debt, Vyas-ji.’

  ‘I collect people, Gowda, not debts. Now, let’s get that letter.’

  First, there was an emergency to deal with. Sudhir, it seemed, had had an insulin episode. Rathod was in a gentlemanly mood. He wanted to help. Certainly, I said. In fact, take Gowda’s car. I was sure he wouldn’t mind.

  I gestured curtly to Gowda. Let’s go, Sleeping Beauty.

  19

  KANNAGI HAD GONE TO IIT-KANPUR’S CS DEPARTMENT TO GIVE A talk on randomized algorithms.

  It had only been a two-day thing but the talk kicked ass, sparked a lot of enthu, and when Srivastav who held a joint appointment in CS and Math asked if she could hang around for an extra day, meet some profs, give one more talk, blah blah, she couldn’t say no.

  They showed off their 250+ Teraflop supercomputer, showed her how to code in C-Linda, took her for a boat ride on the Ganges and Fbook-liked her photos of the polluting tanneries. They trotted out Josh, a ChemEngg doctoral student, who told her he’d spent the last six months at IIT-K because the department had equipment he could only dream about in New Mexico. Fun white guy, dreadlocks. He was developing on-chip nano-plasmonic urine-assay kits, all funded by the NASA, and she went to ogle the tech. Josh asked if she’d give him a pee sample. After she’d donated 330 millilitres to science, he shared some of his nano-beads laced with ganja. Female pee was really hard to come by at IIT-K, he confided.

  In the mornings, she was awoken by the harsh cries of peacocks. It was like having an alarm clock you could strangle. She asked if she could, and they said, sorry, no, it’s India’s national bird.

  She described the fab-jab concept to a group of second-years and the Himmatwala fab-jab Club held its first session the very next day.

  On the third evening, Srivastav invited her to his house for drinks. He’d invited a few other senior CS profs, and when they started to ask, over peanuts and Johnny Walker, what she liked to teach besides algorithms, whether she had a CV ready, about the rumour of an NYU offer and so on, she realized, with the familiar last-one-to-know feeling, that the visit had turned into a job interview.

  She could see herself working h
ere. Campus was nice. Lots of freaks to talk to. Profs actually did research. On the other hand, it was Kanpur. There were few things to do outside campus and lots of things not to do. The TIFR option once again seemed the more attractive. The TIFR campus might be dull but Mumbai lay on the other side of the gate. She could see herself working in Mumbai. On the one hand. But. However.

  She was in the middle of her talk at the Math department when Sawai called. He left a voicemail. He had to leave for Satara a day early, and since she had extended her trip without telling him, he wouldn’t be able to say goodbye. However, he expected to be back in a month. This trip was mostly about making arrangements for Aayi’s move to Satara. He sounded cheerful. There was no indication they were at a crossroads. But Sawai also sounded different: he was no longer asking anything from her.

  The realization tore into her. Going away! No, no. She had to see him. The hard black clot of anger, the residue of that wretched Swantantra induction ceremony, dissolved as if it had never existed at all. He had to know she loved him, no matter what. She couldn’t live with the taste of regret for a whole month. She had to see him before he left.

  Kannagi went to Srivastav, explained she had to return to Delhi at once. The professor had arranged a meeting with the Director, early next morning, and he had stressed how difficult it was to arrange such things. She’d expected him to be irritated, but he only studied her with an experienced eye.

  ‘Family emergency?’ asked Srivastav.

  ‘Yes,’ lied Kannagi. Paused. ‘No, not really.’ She explained about Gawai.

  ‘That’s a family emergency,’ said Srivastav. ‘We can get you to Lucknow, no problem. But it’ll be impossible to get tickets from Lucknow to Delhi for this evening. There are no flights from Kanpur anymore, so booking in advance is a must.’

  ‘You don’t know my travel agent,’ said Kannagi. She called Anand. It took a few minutes but Ratnakar finally put her through.