by Vaseem Khan
He drained his whisky glass, but this time refrained from hurling it against the wall.
“You know, when I was young the stars had almost no power. The studios controlled everything. If anyone got too big for their boots, we made damned sure their career took a nosedive off the nearest cliff. Of course, even now we can make or break them—they just don’t seem to realise it. It’s the fault of the media, preening over every next big thing, making them believe they are God’s gift to the film industry. I mean, some of them are so wet behind the ears if I didn’t insert my hand into their backsides and make their lips move they would forget to breathe. And actresses? As long as they are willing to parade around in a skirt so tiny it may as well be called underwear they will fill the cheap seats at every cinema in the land. And what ends up on those seats after they have danced one of their so-called ‘musical numbers’ doesn’t bear thinking about.” He shuddered, then pointed at Ganesha who was listening round-eyed to the great director’s monologue.
“Do you know, I worked on Mughal-e-Azam? I was sixteen years old, a boy with Bollywood dreams in my eyes. My uncle was the key grip and hired me as the assistant to the dolly grip. It was the greatest experience of my life. I watched Dilip Kumar in his finest role. Now there was an actor! A genuine thesp. We had to do fifty-two takes in one scene where all Dilipji had to do was nod his head. He was the ultimate perfectionist.” B.P.’s eyes shone momentarily before darkening. “The industry has changed, and not for the better. My father worked in a kerosene tin factory his whole life—for fifty years he stamped out the embossed bases for two thousand tins a day, sitting hunchbacked in front of a stamping machine. He lost four fingers over the years to that clattering heap of metal, but he never wavered in his dedication to his allotted task. My father was the ultimate realist, the high priest of authenticity. That’s why I made Kerosene—not just to honour him, but to honour the authenticity of the common man.” He looked once again at Ganesha. “An elephant: now there’s something authentic. There’s nothing realer than an elephant.”
Ganesha trumpeted softly, perhaps sensing the fondness with which the old man was regarding him.
“Has Vicky ever disappeared from the set before?” Chopra eventually asked.
“Not once, but a dozen times! He has been nothing but trouble since the day I was forced to hire him.”
“You were forced to hire him? By who?”
“The producer,” said Mehboob, speaking for the first time as thunder closed once more around Agarwal’s face. “P. K. Das.”
“Why did Das insist on casting Verma as the lead?”
“I believe he felt it would establish Vicky as a major star, and that, in future, this would be of great benefit to his studio. Vicky is under contract to him.”
“You say he has walked out before. Can you tell me why?”
“Every reason under the sun,” thundered Agarwal. “Sometimes he turns up drunk and fights with his co-stars. Sometimes he hasn’t bothered to memorise his lines and blames the scriptwriters. Sometimes he is simply ‘not in the mood.’ That boy is a spoilt brat and acts like it. If it were up to me he would never work in the industry again. And I’d break his legs for good measure,” he added.
Chopra was momentarily silent. “What is the movie about?”
Agarwal gaped at him. “You mean, you don’t know?”
“I’m afraid I do not follow Bollywood much these days.”
“Hah!” said Agarwal, pointing at Chopra while looking at Mehboob. “Here is a living example of what I was talking about! The true film fan is turning away from modern cinema. We are driving them away in droves, Farukh. Droves, I tell you.”
“The Mote in the Third Eye of Shiva is a historical epic,” began Mehboob. “A romantic action adventure set in the great age of the Mughal empire.”
“With elements of comedy and satire,” interjected Agarwal belligerently. “The satire is very subtle, but completely necessary.”
“It is also a musical extravaganza,” continued Mehboob. “With dance performances full of riotous colour blending ancient and modern dance techniques.” His eyes had glazed over and he seemed to be reading from a teleprompter that only he could see.
“With an unprecedented degree of verisimilitude in its depiction of everyday life in that glorious epoch of Indian history,” added Agarwal.
“Not to mention ten thousand extras,” said Mehboob.
“Plus a healthy dose of philosophy, religious discourse, and a meditation on the nature of man’s relationship to reality,” continued Agarwal.
“Don’t forget the ten thousand extras!”
Ganesha bugled loudly, mightily impressed by this duet of exposition.
“Yes, but what is it actually about?” said Chopra.
The two men seemed to deflate.
“It is a fictional take on the story of Mughal emperor Shah Jahan and his sons,” supplied Mehboob. “In our version, Shah Jahan’s four sons are born as quadruplets, who are subsequently separated by the whims of fate. One of them is adopted by Hindu beetroot farmers and grows up in a village. Another is stolen by dacoits and grows up as a godless bandit. A third is taken in by a Sikh soldier in the Mughal army and grows up a cavalryman. The last remains with the emperor and grows up a Muslim prince. Eventually, as the Grand Mughal fades towards death, war looms between the four brothers as they are brought together by the tides of destiny.”
“And Vicky Verma is playing all four brothers?”
“Yes,” confirmed Mehboob. “It is the first time that a fully fledged quadruple role has been assayed in Indian cinema.”
Chopra looked thoughtful. “Why is it called The Mote in the Third Eye of Shiva? I mean, it’s set in the Mughal era. It doesn’t seem a very apt name.”
“The movie has a greater message than what you see on-screen,” replied Agarwal sharply. “Shiva’s third eye denotes the ability to see beyond the physical realm—with all of its illusions—and, consequently, divine the true nature of man. In Mote we see four brothers, born together—essentially they are one being—but, by virtue of their star-crossed fates, they reveal the multiplicity of realities at the heart of the human condition: greed, lust, anger, envy. These alternate manifestations reveal man as nothing more than a naked being—a mote in God’s eye—capable of glory, but equally capable of destruction on a cosmic scale.”
Chopra found himself greatly impressed by this lucid disquisition. It went some way to explaining why B. P. Agarwal, champion of reality, had agreed to direct the all-singing, all-dancing blockbuster. “And the pivotal scene?” he asked. “The one Vicky is missing?”
“The final battle between the brothers. This will be a four-way battle, another first in Indian cinema. We have ten thousand extras out there—many of them hired from the Indian army at an extortionate rate. We have practically taken over Film City. I have had to pay a fortune to other producers to halt their shooting for a few days just so I can film my scene. And at the climax of the take we will see Vicky burn down the Taj Mahal.”
“A truly spectacular denouement!” enthused Mehboob.
“I wanted to set fire to the real Taj,” groused Agarwal, “but those idiots in Delhi wouldn’t give me permission.”
“Who were all the young men in the room when I entered?” asked Chopra.
Agarwal’s face soured. “I have many names for them, none of them printable.”
“They are the other directors on the project,” Mehboob explained. “The art director. The set director. The stunt director. The music director. The casting director. Laldas. Kalidas. Tulsidas. Laxmidas. Ramdas. And sitting outside is Haridas, the marketing director.”
“Do you have a factory where you produce them?” said Chopra ironically.
“Those imbeciles are all nephews of our producer,” snorted Agarwal. “Between them they have just enough brains to make my life a misery.”
“Let’s be fair, B.P.,” said Mehboob mildly. “They’re full of bright ideas.”
“Bright ideas!” spluttered Agarwal. “Those nincompoops have the sort of bright ideas that start wars.”
“Aren’t they a little young for such responsibility?” asked Chopra.
“Tell that to our producer!” exploded Agarwal. “He hired them all so he could have a gang of spies reporting to him day and night.”
Chopra looked thoughtful, then said: “I must ask that you both keep the matter of Vicky’s disappearance to yourselves.”
“Do you think we want to harm the production any more than it already has been by telling the whole world that Vicky has vanished?” said Agarwal sourly.
A noise behind Chopra made him turn.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark grey Nehru jacket and smoked glasses strode into the room. He wore a gruff-looking moustache above hard lips and a square chin that looked as if it had been hewn from a slab of granite.
There was a shuffling behind Chopra, and he turned back to see that both Agarwal and Mehboob had straightened. Expressions of unease had drifted onto their features.
“Ram ram,” said the newcomer in a deep baritone.
Neither of the directors responded with greetings of their own.
“B. P. Sahib, how are things?” asked the newcomer. “Everything is fine? We will soon be seeing Mr. Vicky back on set, yes?”
“Vicky will be back on his feet in no time, Pyarelal Sahib,” muttered Agarwal.
Pyarelal turned to Chopra. “And who is this?” he asked.
“No one,” answered Mehboob hurriedly.
“He is very substantial for a no one,” said Pyarelal calmly.
“My name is Chopra,” said Chopra. “I am…” He hesitated, before brightening with inspiration, “… a film producer. I came to see if I could persuade B.P. to direct my next movie.”
“A producer?” purred Pyarelal. “And which studio do you produce for, Chopra Sahib?”
“Ganesha Film Productions,” answered Chopra.
“I have never heard of it. Is it new?”
“Very new,” said Chopra, unblinkingly.
“Are you in need of financing?”
Chopra glanced at Mehboob, who was slowly shaking his head. “No,” he said.
“That’s a shame,” said Pyarelal. “I am acquainted with some people who specialise in financing film productions.”
A silence passed as Chopra and Pyarelal eyed each other, then Pyarelal’s face broadened into a smile. “Perhaps we will bump into each other again one day. Many producers begin with big dreams but sadly they often founder upon the rocks of reality. When that day comes you may have need of someone like Pyarelal. Ram ram.” He clasped his hands together in farewell, and turned to leave, pausing at the door to stare at Ganesha. “That elephant is too small,” he said, then left.
“Who, exactly, was that?” asked Chopra, noting how the two directors had sagged with relief at Pyarelal’s departure.
“You don’t need to know,” said Agarwal, walking to a steel cabinet and removing a bottle of Black Label whisky before splashing out a generous measure.
“He works for the producer,” supplied Mehboob.
“What does he do?”
Mehboob and Agarwal exchanged glances. “He is… a consultant,” said Mehboob eventually.
“A consultant of what?”
“Does it matter?” snapped Agarwal. His face had set into a hard scowl. The topic seemed to be off-limits. It was a mystery Chopra would have to resolve at a later time. He focused now on another question. “Does Vicky have any enemies that you are aware of?”
“Hah!” said Agarwal. “The boy collects enemies like the rest of us make friends. I’d happily throttle him myself.”
“In that case is he particularly close to anyone on set?”
“Vicky doesn’t have real friends. Plenty of hangers-on and sycophants, but that’s not the same thing, is it? Of course, there’s always Poonam.”
“Poonam?”
“Our leading lady. Poonam Panipat. You have heard of her, I presume?” the director added sarcastically.
Of course Chopra had heard of her. Panipat was one of the most famous actresses in the industry, once nicknamed the Queen of Bollywood, although it was his impression that she was now on the downslope of her illustrious career. “They are close?”
Agarwal waved a dismissive hand. “Close? What does that mean, nowadays? For what it’s worth, the rumour mill says the pair of them are exceptionally close, if you catch my drift.”
Chopra considered this. “Is she on set today?”
“The maharani is probably in her trailer,” muttered Agarwal. “Just don’t expect to get any sense out of her. She’s as bad as Vicky. Shiva save me from prima donnas.”
Poonam Panipat’s trailer was an elongated white box on wheels, parked beneath the wide-slung arms of a fig tree. As Chopra approached, he suddenly spotted the woman herself, stomping across the dusty field beneath a pink umbrella held above her by an assistant struggling to keep pace. Panipat was resplendent in a multi-hued and heavily brocaded silk Mughal dress. Jewellery jangled on her arms and ankles, and her maroon bodice, worked with topaz stones and gold filigree, flashed and glittered in the sun. As she swept along she held up the bejewelled gown in an unsuccessful attempt to keep it from trailing on the ground.
Arriving before the trailer she stopped, then turned in fury to her assistant, and shouted: “I told you to get rid of those evil things! Look at them, just sitting there, staring at me.”
The bewildered assistant followed the direction of her ire.
Chopra looked up too.
A row of black crows ruffled their feathers from the roof of the trailer, cawing and bobbing, seemingly gathered to pay tribute to the Queen of Bollywood.
“But, madam, they are crows,” protested the assistant. “How can I get rid of them?”
“I don’t care how you do it, just do it! Shoot them for all I care!” Panipat reached down, wrenched off a mirror-worked slipper and flung it at the birds. The slipper missed them entirely and landed on top of the roof.
Panipat unleashed a howl of fury before storming into the trailer, leaving the put-upon assistant to stare bleakly up at the nonchalant creatures. Sighing, he turned and walked away across the maidan.
Chopra parked Ganesha outside the trailer, then rapped loudly on the door. He waited, but, when no reply came, opened the door and entered.
The interior of the trailer was plushly decorated, the walls papered with blow-up posters of Poonam Panipat in a medley of career-defining roles. Chopra thought the effect was somehow ghoulish. To surround yourself with glorified images of… yourself smacked to him of someone who had either begun to believe too fervently in their own conceits or someone in need of reassurance that they were still the person they thought they were.
He glanced around, but could not see Panipat.
A rustle of movement alerted him to a wicker screen set up at one end of the trailer.
“Do you usually enter women’s quarters without permission?” came a voice from behind the screen.
Chopra blushed. “I knocked but there was no answer.” He coughed. “My name is Inspector Chopra. I want to talk to you about Vicky Verma.”
“Hah!” said Panipat. Her bodice sailed out from behind the screen and landed at Chopra’s feet. Not knowing what else to do, he picked it up, carefully folded it, and set it down on a wooden sideboard. “If that idiot doesn’t show up soon I’ll wring his neck. I won’t let him ruin this for me, not after what I’ve had to go through on this production.”
Panipat emerged from behind the screen dressed in cotton slacks and a sleeveless shirt. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, but the make-up was still heavy on her face, setting off her fine features and dark, smouldering eyes.
Quickly, Chopra outlined Verma’s unexplained absence, again explaining that Bijli Verma had asked him to investigate, and requesting Panipat’s discretion. “His mother believes he would not have simply vanished.”
“She�
��s right,” said Panipat. “I heard from friends that she had been calling around, looking for him. I thought he’d got drunk somewhere, as usual, that he’d turn up, staggering out of some Mazgaon bar. But when the news came out this morning about his ‘illness’ I suspected something was wrong. Vicky’s pulled a lot of stunts on this picture, but even he’s not so stupid as to miss this shoot.”
Chopra recalled that Panipat was somewhat older than Verma. Certainly, she spoke as if he were some insufferable child she had been forced to nursemaid.
“If he doesn’t show up soon the whole production is in trouble. Have you any idea what it’s costing to keep that army out there on set?”
“I’m beginning to get an idea,” said Chopra. “Is there anything you can tell me about Vicky? Any idea where he might have gone?”
Panipat reached into her pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes. She lit one and offered the pack to Chopra. “I don’t smoke,” he said.
“Good. It’s a filthy habit.” She drew in deeply and blew a cloud of smoke at him. “Vicky’s been a handful since the first day. Frankly, if it wasn’t for his mother and the fact that he has a legion of teenage zombies following his every move, he would have been booted off this picture a long time ago. But he wouldn’t have just vanished, not now, at this critical point.” She smiled grimly. “Did you know that we’re supposed to be embroiled in a passionate affair?”
“I have heard the rumours.”
“I spread those rumours,” said Panipat smugly. “Bollywood is a nest of vipers, and what vipers feed on is the milk of scandal.”
“So you are not having an affair?”
“It’s irrelevant whether we are or not. As long as they out there think we are. Haven’t you heard? There’s no such thing as bad publicity in the being-famous industry.”
“Does Vicky have a girlfriend?”
“No one permanent, if that’s what you mean. I think he spends so long admiring himself in the mirror that he doesn’t have time to actually get to know anyone else.” She sighed. “Bollywood can be a lonely place. There aren’t many people outside the industry who understand what we have to go through every day just to keep up the illusion.”