by Shobhaa De
Of course. Their first meeting. Kishenbhai had just gotten back from a matinee show of Cleopatra and was enthusing about its finer points (i.e., Liz Taylor’s beguiling belly button) to his friend Venky, outside the gates of the studio. Suddenly a dark, fierce dragon lady had elbowed herself viciously through the crowds thronging the gate and positioned herself in front of them. Then she had addressed Venky, who didn’t seem to recognize her. “Geetha Devi,” she had said, and the name registered dimly. He’d gathered that Venky was once employed as a lab assistant in a studio she had some connection with in Madras.
Kishenbhai had mistakenly thought that it was Geetha Devi who wanted the break and had still been laughing silently to himself when she’d pushed her daughter forward. “Meet Viji.” It was like seeing Elizabeth Taylor in the flesh. Kishenbhai had sprung into action. Brushing out the creases in his safari suit and smoothing the few strands of hair he had left over his bald patch, he’d presented himself with a flourish: “Myself Kishenbhai, producer, actually speaking, assistant producer. Madamji, I’m on the lookout for new talent. I’m knowing everyone in the industry. What is your good name? Is your beti knowing dancing? Actually I’m knowing everybody—dance directors, music directors, cameramen…all big big producers, hero-log, heroines, everybody. These days demand is good. South Indian girls are good. No khit-pit, no faltu nakhras. In Bombay all are liking South Indian girls too much, maybe I can get baby a role…”
Amma hadn’t really needed convincing. She was desperate. She had consulted perfunctorily in Tamil, with Venky who had been discouraging. But Amma’s mind was made up.
Bas. Cleopatra had been forgotten and the three of them had walked down to a poky South Indian joint. It was there, over lukewarm kaapi, that he had given them his visiting card, noted their address in Matunga, warned them not to approach anyone else, and fallen irrevocably in love with a big-bosomed, innocent-faced girl-woman.
WATCHING AASHA RANI’S FACE genuinely light up for the first time in the film as, clad in leather, she viciously booted the villain of the piece, Kishenbhai wondered about Aasha Rani’s thinly disguised hatred for men. Perhaps it had something to do with Appa and the way he’d mistreated her mother. Or maybe she felt soiled, used, exploited by them. She often told him bitterly: “All of you are just the same, but wait, I will show you. I will do to men what they try to do to me. I will screw you all—beat you at your own game!” Kishenbhai used to laugh indulgently and say, “Chhodo, chhodo, women are like delicate flowers. It is our privilege and duty to take care of you.” “Then why don’t you take care of your wife instead of warming my bed? Or isn’t she a woman?” Recalling their old conversations now, Kishenbhai agreed with Aasha Rani. Most men were haraamis.
Kishenbhai remembered his attempts to discourage her from getting involved with Akshay Arora. Saala hero! He knew his type—only too well. But Aasha Rani was blind to reason. “Don’t try to stop me, Kishenbhai. I’m in love. I will kill myself if anything happens to this relationship. Akshay is my jaan!” Her words had nauseated him. Jaan! She’d even picked up the meaningless terms of endearment that filmi types bandied about. What jaan? And whose jaan? These heroes were nobody’s jaans. They lived entirely for themselves, and for the next fuck.
But who was he to moralize? He was not her father nor her brother. He was just an ex-lover. In the film industry nothing was as worthless as a discarded paramour. Especially one who was a professional has-been. What would he have told her? “Don’t sleep with that maderchodh”? She would have replied, “Didn’t you too sleep with me? Where were your scruples then? You also had a wife. And children. You used me. You exploited me. So how are you any different from Akshay?” And she would have been right. Except that there was one important difference. Somewhere down the line Kishenbhai had made a bewakoof of himself. He had fallen in love with Aasha Rani.
Kishenbhai was getting terribly restless. What bakwas films people made these days. The money scene was so dicey. Idealistic distributors like him lived from one film to the next. It was different when he’d started his career. He’d made his mark as an independent producer. People respected him in those days. But success in this business was a short-lived affair. Two or three big flops and khatam. He hadn’t expected that to happen to him. But it had. From owning a Pali Hill bungalow (just a stone’s throw from Deepak Kumar’s) and two Ambassador cars (air-conditioned, with tinted windows) here he was: a nobody. Promoting Aasha Rani had been a stroke of genius. Had he had the means, he would have launched three or four more films for her with himself as producer-director. Now, all he could be was the middleman.
Kishenbhai’s first film with Aasha Rani had gotten off to a bad start. On the mahurat day itself, there had been an accident on the set which had destroyed one section completely. “A bad omen,” someone had said. That had scared Aasha Rani. As it was she’d been reluctant to work in the film. “I’ll never be able to do the role,” she’d said when he’d narrated the story to her. “How can I play such a woman?” It took a lot of convincing to make her change her mind. Aasha Rani lacked confidence. Amma had spent hours working on her, reassuring her that she could do it; that Kishenbhai would be standing behind her at every step. “That is the problem, Amma,” she’d groaned. “That is why I’m nervous.”
Kishenbhai too had felt inhibited at first. But he’d bought the story only for her. If she didn’t want to do it, he wouldn’t either. It was a bold theme, of course, but he knew how he was going to handle it. Aasha Rani was worried about some of the scenes, particularly the rape one. And that other sequence that had her in a wet sari. She was also terrified of snakes, and this film was full of them. In fact, the mahurat shot had her caressing one. “Why couldn’t you think of something else?” She’d shuddered. “Why snakes?” “Trust me,” he’d said. “Snakes hold a special attraction. Once you get over your initial fear, it will be OK. Besides, these snakes aren’t poisonous.”
The snakes and the hero, Aasha Rani had hated both. “What kind of a story is this?” She’d reacted petulantly. “My hero is also a snake.” “That’s why I have signed Shrikant. It wasn’t easy to get him. He wanted another heroine, not you. After a lot of buttering and chamchagiri and a fat signing amount, he finally agreed. Besides, no distributor was willing to back the film without a big hero,” said Kishenbhai. “Hero-shiro… what about me? Such a silly role. All I do is get raped and dance with snakes. What sort of a movie is this?” “A hit, baby-jaan, a hit! Have faith in me.”
Kishenbhai had been unprepared for Aasha Rani’s reaction. He’d been sure Aasha Rani would be grateful and submissive. She was so young. And this was her first Bombay film.
Amma hadn’t been too convinced either, but Kishenbhai had softened her with a generous advance. “If this film clicks,” he’d told her, “just mark my words: Aasha Rani will become a star. I’m going to picturize three songs on her which will make India dance! Arre kya baat hai—just listen to them if you don’t believe me.”
Amma and Aasha Rani had agreed reluctantly. Later, in bed, Aasha Rani was thoughtful. “I need good costumes, hai na?” And he knew that she’d given in. Just as he’d thought she would. She’d learn, he told himself. All the girls did once they settled down.
Nagin ki Kasam had been a modest hit. After a shaky start it had gone on to gross more than three times the initial investment. With the film behind him, Kishenbhai hoped he would now be regarded as a “hit filmmaker.”
KISHENBHAI HAD MADE SURE Aasha Rani’s debut didn’t go unnoticed. He had celebrated her triumph—with a vengeance. What a shandar party he had thrown for her. Everybody had come to it. Amirchand, yes, even Sheth Amirchand. And Ramniklal. South Indian producers, financiers, woh saala Hiru. Bastard. Right there and then he’d come to ask, “How much?” as if Kishenbhai were some third-rate, chaalu pimp. Amma had spent the evening concentrating on that Bengali Babu, Sudhendu Bose, solely because he had two or three hit films to his name.
Kishenbhai’s heart swelled with pride at the me
mory of how Aasha Rani had looked that night. How stunning in her white-and-gold Benarasi sari. Amma had wanted her to wear a clinging salwar-kameez, but Aasha Rani had refused. Kishenbhai had suggested a sari, and the two of them had gone to Kala Niketan to buy it. Fifteen hundred rupees it had cost him. Without the blouse. But how wonderful his Aasha Rani had looked in it. He’d told her to put lots of gajras in her hair and lots of bangles on her wrists. She had teased him: “Glass or gold?” He’d taken the hint. He had gone home and, without asking his wife, quietly picked up the bank locker keys and had gone and removed ten gold bangles from his bank. Each bangle was solid; must have weighed over two tolas. He’d put them on Aasha Rani’s arms while she smiled into his eyes.
His wife had discovered the theft soon enough. Toba! Toba! What hell she’d created! “Get them back right now,” she’d screamed, “or I’ll saw them off her wrists. I’ll kill her! Have you lost your senses completely? Next you will sell our house—and give the money to her. May she rot, may she die. Evil home-wrecker. God takes care of her type. She will never know happiness! You take it from me!”
Amma had been equally furious. “You are asking Baby to return the bangles? What kind of a man are you? Baby’s heart will break. Do you know she hasn’t taken them off since you gave them? Gave. She did not come and steal them from your house. She will cry so much. You can buy your wife new bangles, but don’t make Baby feel bad. How do you expect her to concentrate on her career if you keep upsetting her like this?”
Not daring to go home without the bangles, Kishenbhai had gone to a moneylender in Kalbadevi. He’d pawned his watch, gold chain, ring, cigarette case and lighter. Yet he couldn’t raise enough to buy ten new bangles. The price of gold had doubled since he’d bought those for his wife. In desperation he had gone to a friend’s office and borrowed the balance and rushed in a taxi to Zaveri Bazaar. It was hot and sticky. As usual, the small lane was already overcrowded with thousands of hawkers selling vegetables, plastic mugs, stainless-steel utensils, ready-made clothes, even stolen watches, on the narrow footpaths. He hadn’t gone into any of the glittering showrooms of established jewelers. He’d have had to pay double for the same item. But these smaller fellows had such a limited choice. Quickly he had selected a pattern closest to the ones he’d taken from his wife. Paying for the bangles he had sped home in the waiting taxi to his wife, but she was not placated.
She had chucked the bangles at him, saying, “Throw these into the gutter. What have you brought? These are not half as heavy as mine. Don’t think you can fool me like this. Go take the new ones to the rundi and bring me back my original bangles. I wouldn’t pass these on to my sweeper-woman—even hers must be heavier. And don’t come home without my bangles.”
Amma had taken one look at the new bangles and turned her face. “How can I show these to Baby? She will fling them in my face. These! Where did you get these? Are you sure they are made of gold? Let me see, so light, how many tolas? Four? Tch! Tch! Those must be twelve at least. No, baba, we cannot accept these.” Kishenbhai had pleaded with her. It was no use.
Finally, he had struck a deal. “As soon as I raise money for the next project, the first thing I will do is buy ten tolas of gold for Aasha Rani. This much I promise you. But till then, accept these and give those back. My life is at stake.” Reluctantly Amma had gone and fetched the originals. “You don’t buy anything from anyone,” she had said. “You give the money to me. I will go to Matunga to our own South Indian jewelers there. They keep genuine articles. Their gold is real. I don’t trust all these Marwaris and Gujaratis. Look at the color, just look at it; call this gold?” Aasha Rani had sulked for a while, but the excitement of meeting new people at the party that evening had improved her mood. She had made some useful contacts—Sheth Amirchand, for instance. In the week after the party, the Sheth’s man had phoned twice, and the Sheth had even sent his car for Aasha Rani. Unfortunately, she’d been away at the studio. But Amma had been home and had done her best to find out more about the Shethji. Her best industry contact, a fixer called Rizvi, had said: “If the Shethji has shown interest in Aasha Rani, take it that her career is made.”
KISHENBHAI HADN’T BEEN AS ENTHUSIASTIC about the Shethji’s interest. He remembered storming into Aasha Rani’s newly hired Andheri flat on what turned out to be their last day together. “Have you slept with him?” he had stormed. He remembered she had been lying on a Rexine sofa—her head propped on one armrest, and her feet on the other—reading back issues of Showbiz magazine. In one corner of the room was a TV covered with a tablecloth and topped with a vase full of gaudy plastic flowers. The other corner housed a small cabinet with a glass front. In it were displayed a stainless-steel dinner set, a photograph of Aasha Rani, three brass natarajas, two brass Oms on wooden pedestals, one Tanjore doll and a chipped Air-India maharajah. Every detail was still so clear in his mind.
Aasha Rani had regarded him briefly and gone back to her magazine. Kishenbhai had been beside himself. After all that he had done for her, pawned his wife’s jewels, staked his all on the film that had made her, even given her a name. Chalo chhodo, those were material things, but he’d also given his dil. “You filthy prostitute!” he had screamed at her. “Whoring your way to stardom! What has Shethji given you, what have all those others given you that I haven’t? What is my gunah, my great sin, that I am being betrayed like this?”
Aasha Rani had looked at him steadily. “You financed and produced my first film, Kishenbhai, but you extracted payment from my body. You call me a prostitute, but you forget that you were my first pimp. So don’t throw ahsan on me. I owe you nothing!” And she had said it again: “I owe you nothing.”
It was a scene that haunted him constantly. All these years later he still wondered how it might have been had he handled Aasha Rani differently. If he hadn’t lunged at her like a jealous husband. Like a man possessed. But he had not been thinking rationally. He had grabbed her by the hair and shouted, “You’re mine, you’re mine, mine!” Aasha Rani had struggled to free herself, and her face—if it had been terror he saw there he would have stopped—but it had been loathing. He’d become like a jaanwar then. Chhee, even he felt ashamed. Luckily Amma had come in just then. He had let go of Aasha Rani, who had picked up her magazine and had walked out of the room, stopping at the door only long enough to say, “I don’t want to see this man again. Ever.”
But was it so wrong, what he had done? He was a man of honor when it came to such things. She was his woman. His. It was impossible to accept that she could have allowed another man to touch her body. His property. But she had. And she hadn’t even pretended to be sorry. Maybe, just maybe, if she’d asked for forgiveness, if he’d felt that she was genuinely repentant, if she had sworn never to do it again…What the hell, what was the point in thinking of that now?
For some odd reason he’d decided to beseech Amma, who was still standing by looking thunderstruck. She’d be on his side, he’d thought. Instead Amma had turned on him like a viper. “How dare you accuse Baby of all these things? From where do you get the guts? You filthy rapist. Are you a saint yourself? Haven’t you also enjoyed my daughter, exploited her? And now you want explanations? Confessions? What have you done for us besides making that two-bit film? After that? Was it your face on the screen or hers? Did you do her dancing for her? Did you slog in the studios, shift after shift? Did you stay for hours in the sun? Or walk barefoot on ice like my Baby? She is free to go with whoever she wants. Besides, Shethji has promised her two more films. He is the one who will make her a star, not you.”
Kishenbhai had not met Aasha Rani since that day. But that didn’t mean he had forgotten her. But what to do? These days she refused to answer his calls, refused to meet him. What crime had he committed? He asked himself that often enough. He had genuinely loved the girl—in his own way. But he was a shaadi-shuda man—a married fellow. He had made it clear, both to Amma and to her, that he would never leave his family. What did they expect? It wasn’t as if Aash
a Rani was desperate for a husband. Not at that point, anyway. She was just starting her career. OK, so he had slept with her, chalo, he could be accused of having used her body. But his point was simple: If it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else. The industry was full of bhooka, sex-starved men who had chidiyas like Aasha Rani for breakfast. She was lucky she’d found him. And he’d helped her. Had she forgotten that? Most of the others just fucked and forgot. No roles, no nothing. It was he who had given her such a first-class screen name—Aasha Rani. It had turned out to be lucky, just as he had predicted. He recalled the day he had re-baptized her.
They had been on their way to Niteshji’s office. Aasha Rani was so distracted staring at the smart office girls at bus stops that she didn’t hear Kishenbhai saying, “Asharani. Haan yehi naam theek hai. Aasha Rani. Dekho, when Niteshji asks you your name, don’t say ‘Viji.’ It doesn’t sound right. It’s old-fashioned and crude. Say ‘Aasha Rani’; that sounds fashionable and grand, like Devika Rani—oh ho—what a star she was. Kya cheez thi. Now, say it to yourself a few times: ‘Aasha Rani, Aasha Rani, Aasha Rani.’ I like it! Remember from today, you are Aasha Rani—Sweetheart of Millions.” The extra “a” in her name was his idea as well. “It’s different. Something new. Novelty,” he had explained to her. But what really convinced Amma was its numerological significance. The extra “a” made all the difference between success and failure.
ON-SCREEN AASHA RANI was gyrating seductively to vaguely familiar music. As the camera closed in on her face, she caught her lower lip between her teeth and moaned suggestively. Haplessly, Kishenbhai followed suit.
Aasha Rani
AASHA RANI PRESSED HER FINGER TO THE BELL AND HELD IT there. The new maid appeared, flustered and awed by her starry impatience. Without quite looking at her, Aasha Rani asked for a cup of coffee.