by Shobhaa De
Aasha Rani was shocked to see Appa. He was virtually a vegetable, not the tall, proud man she had fixed in her mind. She wished Amma had prepared her for this. Told her a little more about the state Appa had been reduced to. And the house he now occupied! A broken-down hovel with poor ventilation and no lighting. It was more like a makeshift shed with an outhouse where the lavatories were. The woman taking care of him was an illiterate—some destitute from the nearby slum colony. She looked like she probably had lice in her hair, and her clothes stank of urine. She stood there sullenly scratching her scalp and disinterestedly fanning the flies off Appa’s face. Where were the nurses? The medical help he was supposed to be getting? Aasha Rani went up to him and called out, “Appa?” He heard her voice, all right, since he moved his head in the direction of the sound. But she wasn’t sure he recognized it, or her. She put her hand gingerly on his shoulder and repeated, “Appa.” An ill-kempt parrot in a wire cage hanging from the rafters squawked once, as if in reply.
Appa was completely motionless and silent. The servant girl stood aside, bewildered by the scene. “Didn’t Amma tell you I was coming?” Aasha Rani cried. “Appa, look at me—listen to me. It’s me—Viji—your daughter. Appa—talk to me!” For five minutes or so, she just sat there at his feet, gazing at him helplessly. “Appa—say something, please. Look, I’ve brought your granddaughter, and your son-in-law—my husband. Appa, look at them.” Nothing. Jay came to stand beside her. “It’s OK, darling,” he said. “I’m sure he can hear you; I’m sure he knows you are with him. Maybe the whole thing has been too much for him. Let’s leave him alone for a while—let him absorb the shock.” But Aasha Rani refused to budge. “I can’t believe this is Appa. What has happened to him? He used to be so tall and handsome. You’ve seen his old photographs. Now he looks like a ghost, a shadow. Why didn’t Amma stay here to look after him? And where did all the money go? I used to send Amma quite a bit for his care—who took it?”
Sasha had disappeared somewhere. Aasha Rani looked around for her. “Where’s Sasha?” she asked, alarmed. Jay strode off to look for her. Just then, without warning, she heard Appa’s voice—“Is that really you, Viji?” he asked. She thought she was hallucinating. The voice was not as feeble as she’d thought it might be. It was her appa’s voice, all right. Firm and strong. She grabbed his hands and cried, “Appa! You recognized me! You know I’m here with you…yes, Appa, it’s me, Viji.” Appa’s eyes came to rest on her. “Amma told me you were coming,” he said. Aasha Rani hugged his knee. “Appa—what is this? Where are you living? And why are you living like this? I will not allow you to stay here for one more minute. Who put you in this hell? Why isn’t anyone looking after you?”
Appa was silent. She looked up at his face and there were tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m so happy,” he said, “so happy. Now I can die in peace.” Aasha Rani cradled his head in her arms, repeating, “I’m here now, Appa. I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry about anything. Now you are with me. I’ll make all the arrangements.” Jay came back with a disheveled Sasha and stood motionless, watching the scene. “Grandpa’s talking, Grandpa’s talking,” Sasha screamed, jumping up and down. The parrot began squawking. The servant woman slipped silently away.
AASHA RANI DECIDED to remove Appa to her own house in Madras. But when she got to the place to make the necessary arrangements for the ailing old man, she discovered it was locked up and in a shambles. The old caretaker who lived in the garage was lying drunk on a charpoy, with his harassed-looking wife fanning him. Aasha Rani was stunned to see how dilapidated the place looked, with weeds growing all over the garden and bird droppings covering the windows. “What is this?” she demanded furiously. The old man, Krishna, was too far gone in a drunken stupor to reply. He looked up at the visitors from the charpoy and said: “Who are you? What do you want? Go away. Nobody lives here. They’ve all gone. Gone to Bombay.” His wife, Laxmi, recognized Aasha Rani and stiffened. Then she ran into the garage and looked for the keys in an empty oil tin, rushing to open the door. She let them in, apologizing constantly and begging forgiveness. “Amma has stopped sending money,” she said hesitantly. “What could Krishna and I do? We barely survive somehow. I do housework in the area—he just drinks away whatever I earn. We are starving. The children are hungry all the time. One of them is dead. Two are scrounging around on the streets, begging, picking up leftover food from dustbins.” Aasha Rani asked her to calm down and tell her exactly what had happened. “About a year ago the money suddenly stopped coming. We wrote letters. Many letters. But no reply. Krishna wrote to Sudha akka also. But no reply. Then he borrowed money and took a train to Bombay. He met Amma. Amma said, ‘What to do? I also don’t have money.’ She sent Krishna to Sudha akka’s house. But she refused to meet him. He went back twice, thrice. He spoke to her as she was leaving the gate for shooting. She said, ‘That is not my house. This is my house. You get the money from Viji. Or Amma.’ We did not know what to do, where to go. Amma said, ‘Manage somehow.’ Krishna came back. He told me, ‘At least we have a place to stay. I will become a watchman. You find work washing clothes and utensils. We will pull along and wait for Viji akka to return.’ For some time, I tried to keep the house clean. I used to open it every week. We also looked after the garden after the mali left. But then my health failed, the child died and Krishna started drinking.”
Aasha Rani heard her out. There was work to be done. Lots of it. “We are going to stay here for some time,” she announced.
TWO MONTHS LATER, Aasha Rani received an unexpected call from Rita. “Hello, ji, I’m in Madras,” she said cheerily. “We have come for a mahurat. I was wondering, Aasha Rani, if you could come as the chief guest and sound the clapper? It will be a good way to relaunch yourself. Bring your husband—Jay, isn’t it? You’ll get a lot of publicity. You know the entire unit is here from Bombay, so many of your old friends. Also, the press wallahs—you’ll recognize some of them. Your favorite publicist and photographer are here too. We heard you were staying in Madras to look after your father, so sweet. Very good, very good. Amma told us where we could contact you. How is your little baby? What do you think, ji? It’s a very prestigious film…multistarrer…” She trailed off vaguely.
Aasha Rani was alerted at once. “Is my sister Sudha in it?” she asked. Rita coughed nervously. “Hahn, hahnji she’s there. But there are three other heroines also. You know, new girls. My husband has always given a chance to newcomers. And there are new boys. Bahut badhiya production hai. Something to be proud of, Aashaji.” Aasha Rani asked, “Who’s the hero opposite Sudha?” Rita hesitated before replying, “Bas, the same one—you know him, of course—Amar. They are the hit pair now, you know. My husband thought, Why not make another big film with them? These days top stars come and go. Five films and finish. Public bore ho jati hai. Too many problems in the industry now. Ammaji must have told you—Video-shideo, pata nahi all these problems with piracy. My husband has a court case—arrey Supreme Court tak gaye hain. Still. Financing also has changed. Baba, this television nuisance is too much. Nobody wants to go to see films in theaters. Prices are going to crash soon. Everybody is saying the industry will collapse next year. Khallas. Distributors are reducing rates per territory. Chalo, why should I bore you with all these things? You must be knowing already. Your father, poor fellow. Look what happened to him. I tell you, the film business is very dangerous. One day you are a king; next day you’re a beggar. See your poor father. Just a few years ago he was a badshah in Madras. And now. At least you are there for him. That is good. Ammaji was saying you might be interested in coming back. Sach hai? I can talk to my husband. But first, do this much for me—say yes to the mahurat shot. Publicity guaranteed. First time you two sisters will be seen together; think of that. Arrey film magazines will go crazy. Cover page ho jayega!” Aasha Rani couldn’t begin to imagine the sheer gall of the woman. Surely she must know the depth of the enmity between Sudha and herself. And to think she would go slinking over to the mahurat
to be eclipsed by her vicious little sister. Why, she had resolutely refused to visit Sudha in Bombay, even though Amma had suggested it. The silly bitch must be stark, staring mad to think she’d do it. And then it struck home with an almost physical force. But, of course, the best revenge would be to go and show she was completely unfazed by that little vixen.
“Fine. I’ll be there. Give me the details and send the car to pick me up,” Aasha Rani said into the phone.
Rita seemed slightly taken aback that Aasha Rani had agreed to the request, but she recovered swiftly and gave her the details of the function that would take place the next day.
The moment she put the phone down, nervousness took over. What had she put her foot into? What had Rita talked her into? How was she going to deal with Sudha? And Amar? But, most important—what was she going to wear? She hadn’t had the time to shop for anything. Her old saris looked faded and shabby. Her perm was well past its prime, and hung limply. Even her otherwise glowing skin looked drained of color and patchy in places. She decided to concentrate on herself for a change. Only, she didn’t know quite where to begin.
The sari part was easy enough. There was just one shop everybody went to—Nalli’s. The blouse would take some fixing, but Laxmi offered to copy one of her old ones for her. “Akka, I had started stitching for the neighbors when nobody was in Madras. All I need is a sewing machine.” As for her face, Aasha Rani decided to leave it to the experts. Without a second thought she called up the beauty parlor at the Taj Coromandel and fixed an appointment.
When Aasha Rani was finished dressing on the day of the mahurat she looked stunning and knew it. She’d picked a simple white-and-gold Mysore georgette for the occasion. Her hair was styled in a sophisticated French braid. The beautician had applied her makeup with care: just enough to get her sallow skin to look brighter. Surveying herself in the full-length mirror, she was pleased. Laxmi looked at her admiringly and told her she resembled an apsara. Aasha Rani preened in front of Appa and Jay. Both of them approved of her appearance, and Jay even whistled. Aasha Rani bent over Appa’s head and kissed him. “Wish me luck,” she said. “I’m nervous.” His eyes said it all.
THE STUDIO CAR DROVE UP at the dot of eleven. She noted with some amusement that it was a local Ambassador minus air-conditioning. The imported Toyotas were only for the real stars, she explained sarcastically to Jay. She decided to get one up on them by deliberately staging a late arrival. She’d show them. Stupid fools, indulging in their cheap power games! A star’s worth was gauged by the number of hours he or she could keep a unit waiting. Well, now they could wait for her. After all, these were the little tricks she’d learned from them. Around noon, she drank a glass of water, took a final look at herself and stepped into the waiting car with Jay. The driver stared at her in the mirror. “Weren’t you also a star?” he asked in Tamil. She smiled sweetly at him and replied, “I still am.” He laughed uneasily, and she imagined him thinking, “Not another one of those crazies.”
He screeched to a halt at the studio gate for the usual bumbling identification ritual. He turned to her and said, “Name, please,” in broken English. She rolled her window down and said, “Viji Iyengar.” The security guard looked at her curiously and waved the car on. She was surprised at herself. Why hadn’t she just said Aasha Rani? This was the first time in her professional life that she had actually used her father’s name. Still wondering about that, she got out of the car.
Rita came waddling up swathed in sea green sequined chiffon, her eyes quickly sizing up Jay. She still had the sprayed helmet of hair, only now the color was different. It was nearly blond! She patted it self-consciously into place and, before even saying a perfunctory “Hello, ji” to Jay, asked, “Like it?” Aasha Rani smiled. “Very much.” Rita burst into relieved peals of laughter. “My, my, Aasha Rani. Kamaal hai. You talk just like a memsaab these days. Bas, Mr. Jay, what have you done to her? In five years you have changed her completely, huh? Accent-shaccent. Forgotten all of us? Forgotten you are Indian?” Aasha Rani refused to react and waited for Rita to calm down. “Wah! Look at you,” Rita continued. “Still sexy. Very good. One child, no? Daughter? Good. Girls are nice. They care for you. Not like sons. Naughty fellows. Bad-mash hotey hain. Everybody is waiting for you, madam. You haven’t forgotten your star nakhras, no? One hour late! Arrey, things have changed now. Nobody waits for anybody. There are no superstars anymore. Nothing. Sab log same to same. You come on time, do your work and go. No nakhra. No khit-pit. You don’t like to work like that—OK, hundred other boys and girls are ready. Chalo—let’s meet everybody. You must be dying to see your sister. She’s too good, yaar. Everybody’s favorite.”
Aasha Rani stepped into a blaze of flashbulbs. Once inside the studio it was as if she’d never been away. It all came back: the peculiar smell of burning wires, the haze of the strong lights, the precarious scaffolding on which the light boys scampered around nimbly, the sweat and the stench of urine, the dirty floors, the enormous pedestal fans whirring noisily, and above all, the impersonal eyes staring, staring, staring. People crowding around, dying to touch you, get near you, smell you. Stale perfume on the women, extrastrong aftershave on the men, wobbly sets with pink nylon lace curtains, tackily dressed extras in mustard satin and black net slinking into the background, living for that split second the camera swept over them, and there, away from everything, the stars with their hangers-on. Someone to light a cigarette, someone to fetch a cold drink, someone to produce a chair to sit on, someone to fan the flies off. Aasha Rani sighed nostalgically. She missed it all. She took a deep breath and looked around for Sudha.
Her eyes were still searching when she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Akka,” a voice said into her ear. Aasha Rani whirled around. There she was—Sudha Rani herself. There was just one word to describe her. Gorgeous! Aasha Rani gazed at her kid sister and tried to see her through the eyes of a stranger. My God! She looked fantastic! And every inch a star. A superstar. How she had changed—not her looks as much as her expression. The haughty way she carried herself. She stood tall and proud, with a slight sneer on her lips, her eyes half-closed. Despite everything between them Aasha Rani hugged her warmly. Spontaneously. She was still her little sister, after all. For Aasha Rani was embracing the pigtailed girl who used to hold the edge of her pavadai and trail her everywhere, who used her old lipsticks and climbed into her discarded costumes. A girl who skipped endlessly in the courtyard singing some silly song. A girl who ate twenty idlis at one go and bashed up most of the neighborhood boys. Also, a girl who cried easily and was scared of the dark. A girl who came to her in a terrified state at her first menstruation, convinced she was going to bleed to death. How could Aasha Rani ever forget that little child? Sudha returned her hug cautiously so as not to smudge her makeup or muss her hair. She was dressed in a shocking pink outfit. Her head was a mass of golden curls. Her makeup was pink and gold. She looked devastatingly sexy. And Aasha Rani told her so.
Sudha pouted engagingly. “So, akka, you aren’t angry with me—are you?” Aasha Rani smiled and shook her head. “You look stunning. Absolutely beautiful. I wish Appa could see you now. How proud he’d be!” Sudha’s expression changed immediately. “Don’t talk to me about that man. Or Amma. I hate them both.” Aasha Rani didn’t have the time to react because they were both suddenly besieged by photographers clamoring for “together” pictures. “This is a big reunion, ji.” Rita cackled. “Let’s celebrate with pedas.” The pedas, when they arrived, looked as if a million flies had already sampled them. “Have, have,” Rita said, thrusting the box in Aasha Rani’s hands. “Take, take,” she urged Sudha. “Why doesn’t Aasha Rani feed Sudha?” one of the photographers suggested. “Good idea,” Rita said, and Aasha Rani obediently picked up a peda as Sudha opened her mouth just wide enough to keep her lipstick from cracking. Once again the photographers went wild.
Aasha Rani spotted Amar. He was dressed like Indiana Jones. She saw him clapping enthusiastically. He caught her watching
him and raised his cap. He hadn’t changed all that much, Aasha Rani thought. He’d put on some weight, but it suited him. His face looked broader too.
Sudha saw her staring. “Looks handsome, no?” she asked. Aasha Rani nodded. “Too much booze.” Sudha giggled. “Look at his stomach—full of beer. This morning also I said to him, ‘Darling, don’t drink just now. We have to go for the mahurat. And akka is going to be there. What will she think?’ He is very naughty. He said, ‘Theek hai, I won’t kiss your sister. That way she won’t know what I’ve drunk.’ See—he’s staying far away from you. He’s scared.”
Aasha Rani smiled. Sudha had managed to cleverly insinuate all that she had wanted to. Little sister had grown up. The industry had done a good job on her. She had become like one of them—scheming, devious and manipulative. Although she wasn’t prepared to forgive her, Aasha Rani didn’t quite blame her either. For in the film industry you were either a star—or nothing. And everywhere people waited like vultures for just one flop, one false move, and khatam—they’d pounce on you viciously and rip off your flesh before you even got a chance to struggle back to your feet. It was a cruel world. And Sudha had learned how to survive in it. Even thrive in it. Aasha Rani could gauge that just from the way the others reacted to her. The way Rita’s husband danced to her tune. Even the way she handled the press—with charming insolence. Sudha was playing queen. And playing it convincingly. She was probably the smartest person in that room. And she knew it. Aasha Rani got the impression that Sudha wanted her to know it as well.