Bollywood Nights

by Shobhaa De

  “It’s all my money. The film is mine, the idea is mine, the story is mine. I have acted in it, the credit goes to me; why should I part with more? I took the risk. I gambled. Now I’ll decide what to do with the money I’ve earned,” she had said emphatically.

  It wasn’t long before the word was out. She had ignored the phone calls, even one from the Shethji warning her about the potential danger of the game she was playing. The underworld don had phoned personally to tell her to come clean with the accounts, or else. “I make more in two hours than the amount you are risking your life for. Think carefully—is it worth all this?” he had said to Sudha. Sudha had lied through her teeth, saying she’d played it straight. The don had rung off after delivering a final threat: “We’ll find out whose hisaab-kitaab is right.” Soon after, things started going horribly wrong.

  SUDHA’S VAN HAD BEEN SPEEDING along the eastern highway when she’d found the road blocked. She’d thought there was an accident and told her driver to honk. He’d realized before she had that it wasn’t an accident. He’d tried to swerve the vehicle to the other side of the road, spin it around and get away. But before he could, the two front tires of the van were blown out and it had skidded and overturned.

  Sudha had scrambled out frantically and started running, shouting for help. She could see the squatters’ colonies along the edge of the road, and a taxi stand just twenty meters away. The highway wasn’t deserted. The usual midmorning traffic of goods-laden trucks, interstate cars, company buses, auto rickshaws and pedestrians flowed past as they did every day. At least five hundred onlookers had watched as two armed men chased after her, firing shots in the air. Nobody had bothered about the driver, who had been trapped under the van. Sudha had stumbled as her sari kept getting caught under her feet. Then she fell as the heel of her sandal snapped.

  The men had ambled up. One of them slowly pulled out a hip flask from his back pocket and poured it over her. Whiskey. Then, lighting a match, he had tossed it casually on her and sauntered off. The other man had waited to make sure her clothes were on fire before he too laughed and moved off in the direction of the waiting Maruti. Sudha’s heart-wrenching screams for help had been heard by dozens of people: shopkeepers along the highway, the slum dwellers from the swampy, marshy colonies on the other side, and motorists driving by, carefully diverting their vehicles to avoid the burning bundle in the middle of the road. It was only after the Maruti disappeared from view that a few people had ventured to come to Sudha’s rescue and to see what had become of her driver.

  Sudha had been admitted to the nearest hospital with sixty percent burns. A shopkeeper who had a tiny cold-drinks stall along the highway was the only one who had displayed great presence of mind by pulling the tarpaulin off his shop and swathing her in it. Meanwhile, somebody had phoned for an ambulance. A passing police control van spotted the crowd and drove up to find out what was going on. At the sight of the police, the crowds melted away. Nobody was willing to give a statement. Nobody wanted to get involved. Sudha had been identified easily enough because of her van. Along that highway everybody knew precisely which car belonged to which star. It was a familiar sight for them, particularly the urchins, who harassed the stars daily when their cars stopped at the traffic lights. Sudha’s driver was dead. She herself was in no condition to tell the police what had happened. And, as was standard in Bombay, there were no witnesses.

  The police tried to bully the shopkeeper who’d saved her life to describe the sequence of events. But he begged and pleaded with them to spare his life, saying, “If they find out who told you—I’m finished. I’m dead. I have a family—small children. Have mercy. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything.” It was impossible. Nobody would even divulge the number of the car in which the killers had gotten away. The police tried to induce some of the children who’d been present to give them more details. They were sure the kids would be able to recall the plate number of the Maruti. One child started repeating it, but was immediately silenced by an older brother, who slapped his wrist and dragged him away. There were no leads.

  Amar had lapsed into deep shock after the incident. It wasn’t clear, though, whether this was on account of what had happened to Sudha or the thought that he would have to face a police interrogation. The police had a tough time getting him to speak. Finally, the doctors advised sedation, and he was admitted to a clinic near his house. It was feared that somebody might try to get him as well, and so his room was guarded by armed policemen.

  AMMAHAD INITIALLY ARRIVED to stay in the hospital with Sudha, but her frail physical health meant that she was more hindrance than help. Amma was told to return to Madras. Finally, it was Kishenbhai who had done all the running around as Sudha hovered between life and death for over a fortnight. Her fans maintained a day-and-night vigil outside the hospital. Bottles and bottles of blood were willingly donated by total strangers. News about her attempted murder made it to Doordarshan. Progress reports were issued daily. The film industry rallied around too, which surprised everybody. Daily statements were issued by costars, producers, directors and others, voicing their concern and support. But the message was clear: Sudha was out of the film industry—forever.

  Sudha had sustained severe burns all over, including her face. She was to have plastic surgery after the skin grafts. When she was declared out of danger Amma had taken her to Madras for further treatment.

  AFTER KISHENBHAI LEFT, Aasha Rani sat numbly for a long time. The news had devastated her. Sudha’s incredible ambitiousness had toppled the family. Kishenbhai was right. Almost everybody in the film industry would see it that way. But could they really place all the blame on poor Sudha? Hadn’t they all a share in it? Amma, Appa, Kishenbhai…and she herself?

  She tried to calm down, but she could feel only despair. Nothing could get worse than this. And all this while a single thought kept surfacing: It was up to her to resurrect the family. She couldn’t do it, she thought despairingly; she didn’t have the strength, the resources, the courage. But what could she do? She couldn’t go back to London, to the mercy of the men (the High and Flighty, as Shonali called them) she had entertained. She couldn’t revive her marriage. What then? Perhaps she could go to Australia. There were so many people like her there: displaced, moneyed, lonesome. She’d be one more immigrant. That was all. An oddball, yes. But she was doomed to be that anyway. Perhaps she’d be an even bigger one here in Bombay.

  New York? Never. It reminded her too much of Akshay and his plans of running away from the Bombay film industry. Making it big in America together as hotshot producers of those dreadful ethnic programs. Fleetingly she thought of Akshay. Remembering the time he had come to her, escorting two brats with streaked hair, streaked jeans, streaked American T-shirts and, possibly, streaked minds. She’d complained about it to him later and had told him that he sucked up to the goras. “OK, in that case, why don’t you and I make films for them? Good films. Classical dance, music, temples, monuments. Let us show them our country as it is!”

  “As it is?” She’d laughed again. “Are you joking? We’d have to show all the rubbish in that case. We can send them our art films—why should we bother to shoot anything? Let them see the filth, poverty, disease, corruption.”

  Akshay had looked away at the sea and said dreamily, “That is the trouble with you. No romance. No idealism. You see only ugly things, remember ugly things. India is also beautiful. We can make it beautiful, you and I.”

  From her hotel room she could see the same sea that had captivated Akshay so many years ago. As always, the rocky coast was full of young couples, some hiding under sun umbrellas, and others seeking what little privacy they could by hiding behind the woman’s sari pallav. Foolish people, Aasha Rani thought. It couldn’t be too much fun making love here—not with tiny crabs scuttling out of the crevices and biting unwary toes. And the urchins! Merciless.

  Yet Aasha Rani envied them. She had all the privacy in the world, a luxurious, air-conditioned bedroom, mus
ic at the touch of a button, fluffy pillows, but not a person in the world to turn to. Slowly the scene in front of her eyes blurred as her mind occupied itself once more with the problems that threatened to engulf her. In the late afternoon she made her decision. She wouldn’t run again.

  At the Indian Airlines office, the queues were never-ending. Indifferent clerks sat around chatting and paid not the slightest attention to passengers thumping the counters. “Computers are down,” they announced indifferently before disappearing somewhere. Nobody was sure when the flights were due or likely to take off—if at all. An A-320 had come back after a tire burst; another had reported a bird hit. It was hot beyond belief. The air-conditioning had malfunctioned. Aasha Rani nearly suffocated on the combined stench of stale cigarettes lying uncleared for days in ash bins, sweat evaporating from polyester shirts, sticky betel leaf spittle, and the damp odor of carpets continually soaked by leaking machines. God, it was all so depressing. How was she to cope with what awaited her in Madras?

  Things were even worse than she had imagined when she got home. For one thing Appa’s health had deteriorated badly. When she saw him lying very still in bed, his eyes hooded and his breathing irregular and heavy, she knew he wouldn’t last much longer. The realization was almost too hard to take. He hadn’t been much of a father, but in the last couple of years she had begun to accept him. Even understand him a little. The anger, the sense of betrayal—had vanished. Not just toward him, but Amma too. It was just that her parents didn’t know better. They’d tried in their own foolish way to bring up the children as doughty street fighters, something they themselves must have been in their early years. But with Sasha in her life, Aasha Rani knew that parenting wasn’t only about survival lessons. It was also about something called love. Maybe in their twisted way, they too had loved their children, but there was no memory of it in Aasha Rani’s mind. The bitterness had gone, however, and was replaced with something that was nearly affection. And Amma? The feisty old battle-ax was reduced to a bag of bones. A depressive with fading memory and humiliating incontinence. Two wounded veterans waiting to die.

  Appa, however, still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Sensing someone standing beside his bed, he slowly opened his eyes. Seeing Aasha Rani he grew excited and agitated. He managed to convey to her that there was something he wanted her to read. He told her where she would find it.

  Locked away in a tiny tin box full of peculiar odds and ends, she found a sheaf of papers. The handwriting wasn’t Appa’s—he’d obviously dictated it to someone. Aasha Rani read through it slowly in Appa’s presence. Then she read it once again. Appa was watching her face throughout, his eyes shutting, in spite of himself, from time to time. It was a letter—a farewell letter. In it Appa had begged her forgiveness and tried to explain some of the circumstances in his life that had led to ugly decisions. Decisions that had hurt her and her mother and the others. Aasha Rani had tears in her eyes as she read her father’s words. She wanted to comfort him, hold him in her arms and say it was all right. And that, in any case, it was much too late. She didn’t expect him to make amends. Not at this stage. She had made her peace with him.

  It was the last paragraph that stunned her. Appa outlined his master plan in it. The studio was hers. It had been hers all along. Only the solicitors knew it. Not even the creditors. When he closed it down, the title stayed with him. He was bankrupt, the studio was boarded up, all the movable assets sold—but the name and the premises—they were both Aasha Rani’s. He had refused to sell both. Oh yes, there had been offers. Many offers. From the other owners of studios in Madras—the Big Eight, as they were called. The goodwill was there. The banner still carried weight. People continued to see his old films when they were reissued. He held all the copyrights. There were people in the industry who were willing to back the name—the name that had given so many superhits—the name that now belonged to Aasha Rani.

  There was one condition. She was not to sell the property. It was built on land that would fetch a phenomenal price—but he hadn’t kept the studio all these years for her to sell the ground it stood on! Oh no! He could have done that a long time ago. When he desperately needed money to pay off his debts. When he was forced to sell his house and move into a shabby little shack. When he didn’t have the money to foot his hospital bills. But he held on. And waited for the right time.

  Aasha Rani had to promise him that she would resurrect the family banner and reopen the studio. The film industry was thriving. There were more films being made than ever before. The market was buoyant. And he was confident she could do it. She would immortalize their family and make a permanent contribution to cinema. That was his legacy to her. The only legacy he had left to give.

  Aasha Rani didn’t know what to say or what to think. How could Appa do this to her? It just wasn’t fair. How on earth could he think she’d want to get involved in this racket just to keep his banner flying? What did she care? Her own experience with the film industry had been foul. It was riddled with unscrupulous people: sharks, thieves, blackmailers and double-crossers. She didn’t want Appa’s studio and all the groveling that went with it. She didn’t even want to be associated with an industry which had given her nothing but pain, hurt and anguish. Didn’t Appa realize what he was putting her through? But looking at the old man lying there, pinning her with his rheumy eyes, she knew she had to put on a brave front, if only to ensure he could die in peace. “This is fantastic, Appa,” she said softly to him. The old man nodded and shut his eyes, contentment on his face.

  Alone in her room, the doubts returned to plague her.

  If only there were someone sensible she could have discussed them with! Someone she trusted. Whose judgement she valued. Jay? What would Jay know about running studios in India? Besides, she doubted very much that he cared one way or the other. Not in the way husbands were supposed to care. How were husbands supposed to care? Aasha Rani wondered. She thought she knew. Though it was something she was unlikely to experience. It was also something that had passed Amma by. Yet, ironically, nearly every film she’d acted in extolled the husband-wife relationship and spoke of the perfect understanding that two committed people shared within this sacred relationship. Baloney—as her Brit friends might have said.

  She hadn’t seen a single happy marriage. Not one. You either used or got used. You dominated or got run over. It was that simple. Amma talked of her own parents and their wonderful love. But Aasha Rani had never known her grandparents. At times, she’d observed “ordinary” people going about their mundane lives. They seemed satisfied enough. Perhaps it was the environment in the film industry that bred a certain madness. Nobody, not a single person, was “normal” or even reasonably at peace. She used to wonder about that sometimes. There were other jobs in the world which were equally stress-ridden, equally demanding, but those people weren’t crazy. Film people were. Everybody said so. The trouble was, film people met only other film people. And they really believed that it was everybody on the outside who was crazy. How often she’d heard them say that everyone who couldn’t get into the film industry was jealous and criticized them because they were jealous. Everybody in the great out-there wanted to join the movies. Become film stars. Those who made it were somehow privileged. And those who didn’t were forever condemned. All criticism was inverted envy. Bas.

  At one time in her life, she’d been a party to the delusion too. She wasn’t sure when she’d jumped out of the cuckoo house and discovered exactly how lopsided her views were. How far removed from reality. She’d felt sorry when that had happened. She had wanted to run out and hug all the old fantasies, the old defenses, to herself. She wanted to hear the words, the great upper film people constantly repeated to each other: “You are great, yaar. Too good! You are the best. No one to touch you.” She used to think so too. The best. Too good. Yes—that was her. Aasha Rani—Sweetheart of Millions.

  She remembered meeting an old actress once. The woman had frightened her with her hollow, empty eyes a
nd bitter words. She’d been number one in her time. Stunningly beautiful and a good singer too. Now on the wrong side of fifty, she was still single (“a bachelor girl,” as she preferred to describe her status), still looking for a dashing middle-aged Prince Charming. She used to come for the odd film function, escorted by an octogenarian mother who would survey the room with her cataract-ridden eyes (“Everybody is after my girl; I have to be careful,” she’d say). And while Savita (who was actually a Muslim with an assumed Hindu name, as were many other stars of her generation who thought they wouldn’t be accepted if they were called Iqbal or Shaheen) continued to mourn the only heartbreak in her life, her contemporaries mocked her, called her a hag, a buddhi. Maybe she would have been better off with her first love, a Hindu hero with whom she’d started her career in the industry’s biggest Technicolor production of that time. But her mother had objected violently. Two years later he had married another heroine, leaving Savita to wallow in regret and longing forever.

  How grotesque she had looked. Still playing the eternal coquette. Her makeup was antiquated, her hairstyle the same as during her first hit. Loaded with jewelry and clad in frenetically overdone saris, she had looked like a faded and faintly batty bride whose groom had stood her up at the altar. Thank God, Aasha Rani thought to herself. She’d spared herself that, at least. She had married. Her womb had been filled. She had a daughter. She had escaped.

  THE NIGHT AASHA RANI MADE UP HER MIND to see Sudha, it rained in Madras. She woke up to the sound of thunder outside. She’d been dreaming she was dancing on an enormous stage. She was alone—no musicians, no audience. In her half-awake state she thought the gods were providing the percussion. It was a mridangam from heaven that broke her trance, and she found herself wide-eyed, alert. The thunder was followed by lightning. How beautiful it must be on the beach, she thought. She breathed in deeply. Her nostrils filled with the fragrance of damp earth and she was back in her childhood, huddling close to Amma, giggling with Sudha, conspiring how best to sneak out and get drenched. Unseasonal rain. What was it? A squall somewhere else? A depression in the Bay of Bengal? Predictably, the weathermen had not mentioned rain.