Jump Cut

by Krishna Shastri

  He had to grant the old man one thing. He had inadvertently made sure his son could never have a career in the movies. What were the prospects for another film-maker called Satyajit Ray?

  He opened the bottom drawer of the desk, hoping to find something he could get rid of. It had a pile of identical, slim, spiral-bound books. They had blue, green or pink covers protected by cellophane sheets on top and bottom. He picked the one on top. It reminded him of the countless projects he had submitted in the late 1990s when computers were the privilege of a select few. Those days, the final destination for all things DTP was Students Xerox. On impulse, he looked at the back cover. Their inexplicable logo of a misshapen seahorse crossed out by a line was there. Some things never changed.

  He opened the book to its first page. It said:

  Boomerang

  A Film Treatment

  By T.K. Raman

  Genre: Comedy, ideal for festival circuit

  Budget: 3-4 crores

  He turned to Page 2 and started reading.

  The film starts in an apartment meant for university students in Stanford. Pavan, a teenage Indian boy, is canoodling with his American girlfriend. The room is a mess, there are beer cans and leftovers everywhere. Suddenly, the door opens and a man barges in. It is Pavan’s father. The boy looks embarrassed and the girl adjusts her skirt, makes her excuses and leaves. The father, Nitin Kumar, a software entrepreneur from San Jose, sits the boy down and has a conversation with the boy about his own life and background.

  In a flashback montage, we get to see Nitin’s life…

  Having been born and brought up in the US, Pavan is getting too Americanized in his outlook – that is Nitin’s worry. For the longest time, he has been trying to interest his son in a trip to India. When Nitin threatens him with dire consequences, the boy relents and agrees to visit India. Nitin is unaware that the real reason is that his wife has bribed the boy with the promise of a new car on his return. Nitin is ecstatic and asks his childhood friends to organize a tour of religious and historical places in India.

  Before Ray realized it, he had read the entire twenty-five-page treatment. He had to admit it. It was a funny, touching and totally believable story, complete with surprise twist at the end. It was most unlike a regular Indian film. Maybe that was why Appa had meant it for film festivals.

  He looked at the other books. All of them were script ideas and each belonged to a different genre. There were comedies, dramas, an action film and even a horror flick. He flipped through them. Every one of them had been meticulously thought out, with a clear indication of likely star cast, locations, suitable technicians and budget. Had he been a producer, and his old man had come to him, he would have given him the money in a finger-snap. But he wasn’t and his father hadn’t.

  What was he going to do with these? And what was he going to do with the chronologically arranged vintage Picturegoers and Screen Stories that his father had bought at Moore Market in his college days with money that he barely had? And the shoebox full of ideas? And the film books and biographies?

  He put the thought of clearing up out of his head. He would walk around, instead. Touch, see, feel, smell the house he had been born in, the house that had staged his bumpy life till his eighteenth year.

  It was the house his grandfather had left his mother, built with his railway pension and careful savings on the one ground plot his father had given him. Appa could never have bought it on his income. A house that wouldn’t have been his father’s if his mother had had a sibling. It had hosted two births and three funerals, so far. It was a house whose rightful owner was, finally, a dog.

  An hour later, he was further away from getting rid of anything than when he had begun. He went into his father’s bedroom, followed by Dog Raj. The bed was made, the room spick-and-span. Must have been Andal, Velu’s wife.

  He opened the drawer on the bedside table. The keys to the Godrej were there as before. On his last couple of trips, he had put his passport and valuables in there for safekeeping at his father’s insistence. Fat lot of good it would have done. If he knew his father, even the neighbours must have known where the keys were.

  He opened the grey metal bureau, a wedding gift from his other grandfather to his parents. His father’s only suit, which he got at his wedding, hung in its usual place. The blue double-knit from the ’70s had turned grey with age. He remembered the old man in it at his annual-day ceremony when he had got all those awards – a man and a suit twenty years past their time. His iridescent tie, courtesy the costume department of the film he was working on, visible from a mile away every time he had got up to cheer.

  In a rainbow-coloured stack next to the suit were his mother’s silk saris. A little after she had died, he remembered his father taking both of them to an old-age home. He had made Lakshmi and him hand out her cotton saris to a few old ladies. And when Lakshmi had got married, she had got his mother’s tiny collection of jewellery. Why had the old man held on to the silks?

  Sticking out from under the pile of saris was a rusty metal corner. Ray pulled it out. It was a photo frame, lying face down. He turned it around. Under the scratched glass was a photograph that was once in colour but time had bled the blues and yellows and left it looking like a faded rose. It was, to the best of his knowledge, the only photograph of all of them together, taken by an uncle on their holiday in Kodaikanal in the early ’90s. Otherwise, his father had been the official recorder of all family events, like the movie-maker he never became, happy to be behind the scenes.

  His sister had had the runs for three straight days after eating in the Tibetan restaurant. How disappointed he had been when they had to cut short the fun and hurry back to Madras in a night bus with a visibly diminished Lakshmi. He had hated her for it and had named her ‘Loosie’ Lakshmi.

  In the picture, his father was wearing dark glasses and a fedora. Apparently dressed for the weather but secretly trying to look like his idol, Humphrey Bogart. His mother, slender as always, was dressed in trousers and a kurta, an outfit in which she would not have been caught dead back home. Any chance his father had of looking like a south Indian shamus was ruined by the finger-horns she had made behind his hat. Then there was Lakshmi, grinning as usual, completely unaware of the atom bomb that was about to go off in her bowels. And, finally, himself, looking half-sulky, half-happy, on his mother’s lap in spite of being one size too big.

  How simple life had been.

  He was surprised by the sudden tears that washed away the resolve of his ruled notebook. What a fool he had been to think they were lines in indelible ink.

  Twenty years on, the tears came fast. He cried for his mother, who had died so young for no reason. For surviving. For having plans and leaving home. For the years wasted not holding Padmini close. For family holidays that would never be. For the children he would have who would never know their grandparents. For Dog Raj, his father’s real son.

  He cried for his father, his bound scripts and boundless enthusiasm. For his dreams that would remain unread in the shoebox. That he had allowed people to use him with a smile. That he had never once heard his son say what a wonderful father he was. That people had thought he was a loser. Most of all, that he had been one of them.

  What a fool he had been to think he could forever be prepared.

  11

  ‘I know it’s late but cud you come down? I’m outside your place.’

  Ray took a deep breath and pressed the ‘send’ option. The message escaped his phone, irretrievable as a minnow that has sprung free from a fisherman’s net. The SMS was now in airwave nowhereland, a nanosecond short of insinuating itself into Padmini’s inbox. There was no going back.

  The watchman of the apartment complex said ‘kirukku’ under his breath. But not so soft that he couldn’t hear. He couldn’t blame him. He would have thought the same if a strange man – and a dog – had got off outside his building asking to see a woman resident at two in the morning.

  He had felt exhau
sted. Twenty years of dammed tears, drained in one day, could do that. He had stopped, his eyes grittier than a Bedouin’s in a sandstorm, only when Dog Raj had licked him to an inch of his life. After that, he had literally run out of his house, mutt in tow, jumped into the lone auto on duty and headed towards Padmini’s house. He didn’t know what he had hoped to achieve but the Lab, for one, gave the impression that the unscheduled outing was perfectly in order. It had stuck his head out the entire journey, its ears flapping madly in the wind.

  That had been the easy part. The difficult part had been explaining to the security guard of Sai Nivas Apartments in Alwarpet what he was doing outside the building with a ridiculously happy dog.

  ‘I want to see Ms Padmini Balan of Apartment Five B,’ he had said to the man. The request had sounded absurd even to him.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ the guard had said, pointing to the clock with his stick.

  The digital clock in his wooden cabin said 2:04.

  That’s when he had decided to go over the watchman’s head with his mobile.

  He stood far enough from the gate so as to not be an issue for the security guard. Dog Raj strained at his leash, mesmerized by the aroma from the overflowing garbage bin. He yanked the dog back and gave it a mild whack with the back of its leash. The dog gave him a betrayed look and slunk back.

  What was he doing, standing outside Padmini’s house in the dead of the night? It wasn’t like he could turn and run. Her phone would have done its job by now. There was always the off-chance of it being switched off.

  His phone went pip-pip. It was a message from Padmini.

  ‘Look up, you idiot,’ it said.

  He did. She was standing on the tiny sit-out of her apartment on the fifth floor. The light she had switched on rim-lit her head. She gave him a wave. He waved back.

  His phone went pip-pip again.

  ‘Come up,’ it said.

  ‘How? Your watchman won’t let me,’ he replied.

  ‘Can you blame him?’ she messaged back.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’ll use my influence.’

  ‘Tks.’

  A minute later, the watchman came to the gate and beckoned him with a crooked index finger.

  ‘Sign your name, number of guests, address and purpose of visit,’ he said, thrusting a register in Ray’s face. ‘This is the first and last time.’

  ‘Should I write the dog’s name, too?’ said Ray, feeling cheeky.

  The watchman ignored him and pointed him to the lift.

  ‘Fifth floor. First door on the right,’ he said.

  There was no need for that because, when the lift doors opened, Padmini was standing there. Dog Raj leapt out of the lift and jumped on her, whining. Looking at her in her faded cotton shorts and baggy T-shirt, he had to stop himself from doing the same. He had never seen her like this and one part of him wished he hadn’t. How could he ever erase it from his head?

  ‘I’m sorry … about this,’ he said.

  ‘You look like shit,’ she said opening the door. ‘Come in.’

  Dog Raj pushed her out of the way and walked in.

  ‘Your folks…?’

  ‘Out of town, some wedding in Tirutani. They’re back tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t go?’

  ‘Had a hearing today.’

  He sat himself down on the sofa, trying not to look foolish. This wasn’t his finest hour, dressed in track pants, his hair a mess from the auto ride, and his face probably twice its size from the bawling.

  ‘You’ve been crying,’ she said.

  ‘I love you,’ he said. Another fish that would never be caught again.

  She continued scratching Dog Raj’s upturned belly. The Lab’s rear leg pedalled the air in approval.

  ‘I’ve always loved you, Padmini. From the sixth of June, nineteen ninety-one, actually,’ he said.

  Padmini looked at him without saying anything. He didn’t mind. It was his confession time, after all, not hers.

  ‘That was the day you joined Vidya Vihar. You beat me in the maths test without trying, that, too, on the first day. No one had done that before you. I ought to have hated you, but I didn’t. I was beaten by Padmini Balan, the new girl, and I loved it.’

  Padmini got up, walked over to him and sat on his lap. He could do nothing but stare at her. She rubbed his cheek and chin with the back of her hand.

  ‘You need a shave,’ she said.

  ‘What are we doing?’ said Ray.

  ‘Nothing, so far,’ she said, continuing to rub his cheek.

  He had last seen her face this close when they had slow danced at his farewell party before he had left for the US. It hadn’t changed much. With her no-nonsense cropped hair barely longer than his, she did look like a schoolgirl. It had been her style forever. They had danced the whole night then, close enough to feel each other’s breath without once kissing. Is this what their encounters were going to be? Unconsummated intimacy followed by an awkward farewell every ten years or so.

  She sat on him as though it was the most natural thing in the world. As though she had done it all her life. Through her T-shirt, he could feel her naked breasts on his face. She smelt of lotion, shampoo and girlie stuff. Even if her shorts were made of reinforced canvas she would have known how he felt.

  ‘Ah, now you’re doing something,’ she said.

  Ray felt strangely guilty, like he was messing around with a sister or cousin, but only for a moment. She held his chin in her hand and kissed him. Her mouth was perfect, too. Baby lips and Colgate breath. He kissed her back. What could a kiss do? He was wrong. The room went black and he felt like he had felt on the rollercoaster in Las Vegas, unsure of the existence of gravity.

  He put his hands inside her T-shirt to hold her and steady himself. The skin of her back felt cool against his hands. They continued kissing sloppily, greedily for a long time – like school kids who had given their chaperone the slip on an excursion. All of a sudden, Padmini turned around to sit astride on him. She made herself comfortable, then drew away from him and gave him a long, hard stare.

  ‘Ever got a lap dance from a hot Indian consumer rights lawyer?’ she said.

  He pretended to think.

  ‘No, but gave one to a fat Hispanic accountant once … male, by the way. Does that count?’

  Padmini tumbled off him and fell on the sofa, laughing.

  ‘Look what you’ve done!’ he said.

  ‘What?’ she said. Tears were streaming down her face. ‘Proved that you’re alive and can actually get it up?’

  ‘Padmini, get serious,’ he said, ‘I can’t do this. I can’t stop with … just … you know, necking around a bit…’

  ‘So who’s asking you to?’ she said. She was lying on the sofa with her feet on his lap. He rubbed the perfect little toe on her perfect little foot with his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘I can’t just come here, say the things I said, mess around with you just so I feel a little less shitty … and … and … fuck off, you know. It’s not done.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s not fair to you, that’s why!’

  ‘Why is it not fair to me?’ she said, handing him her other foot to massage.

  ‘You’re being deliberately daft. Don’t make this even more difficult than it is for me, dammit…’

  ‘You want me?’ she said.

  ‘Of course, you idiot, can’t you see? I’m about to embarrass myself here, for god’s sake.’

  Padmini jumped off the sofa and walked up to her bedroom. She leaned against her door and beckoned him with a crooked index finger, like the watchman had a while ago. But it somehow had quite the opposite effect on Ray.

  ~

  ‘Maybe we should let Dog Raj in. He’ll break your door at this rate,’ he said.

  ‘Hey, he’s your dog,’ she said. Her eyes were closed and her arms were tucked under her head. She didn’t look like she was going anywhere. He got off the bed, but not befor
e wrapping the sheet around himself like a dhoti, and let the Lab in. It promptly jumped on the bed and settled down at her feet.

  ‘Cosy?’ she said.

  He got back into bed, snuggled up against Padmini’s back, kissed her neck and looked out of her window. Through the crack in the curtains he could see a woman reading a newspaper in the apartment opposite hers. She had a coffee cup in her hand, free for a minute before the day caught up with her. He figured his life would now be divided into two parts. Till last night and from then on.

  ‘A dollar for your thoughts,’ she said.

  ‘Just wondering…’ he said.

  ‘’bout what?’

  ‘What to do next…’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of suggestions,’ she said.

  ‘Slut,’ he said, kissing her.

  ‘Go home,’ she said.

  ‘I will, after a coffee.’

  ‘No, I mean go home.’

  ‘The US?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You seem to be in a hurry to get rid of me. Was it that bad?’

  She nodded, grinning.

  ‘You have to go, right? I mean, what else is there…’ she said.

  ‘Us?’ he said.

  ‘What about us?

  ‘Shouldn’t we figure out … you know … stuff?’

  Padmini scratched his chin.

  ‘Please shave today, at least,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t want to talk about it? You want to pretend none of this happened?’

  ‘Of course not. All of it happened and I hope it happens again before you leave. It was … great … terrific,’ she said.

  ‘And then…?’

  ‘Life, Ray. And then life. You live yours, I live mine. We hopefully stay in touch more often…’

  He saw no point in continuing the conversation. After all, what did he want? He didn’t dare think it. He bent down and gave her a long, messy kiss. Then he got up and began dressing. When he turned around to look at her, he saw the schoolgirl with not a care in the world. He wondered why he didn’t feel that way.

  ‘I love you, by the way,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Now be a sweetie and give me a few minutes. Then I’ll give you coffee.’