‘Mine’s an ML 350. Way better.’ Ray did his best American accent.
The couple skulked off towards the metal detector like they hadn’t heard him, their smiles erased.
He put his hand on the driver’s shoulders. ‘Relax.’
From the bench outside the potti kadai to the boutique hotel in Mount Road, it had taken under an hour. Three cigarettes and two teas later, Ray had thought it okay to take the friendship to the next level. ‘What, Selva? Fancy a drink?’ he had said.
Selva had given him a look that had lasted for a couple of seconds. ‘You are not that type, are you, saar?’ he had said.
When Ray hadn’t understood, Selva had done a series of moves – starting with a chin mudra and a headshake, followed by a couple of throaty sighs with lower lip bitten – leaving no doubt whatsoever about the type he was referring to.
‘Heavens, no,’ Ray had said.
‘Appo, okay.’
In the hotel, the crisp hundreds at regular intervals did the trick. Ray and Selva were shown to the best table in the bar, the one that had the clearest view of their resident soloist – a leggy east European saxophonist in a flaming-red micro-mini.
‘Super,’ Selva said.
‘So, tell me about your boss.’
‘Why are you so interested in that bastard, saar?’ said Selva. He looked at the perfectly useless stirrer in his whisky and deposited it on the table.
‘You know us NRIs, obsessed with films,’ Ray said. ‘Give me some juicy stuff so I can tell my friends back home.’
Selva finished three-quarters of his Black Label in one sip and made a face.
‘This imported stuff is like water.’
‘So have five,’ said Ray.
‘So … you want gossip. Ok, how about this? Rajarajan and I are cousins.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Ray.
‘Mother promise, saar.’
Selva gulped the remainder of his drink and put up a hand for the waiter. Ray looked at his own full glass and took a monster swig.
‘Really, saar. That bastard’s mother and my father are cousins. We are from Vallivanam, near Madurai, you must have heard of it. Famous for the Sivan temple,’ Selva said.
The waiter brought two more whiskies. Ray gulped the remainder of his. Selva held his up to the light and looked at the saxophonist through it.
‘Super, saar,’ he said.
‘Then?’ said Ray.
‘Listen to this…’ said Selva. His glass was half empty again. ‘It was my father, my father, who helped him come to Chennai, you know?’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. When this bastard was a boy, he was always acting in dramas, koothus everywhere. When he expressed a desire to come to the city, it was my father who encouraged him. “Nalla nadikkiraan, paiyyan,” he said, and gave him money. His family didn’t have eight annas to stick on a corpse’s forehead. My father supported the bastard for a year after that, sending him money. And see how he repays us!’
‘I don’t get it. How did … you … become his driver?’
‘Vidhi, saar,’ said Selva, his mouth full of chicken tikka. ‘Fate. A few years on, my father died and we were broke. Don’t ask why. So I came here to ask Mani … that’s his real name … for help. He was a big fellow by then. I was school first, saar. I used to write poetry in Tamil. Was hoping he would help me become a lyricist or a screenwriter. He made me his driver instead.’
Ray gestured to the waiter this time. He could see that Selva needed another drink.
‘If you want to be a driver, work here,’ said Selva, his imitation of Rajarajan bang-on, ‘otherwise, empty the place you are occupying. I had no choice. I was from the village, knew no one. Had a brother who was studying and a sister of marriageable age. So I took the job. That was three years ago.’
Selva lifted his hand for the waiter and stopped halfway, waiting for Ray’s okay.
Ray gestured to the waiter, who came up to their table.
‘Sir, last order, sir. It’s going to be eleven p.m.,’ he said.
‘Shall I order a couple more?’ said Ray.
Selva shook his head. ‘Enough here, saar. I’ll take you to a better place. You’ll enjoy,’ he said.
What the hell, thought Ray.
As they left, Selva solemnly shook hands with the saxophonist.
‘Super.’
~
Selva was right. No car could have got to where they were headed – a very specific spot situated somewhere in the innards of the aptly named Palleer ‘Flash’ Nagar only he knew about.
The streets, if you could call them that, were mere cracks between the frantic, haphazard outcrops of tin and thatch. It was nearly midnight but the colony didn’t seem to care. There was a cheerful, uninterrupted flow of life coursing through its veins. Pedestrians, cyclists and hawkers shared cosy space with random vermin. It reminded Ray of a close-up view of an old man’s mouth – multi-strained bacteria coexisting within the gaps and cavities of broken teeth for the sheer purpose of causing havoc.
‘Vandachu,’ said Selva. He looked like a kid on Deepavali.
A man, separated from his lungi by a few feet, lay sprawled in welcome outside a narrow tin door painted bright blue. The large wet spot next to him was proof that he had had hundred-proof.
‘If you want to drink, saar, this is the place,’ Selva said.
He did three quick taps followed by two slow ones on the door. It opened and a large woman came out, squinting.
‘Vaayaa, Cinemakara!’ she said as soon as she recognized Selva.
Ray followed Selva who had followed the large woman into a corridor. It was so narrow that the woman scraped both walls as she walked. The passage was surprisingly long and sinuous. Where the hell was the space? They got to another door. Though it was closed, it did nothing to contain the aroma and anarchy within. The woman pushed the door open.
Ray had never seen anything like it.
The large room within, the local bar mythicized in a million B-grade flicks, was even more glorious in reality. Men in various stages of ruin stood, leaned, sat or lay on chairs, tables, the walls and the floor. To his surprise, not all were locals. There were a couple of unsteady patrons who looked like they held steady jobs in the day. The crumpled lower halves of their full-sleeved shirts were a dead giveaway that they had been tucked in all day. There was even a man in a safari suit, draped across a chair like a wet rag. The only thing the conscious ones had in common was the plastic glass in their hands, oscillating up and down with varying frequency. A couple of tawas, helmed by matter-of-fact, shirtless chefs, sizzled in the background – frying eggs and meat in large dollops of oil to coat battered intestinal linings. One painfully thin man in shorts and vest danced melancholically to the song on the stereo. It warned of a woman who could stab you to death with her dagger-eyes.
A preteen boy in khakhi shorts and an oversized T-shirt appeared at their table. He sported a professional air and a pencil behind his ear.
‘Usual-aa?’ he said.
‘Half Napoleon, two half-boiled, one mineral water,’ said Selva.
‘Who’s the saar?’ the boy said.
‘Go, do your job,’ said Selva, giving the boy a whack on the head.
The boy weaved away from it like a champion flyweight and was back in a flash. He slammed the half bottle of brandy, the eggs, a couple of plastic glasses and a bottle of water on the table. Ray picked up the water. The label said ‘Acka Beena Pure Mounten Spring Watter’.
The fine print confirmed his worst fears. It was a bona fide product of Palleer Nagar. He hoped the germs in it would be killed by the brandy.
Selva poured two liver-ceasing shots into the plastic glasses, yanked out the seal on the water bottle with his teeth and spat it out. The blue plastic strip spiralled through the air and landed on a neighbour’s plate. That gentleman promptly picked up what he thought was the garnish on his chicken, chewed it and swallowed it with a swig of his drink.
Selva
shrugged and added a few ml of water to the Napoleon. Ray wondered if this was his Waterloo.
‘Cheers,’ said Selva, giving Ray’s glass an enthusiastic tap with his. He downed the drink in one swig and followed it up with a mouthful of the ‘half-boiled’ which was really scrambled egg.
‘Now, tell me, saar,’ he said.
‘No, you tell me,’ said Ray.
~
‘Will you be able to drive?’ said Selva.
Ray looked at his new friend. It was around three in the morning and Selva was leaning against a lamp-post in what he thought was a nonchalant manner. His third attempt at lighting a cigarette had failed.
‘I’m fine,’ said Ray.
He was, after two whiskies and several Napoleons. He wondered why.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Not far away, Santhi Colony.’
‘Knew a man who lived there once. Gem, saar. He was a real gem.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Raman. T.K. Raman. I dropped him off a couple of times. A great writer. Used to encourage me. Know him?’
‘Somewhat.’
‘How? Neighbour-aa?’
‘It’s late. Let’s talk tomorrow.’
‘Promise?’ said Selva, letting out a series of short burps.
‘Promise.’
A little later, Ray switched on his laptop. The Napoleon, the Acka Beena and the ‘half-boiled’ were having a heated argument inside him but he couldn’t afford to miss out any detail from his night out.
He began to type.
Rajarajan: A Life
1. Real name: Mani. Telugu Naidu pretending to be Tamil. Came to Madras to become an actor (’98-’99?).
2. Joined veteran film director K. Balakumar as assistant. Met and wooed actress Sri Ramya, eight years his senior. Biggish heroine of the ’80s doing character roles then. Married her the following year.
3. Using her contacts, got himself a producer and made debut film. A moderate hit.
4. Usurped a project from Balakumar, his mentor, when he fell ill. Movie was a super hit.
5. Began a torrid and open affair with Sonal, a north Indian actress doing Tamil films. Separated from his wife and daughter, threw them out of his house.
6. Began divorce proceedings and managed to get rid of wife without proper alimony. His lawyer – Ananth Sundaresan (his exercise partner).
7. Dumped Sonal after promise of marriage. She is rumoured to have had an abortion. Failed suicide attempt.
8. Treats his staff and collaborators like dirt.
9. Has relied on T.K. Raman for several of his stories, dialogue and screenplay. The man died suddenly.
10. A habitual womanizer, preys on young girls. Heavy drinker. Known to have experimented with drugs.
11. Has a laptop that never leaves his side. Has poor eyesight.
12. His last film was Arali. Critical and commercial success. Suddenly the press and the film industry are calling him a saviour.
13. Currently working on a sixty-crore project (his most expensive film) for BKR Films, veteran film producers known for their conservative approach.
14. RR is obsessed with JLo. Go figure.
Now all he needed was a plan. The World Wide Web was as good a place to start as any.
16
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ Ray said.
‘Editor Mouli is an old friend. He said you were keen on meeting me,’ said the man.
He looked at the small man in Bermudas, supposedly eighty-three, oscillating expertly on the anachronistic swing in his otherwise modern apartment. Ray was glad. If his balancing fluid was anything to go by, he would have the memory of a twelve-year-old schoolgirl.
All searches on the internet had led Ray to him. Word was, if you needed to know anything about Tamil films – history, legend or rumour – ‘Cine View’ Ekalavyan was the man. Mouli had managed to arrange a meeting with the now retired and reclusive cinephile.
‘There’s a fair bit of reel in his stories but there’s nothing he doesn’t know,’ Mouli had said.
Half a century ago, fresh out of English (Hons) at Presidency, Ekalavyan had started off as a cub reporter in Cine View, south India’s first English-speaking film glossy. The mag had died but the prefix had stuck. He had cut his teeth in the days of the big studios like Gemini, Venus and AVM, graduated alongside the new order of Sridhar and Balachander, predicted the superstardom of Kamal Hassan and Rajinikanth, attained senior statesmanhood during the Mani Ratnam–Rahman era and dissolved into retirement as the corporate–politician nexus had taken over Kollywood. A few years earlier, in a rare show of good sense, the government had recognized his contribution as a film historian and given him a grant to publish his works and put up a website.
‘Shoot,’ said Ekalavyan.
Ray felt slightly giddy, looking at the octogenarian swinger. But the previous night’s bender with Selva was probably more to blame.
‘Basically, I’m interested in BKR Films, sir,’ he said.
‘Everything you want to know about them is in my book … Tamil Cinema: A History, Volume 1. Why don’t you read it?’
‘If it’s all the same, I’d rather hear it from you, sir,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Well, I’m kind of writing a book, sir. Part-fact, partfiction. Set in the Tamil film industry. Just need an insider’s view, one-on-one, if you know what I mean.’
‘You young fellows are the same,’ said Ekalavyan, looking at the clock. ‘The other day, this girl said she was a journalist. Came and ate my brain for two days. What’s this director’s real name? Why did so-and-so not do that film? Did that fellow have an affair with this actress? Full of questions. And on the third day – just disappears. Rang her up a week later. Know what she tells me? “I’ve got an IT job, better pay, so no more interview.” She just quit, mid-story. What kind of commitment is that, huh? Waste of my bloody time.’
‘You have my word, sir. I’m serious. I won’t waste your time,’ he said.
Ekalavyan clicked his tongue.
Ray got up, reading this as dismissal.
‘Well, thanks for seeing me anyway, sir,’ he said. ‘Please accept this as a token of my appreciation.’
Ekalavyan looked at the small gift-wrapped box in Ray’s hand.
‘What is it?’ he said, taking it.
The old man unwrapped the parcel with quick, economical movements. Top-notch fine motor skills, too, Ray noted. What was the old guy eating?
Inside was a box of premium Cuban cigars. Ekalavyan stared at him a beat longer than required.
‘Heard you liked them, sir,’ he said.
~
Fifteen minutes later, Ekalavyan and he were seated on the steps of the gallery on the edge of the Loyola College cricket ground. The skyscraper that housed the old man’s apartment loomed in the background like a disapproving aunt. It was four in the afternoon, the sun beat down on them, and there was no match in progress.
The man took a gentle drag of the cigar and opened his mouth. Ray could see the smoke swirling around in it. He made a note to thank Mouli for the Cuban tip, not to mention the friendly gent from Burma Bazaar who had home-delivered the contraband in under two hours. For a price, of course.
‘My son will kill me if he sees me smoking,’ he said, ‘but he’s an ass.’
‘BKR Films, sir? If you don’t mind…’
‘Not at all, you have established your credentials,’ he said, waving his cigar at Ray.
Ray waited for him to savour the tobacco some more.
‘BKR Films. Established in 1953 with super-hit film Bhale Rangan. Reddy family from Nellore, actually. They were on par with Gemini and AVM in no time. Methodical, organized, had a story department just like MGM and Warner Bros. Genuine Moguls. Always paid by cheque. Made only about forty-five films, I think, in the last sixty years or so. They could have made twice as many. Only three flops, can you believe it.’ Ekalavyan blew perfect smoke rings in the direct
ion of his apartment block.
‘How come they’re still around, able to withstand the onslaught of politicians and big corporates?’ said Ray.
‘Planning, pa. Pukka planning. These people never followed trends, didn’t chase superstars or build subjects around them. Waited for the right subject. If it was ready, they would make a film. If not, they would sit it out. Not like today’s fellows. Assembly-line idiots.’
‘I hear they’re making a movie with Rajarajan.’
‘Yeah, I heard, too. I’m surprised, you know. The fellow’s a bit of a glory boy. BKR always hired low-profile directors. Big or new, that’s the kind they like. People who treated direction like a nine-to-five job. This fellow – I’ve never liked his films – except his last one.’ Ekalavyan gently tapped the ash off against the concrete step.
‘Arali?’ Ray said.
‘That’s it. It was almost as if someone else had done the film. Did you see it? You should. There is something crass about Rajarajan, and that kind of thing seeps into your work. Well, anyway, what I heard was that Rajarajan has been chasing them for years. Apparently, it was a childhood dream of his to direct for their banner. All bunkum, if you ask me. For some reason, it irks him, not belonging to the club of biggies who’ve worked with BKR, that’s all.’
‘What’s unique to BKR? Any gup on them?’
‘I wouldn’t call it gup. More policy, I think, but there is one thing about them,’ said Ekalavyan.
The old man paused to stare at his building. ‘Do you think my son can see me smoking from there?’ he said, pointing to it.
‘Doubt it, sir.’
‘Well, anyway, about BKR, they are ultra-conservative. They abhor controversy. By the book. That’s how the old man Reddy was those days and that’s how his son is today. You know, in the seventies, they embarked on a big-budget film. Big star, big director, big publicity. When it was half-done, some fellow came and said that the subject was demeaning to a particular group or caste or some such thing. He was just some minor politician who wanted a handout. Instead, old man Balakrishna Reddy just dropped the film. We met at some function later and I asked him, “Reddygaru, why didn’t you just pay off that fellow his paltry price and finish the film?” and he said, “No, Ekalavyan, you cannot set a precedent. If you pay one fellow for one thing, a hundred will crawl out of the woodwork for other things.” I said, “But what about your loss of lakhs of rupees?” He said, “On the contrary, I saved money in the long run. Now people will know we cannot be blackmailed.”’
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