In the midst of these celebrations, Vivek comes across a cousin’s wife who is on the verge of delivering a child. She seems very unhappy and, after much persuasion, Vivek manages to get it out of her. He is shocked by her admission: that his cousin is planning on having the child killed if it is a girl.
Against the advice of Shanti, Vivek barges in on his cousin, who is in the middle of a drinking session, and confronts him. Vivek tells him that this is the twenty-first century and that what he is contemplating – female infanticide – is savage and primitive, and that it is nothing but cold-blooded, premeditated murder. The argument escalates into a fight and soon the elders rush in to separate Vivek and his drunken cousin, who is adamant about his decision.
As Vivek is whisked away, the cousin asks him a question that stuns him: ‘How come the rules are different for your family and mine?’
That night, Vivek confronts his parents. He asks them what the cousin meant. However hard the parents try to divert him, Vivek remains steadfast. He wants an answer. What emerges stuns him beyond belief: that his mother had given birth to two baby girls after him and a midwife was employed to kill them by feeding them the sap of the oleander plant…
22
‘I’m worried about you.’
This was a new one. In his entire life, Ray couldn’t recall a single instance when someone had said that to him. He had always been ‘On-the-button Ray’, ‘first-in-line Ray’, ‘you-can-count-on Ray’ – never once ‘what’s-going-to-happen-to Ray’. Even newer, the person doing the asking – body-fluid boob-man, Abie.
‘What’s to worry?’ Ray said.
‘Your turnaround … your life … what you’re up to. Pretty scary, man.’
Ray shrugged and took a sip of the Macallan he had bought for Abie. It was a pretty good whisky.
‘No, seriously,’ Abie said. ‘A month ago, you wouldn’t have dreamt of taking an extra week off. Look at you now. You’re back here and I don’t see the faintest sign of your returning to the US any time soon. You’re running around publishing Tamil porn, being all secretive and your new best friend is some driver. Obviously, I’m worried.’
Ray looked at the studio-done portrait of the Verghese family on the wall. Abie suited and booted, Sumi made up ever so lightly with Kriti trying to get out of the frame as quickly as possible. Of all the guys, one would think Abie was the one who would understand. He had pretty nearly killed himself, and everyone around him, in his mission to bull-headedly batter the brahmin barricade behind which stood his beauteous bride.
But, then again, he understood where his friend was coming from. Risks were for the young, when bones were supple, bums bouncy, and time a trampoline that facilitated rebounds. They lent a certain charm to the taker, gave him stories to tell at cocktail parties. When they were taken by guys in their thirties, they became midlife crises.
‘The US is not going anywhere,’ Ray said. ‘It’ll be there whenever I go back. And it’s not Tamil porn, by the way. It’s a rip-off of a film. And my new “best friend” as you call him – his name is Selva. He’s pretty cool, actually. You should join us for a drink some time.’
‘That’s your comeback? That you’re a plagiarist, not a pornographer, and that I should have a drink with your new gay buddy?’
Ray burst out laughing. ‘That’s the one thing you two have in common. He’s as rabid a homophobe as you are.’
‘Okay, what is your plan, then? C’mon. You’re the great planner, aren’t you? What’s the deal? You hold a press conference, expose this Rajarajan, declare your love for Mini on national television and jump off the Adyar bridge. Is that it?’
‘I don’t have a plan. At least not one that’s fully plotted. I have bits – pieces. I know the beginning and I would like it to end in a particular way. But if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. At least, I would have tried.’
‘I’m not coming to get you if you go to jail. Please understand,’ said Abie.
‘Oh, you will, Abie. You will.’
~
The entrance was so narrow that he could only get in sideways. The woman who opened the door could have done so head-on with some space to spare. The face that could once whip out five expressions in a second, a prerequisite for any leading lady of the ’90s, could not produce even a single one now.
Ray sat on a moda while the woman leaned against a wall, her arms folded in defence against the world. It had taken him an hour to locate the tiny house in the rotting gut of Gokulapuram, a neighbourhood designed for hasbeens and never-would-bes, and a good ten minutes more to get her to let him in.
‘How did you find me?’ she said.
‘Cine View Ekalavyan,’ Ray said. He felt guilty about what he was about to do but he had learnt to compartmentalize things of late. Men on missions did that.
‘What do you want?’
He looked around. The tiny living-cum-dining area yielded a foldable metal table, two chairs and the frayed moda he was sitting on. The lone, framed photograph on the wall was of a teenage girl with a shiny trophy and a shinier smile. There was not a remnant of Sri Ramya’s pancaked past. The former actress pulled the thought out of his head.
‘Please don’t pity me.’
‘No, ma’am,’ he said, meaning it. It wasn’t pity, it was sympathy.
‘If I had to beg on the streets, which I thankfully don’t have to, it still wouldn’t be worse than my earlier life.’
‘Actually, that’s what I’m here for,’ he said.
‘So you can write about long-forgotten, wrinkly Sri Ramya living in her hovel and juxtapose my photo with Rajarajan’s with his latest bimbo?’
‘I swear, ma’am, I’m no journalist. If you have five minutes, I can tell you who I am and why I’m here.’
‘Go on,’ she said.
He began at the beginning, told her about himself, his father, Selva, Dog Raj, the stolen script and all that had happened. All except about Padmini, that is. Somehow, it did not feel strange to pour his life out before a stranger. The woman listened, deadpan, without asking a single question.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said, half an hour later.
‘And I’m sorry to be sitting here and venting when life isn’t that easy for you.’
‘You know, he wasn’t that bad to begin with,’ she said.
‘You mean Rajarajan?’
The woman who used to be Sri Ramya continued as if to herself.
She had met Rajarajan at the height of her career, an ‘A minus’ heroine (as she referred to herself, in sight of the top with no chance of getting there) in the ’90s. He was an assistant director, the fire in his gut visible as the gleam in his eye. Professional and attentive on the sets, a friend she could talk to off it. He knew all about her: her early struggles, the compromises, the affairs, the family that leeched off her and the loneliness of being an actress. What began as a shoulder to cry on turned into one she wanted to lean on. Love, or some version thereof, blossomed. Her connections and goodwill led to a directorial assignment. Then came his fame, followed by a grand wedding. Then very quickly, with every subsequent hit, grew his cruelty, the abuse, the perversions and the philandering. Then a long, well-publicized affair with Sonal, a young actress from Mumbai, who attempted suicide on his account.
The birth of their daughter did nothing to change that. He accused her of having an affair with a former lover. He said that he had always wanted a son. He said he wished he was back in his village where one got rid of unwanted daughters as easily as unwanted hair. Unable to take it any more, when she had asked him for a divorce he had thrown her out with nothing. She had left with her daughter and begun life selling the only wealth she had, the jewellery she had accumulated over the years. And here she was…
‘How do you manage?’ he said, when finally the woman’s voice faded out.
‘We live simply. My daughter gets a scholarship. We pray that none of it ever comes back. We manage.’
‘I’m curious. Why did you give up without a figh
t? I mean, when you had so much ammo on him, why didn’t you ask for a financial settlement – alimony, something of that sort?’
The woman smiled for the first time since they had met. If anything, it made her look even sadder.
‘Oh, I did,’ she said, ‘the day I left, I caught him red-handed with … this … woman. And threatened to go to a lawyer, the press, create a stink. You know what he did?’
Ray shook his head.
‘He asked the woman to wait. No, seriously, he did. Like it was an intrusion he could take care of in five minutes and get back to the job at hand. Then, he took me aside and played a videotape for me. It was like he was carrying it with him. It was of us … having sex. He said he would go public with it if I went to the press or lawyers. Make sure every shop in Burma Bazaar had it with my picture on the cover. He said he would have his face blurred or whatever it is they do. He asked me to think of what it would do to Sharanya, my daughter’s life. He said he had other tapes, too. I didn’t want to find out what they were. I left with my daughter the same day. A year later, we got a divorce through mutual consent.’
Ray didn’t know what to say. What could one say? What was the appropriate response to a man who threatened his wife with their own sex tape? A man who made films on female infanticide while contemplating it on his daughter? He wondered if his father had known the things this man was capable of. And if he did, what would he have thought?
‘Anyway, I don’t know why you are here and what you hoped to achieve,’ the woman said.
‘I don’t know what I hope to achieve, as yet, in any clear way, ma’am. But I do know why I’m here. I came to find out if there was a single redeeming feature in this man. I feel kind of sorry there isn’t,’ he said.
‘Well, if you are able to find justice, do let me know,’ she said.
‘I’ll do a little more than that, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you VIP seats for the occasion.’
23
‘Get him in here this minute!’ Rajarajan said.
Selva wondered how he hadn’t figured this out, the most likely response from his boss. This was the problem with all Indian film writers, including himself. Deciding on the conclusion first, then building unconvincing plots full of loopholes that never logically led to those conclusions. The success of his script depended entirely on RR rushing out of his office and staying out of it for a minimum of seven minutes. If his flaws were similar to those of his scriptwriting brethren, Selva figured he may as well adopt their corrective methods – the last-minute-on-set rewrite.
‘No, saar,’ he said, ‘I think it’ll be better if you go to the shop.’
‘What the fuck for? Give me one good reason why I should go to a potti kadai to see some idiot shopkeeper,’ Rajarajan said.
Selva remembered the time his headmaster had caught him. It was the day the report cards were being handed out in class. Anticipating a caning on account of his dismal failure in maths and science, he had worn three pairs of shorts, one on top of the other, to reduce the impact of the blows. Seeing the skinny boy’s butt resembling Disco Shanti’s, the headmaster had demanded an explanation.
Without missing a beat, he had burst into tears and told the headmaster that he wore all his shorts every day so his alcoholic father wouldn’t sell them to support his drinking habit. Maybe it was the innocence of the time, maybe the man was an idiot but he had bought Selva’s story. That, two days later, his teetotaller father, on being counselled by the headmaster on the evils of alcohol, had given him a hiding was another story.
‘I think you should go out … for two reasons,’ Selva said, not yet sure what even the first one was.
Rajarajan stared at his driver who was also his cousin.
‘One is that, if you go out … you will also … er … get to talk to the others in the vicinity and knowing you, saar, you’ll be able to pick up clues others can’t see…’
Rajarajan nodded. He liked any story that dealt with his greatness.
‘Reason two?’ he said.
Selva held his nose.
‘Stinky fellow, saar,’ he said, ‘bathes only once a week. Your whole room will smell like a fishmonger’s.’
Rajarajan looked at his laptop and hit the enter key.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Tell him I’m coming.’
‘He’s already waiting for you, saar,’ Selva said.
Rajarajan strode out of his room. A flunky sitting in the waiting area jumped up and followed him. Another ran to the security to tell him to open the gate. The stand-by driver opened the door of the Merc. Rajarajan ignored him. The watchman spat out the paan masala and clicked his heels to attention as his master swept out of the gate. Selva made a smooth, unnoticed U-turn and headed back to the office.
At the store, Rajarajan looked at the shopkeeper while fingering his day-old stubble. The shopkeeper continued pouring the tea from one glass to the other in a steamy brown arc. Selva’s brief to him was to keep the director occupied for as long as he could.
‘Selva said you have some news for me,’ Rajarajan said.
Selva clicked the pen drive into the USB port and waited for the instructions to pop up. He opened the minimized file at the bottom of the computer. A little spying of his own couldn’t hurt. It was a picture of Rajarajan’s new assistant, the young girl, that third-rate lawyer’s daughter whose name he couldn’t remember. She was on a beach, wearing tiny shorts and a T-shirt, with the sea behind her. A far cry from the no-nonsense ponytail, man’s shirt and trousers while at work. There was something in her expression, too, he couldn’t quite figure. He had a job to complete, he remembered. He pressed the ‘install’ button, following Ray’s instructions.
‘One fellow came, saar,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘wanting to know if I’d sold the books. When I said yes, he asked me if I wanted more copies.’
‘What, then?’ said Rajarajan.
‘I said yes.’
‘What was he wearing? How did he look? Was he walking, on a bike? What?’
‘Well,’ said the shopkeeper, considering the question. How often did one get a chance to narrate a story to a famous movie director? This was his big chance.
Selva watched the little bar that appeared when jobs were in progress on a computer. 11% complete. Six minutes and thirty-three seconds to go, it said. The shiny blue band moved slower than an art film.
‘Well, he came in a van … no, actually a tempo,’ said the shopkeeper.
‘Did you get the registration number?’ said Rajarajan.
The shopkeeper shook his head. A passer-by who recognized the movie director cut short his journey and stood so close to him that Rajarajan could feel his breath on the back of his neck. He heard him telling someone on his phone to come to the shop immediately.
‘No, but it was the colour of brinjal,’ said the shopkeeper.
‘What was?’ said Rajarajan.
‘The tempo. And the man was wearing a thalapa … turban.’
Selva straightened like his headmaster’s cane used to upon having its end released. He was so engrossed in the download that he hadn’t seen the flunky come in. He hoped the guy hadn’t noticed him staring at the laptop. Hell, he hoped he hadn’t noticed that he was alone in RR’s room with his laptop.
‘Laptop,’ the flunky said.
‘I was … er … just…’ said Selva.
‘RR wants it.’
‘Oh, now? Where?’
‘He’s at the potti kadai. Wants it now.’
Selva looked at the progress bar. It showed absolutely no concern for his urgency. 28% done, it said.
‘Why the f—I mean, why does he want his laptop at the potti kadai?’ Selva said. He had gained three more seconds. He would be caught. Death was a certainty.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ said the flunky. ‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you.’
Rajarajan wondered if he had heard the shopkeeper right.
‘Basically, what you’re telling me,’ he said, ‘is that a man in a
purple tempo, wearing a turban, who could probably be of Chinese or north-east Indian descent offered to supply further copies of Marma Manithan. Did I miss anything?’
The shopkeeper nodded. He wondered if his characterization needed further detail.
‘Wait,’ he said, as if he had forgotten something integral.
The small crowd that had gathered around Rajarajan did. One wannabe film-maker began recording everything with his mobile phone, weaving in and out, closing in on the famous director and moving away, to give his project a gritty docudrama feel.
‘What?’ said Rajarajan. He wondered how long he could subdue the pack of rabid wolves inside him which threatened to jump out and tear the shopkeeper to bloody ribbons.
‘He … er … he spoke to someone on the phone,’ the shopkeeper said, ad-libbing.
‘Any names, details?’ said Rajarajan. His eye caught a magazine hanging in the shop, a racy Tamil weekly. The cover had a picture of some politician’s head on a donkey’s body. The way things were going, RR wondered whether that would be him next week. Maybe the scum who was filming him would beat that and get him on YouTube.
‘Yes … er … it was … um … someone called Guj … lir,’ said the shopkeeper. He made up the name using a combination of his pawn broker’s community and the Liril soap on his shelf. He was on song. He wondered if he ought to give films a shot.
‘Gujlir? Are you sure?’ Rajarajan said. The guys at home would have a lot of broken glass and ceramic to deal with.
Selva picked up the laptop and followed the flunky. The bar said 46% complete. He had two options: pulling out the pen drive and cancelling the download or taking this insanity as far as he could. He thought of Ray and his father, Raman-ayya. He decided to take the latter. When the flunky turned around, there was no sign of Selva.
‘I’ll show you pictures on my computer, tell me if the man who came here is one of them,’ Rajarajan said, remembering the disgruntled AD he had fired, coming to his house in the middle of the night with a couple of drunken friends. That had got him into the habit of keeping a list of likely troublemakers in his computer – addresses, photos, phone numbers and any other info.
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