Finally, to his right sat lyricist Chentamizh Chelvan (real name: Malapaaka Yeganna, place of birth: Tadepalligudem, mother tongue: Telugu), self-appointed protector of the Tamil language, and self-declared heir to Subramanya Bharati. Over six thousand songs in the last twenty-five years, winner of two national awards, recipient of fifteen state awards, husband to three wives, recreational user of cocaine. From Shelley to Sharat Chandra, from American TV jingles to religious hymns, from Octavio Paz to Annamacharya – aided and abetted by a horde of multilingual ghost writers, nothing and no one had escaped this pugnacious poet’s poaching plume.
All four had been picked by Debdutta De for the Pilfering Penis Lifetime Achievement Award at one time or the other.
~
The black screen said ‘Sam Prasad’ in gold letters.
Then it dissolved to a close-up of RR. From the background it was evident he was on a beach.
‘Arul? What can I tell you about him? Used to be a choir boy not so long ago. Which accounts for both his musical and sexual preferences, I suppose…’ he said.
‘Meaning?’ The voice was of an off-screen female interviewer.
‘Don’t act coy, Mona. The guy’s gay. They call him “bum boy”,’ RR said.
‘But doesn’t he have a wife and kids?’ said the voice.
‘For a big executive, you’re naïve, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, a couple of months with me and you’ll be up-to-date on how this industry functions.’
‘Tell me some more about this Sam Prasad fellow,’ said the voice.
‘Well, for starters, the guy doesn’t have a single original bone in his body. He’s mostly hanging around in the Middle East with one of his “assistants”. Interviewing upcoming bands, he says. Flicking the poor bastards’ demo CDs is what he’s doing. Check out YouTube, you’ll see a bunch of Sam’s hits juxtaposed with the originals.’
‘What else?’ said the voice, chuckling.
Rajarajan began to talk but was interrupted by his own laughter.
‘What?’ said the female voice. She laughed, too.
‘The guy … the guy apparently loves to dress up…’ Rajarajan had to stop here to hold back uncontrollable mirth. ‘You know, make-up, lip gloss etc., and receives his boyfriends wearing nothing but a Victoria’s Secret negligee from their latest collection…’ Here, RR again lost the battle with his glee.
‘C’mon!’ said the voice, joining in the laughter.
‘…and a blonde wig!’
~
In Selva’s favourite movie ever, there was a scene in which Superstar Rajini, having endured much humiliation in the earlier half of the film, finally ‘arrives’, by crossing his nemesis going down an escalator, while he himself is on the other side, going up.
This was the escalator moment in his life.
Maybe he was in jeans and a T-shirt but, in his head, Selva was suited, Ray-Banned, and the More Menthol hung from one corner of his sardonically set mouth as four black-suited men holding patently fake AK47s stood behind him.
‘You?’ said RR.
‘Yes, me, your cousin, the one who would call you “Anna” when we were kids…’ Selva looked at Ray standing by the door. Ray made like the stage belonged to Selva.
‘How could you stab me in the back after all that I did for you…’ said Rajarajan.
‘Did for me? Did to me, you … you…!’
For the first time since Ray had met him, Selva’s fury got the better of his unique turn-of-phrase. ‘How could you forget where you came from? You were the son of an honest vegetable vendor in Vallivanam. Look at you now. Look at what you’ve brought on yourself.’
~
Chentamizh Chelvan.
The letters of gold on a black screen dissolved to a close-up of RR.
‘You know the guy’s a golti, right?’ he said. ‘He’s Telugu. The upholder and protector of the Tamil language is a “manavaadu”.’
‘Aren’t you one, too?’ said the female voice.
‘Yeah, I mean, true, but I’ve never hidden that and I’ve never said I’m the upholder of Tamil culture, have I?’
The off-screen voice laughed.
‘Granted. But you haven’t advertised it either,’ she said.
‘Hey, what’s this? You want me to give you the gup or are you interrogating me?’
More off-screen laughter. RR grinned in response.
‘No, no, go on. Tell me about Chentamizh Chelvan,’ said the voice.
‘That fellow is no poet. He runs a cottage industry that specializes in pilfering verse. He’s got a bunch of young chaps, you know, the khadi-wearing, beedi-smoking PhD type, beavering away for piffling salaries. Some of them have talent, actually, giving him new lines, new songs every day. The others are there to flick stuff from English, Spanish, French, you-name-it material, translate it into Tamil for our friend’s lyric factory…’
‘And what does the big man do?’
‘He’s busy. Collecting fake doctorates, thumping podiums as chief guest, managing his three wives and his multiple suppliers.’
‘Suppliers?’
‘The fellow’s a dope case. Those droopy lids don’t have anything to do with poetry, my dear. He’s stoned!’
‘A-ha,’ said the female voice.
~
So this was where it went, Chennai’s largest, most consistent produce, manufactured without respite by its willing workforce of beggars and billionaires and everything in between, come sun, storm, strike or tsunami – its waste.
Kodingaiyur dump yard was no place for a girl like her. But the dunes of waste letting off the acrid aroma of the city’s sins didn’t repel Shruti at all. Nothing could match what she had already done to herself.
She took the garbage bag from the back of her car. She had put in all that she could. The CDs, DVDs, the two external hard disks and the laptop.
She swung the bag across her shoulders and walked through the ankle-high carpet of filth to a small pile of burning garbage. She took the CDs and DVDs a small bunch at a time, and threw them into the blaze.
Aaliya, Indu, Carol … purified by the flames. The disks shrivelled, cracked and burnt, turning the unmentionable histories in them to smoke.
In the distance, outlined against the undulating horizon, a small band of people, converting litter into a living, wondered who their competition was.
All that was left was the laptop. Like Moses returning from the mountain, Shruti lifted her arms as high as she could and raised the flat grey metal cuboid up into the sky. Taking a deep breath, she smashed the computer with all her might against a boulder. The machine broke into a million bits, making a flock of marauding crows take off in a cawing black starburst.
‘Stop, ma, stop!’
It was a couple of kids. The look on their sooty, broken-toothed faces was one of horror.
‘How could you, ma,’ one of them said. ‘That could have fed us for an entire month.’
Shruti gestured to them to follow her to the car. She took her purse out from the front seat and pulled out whatever cash there was in it.
On her way back, Shruti realized that her car smelt of the garbage she had walked through. She had never felt cleaner in her life.
~
‘Tell me about Revi Vettikad,’ said the female voice.
‘That fellow-aa? He’s an internet cut-and-paste artist. Rips off from international designers. Book covers, posters, advertisements, you name it,’ said RR.
‘But hasn’t he worked on all your films?’
‘What to do? The bugger’s stuff works. His poster designs for Arali were a big hit.’
‘But weren’t they rip-offs of that Brazilian movie’s posters, forget the name. Including the tones used, the font style etc?’
‘Who cares? Poster hit, movie hit, everyone’s remuneration up.’ RR made a rocket-going-up-in-the-air movement with his hand.
‘What about his “habits”?’ said the woman’s voice.
‘Same as everyone. As o
ur friend Chentamizh Chelvan put it so “originally”, if you pour payasam into my hand, won’t I slurp it down?’
‘I won’t ask you to translate that, thank you,’ said the voice with an invisible shudder.
‘Recently, the fellow nearly died. In harness, so to speak,’ RR said.
‘Meaning?’
‘Pumped up with Viagra during one of his famous calendar shoots, our man apparently suffered a heart attack while playing horsie to one “upcoming” starlet’s cowgirl. Rumour has it that doctors had to perform two bypasses on him simultaneously … if you know what I mean.’
~
‘You and I are not that different, you know,’ said RR. ‘You’re accusing me of making secret films. What have you done? Haven’t you and that Mona, Kris or whoever they are, done the same? Tricked me into saying stuff,’ said RR.
‘Huge difference,’ said Ray.
‘How?’
‘Firstly, no one tricked you. Unlike your hidden cameras, our cameras were right there, in front of you. You just didn’t know they were on during your asides. Or if you did, you didn’t care. You felt invincible with the advance you had received and were blinded by your monumental arrogance. You were off to Hollywood, remember? You had no use for your former colleagues. You broke the covenant without a thought.’
‘Still makes you a cheat. I can sue you for the fake cheque,’ said RR.
‘Go ahead, sue me. You’re right, I am a cheat. But not in your league. Filming sex acts with underage girls with hidden cameras? Stealing scripts from people who gave you their lives? Beating up people? Blackmailing your own wife and daughter. Trampling over people, their feelings, their dignity? And all for what?’
‘Success, fame, money, power … what else, are you stupid? Look where I got.’
‘Yes. And look where you are now.’
Even from the distance, Ray could see RR’s knuckles. White against the chair they were gripping.
‘Didn’t bring your father back, did it?’
So the cornered snake still had residual venom in its defanged jaws.
‘Maybe not,’ said Ray. ‘But that’s okay with me, you know. Know why? There aren’t going to be any more Ramans, Shrutis, Sri Ramyas or Selvas for you to play with, exploit and abuse. The End. Now for the rolling credits.’
Rajarajan looked at the war zone around him that was a hi-tech theatre just an hour ago.
‘You stole my treasure, Rajarajan,’ said Ray. ‘I destroyed yours.’
34
Ray looked at the speedometer. It said 90. He quickly eased his foot off the accelerator before realizing it was kmph, not mph. Still. That the sun was a while from rising didn’t seem to matter. Both sides of the coastal road, with their redundant pavements, buzzed with the pre-coffee activity of a city that had steadily grown southwards and was now threatening to butt into the historic town of Mahabalipuram.
Dog Raj whined.
‘Why do you have to go everywhere with me?’ Ray said.
He had reversed Abie’s car into the road, gotten off to shut the gates, and the Lab had jumped into the car and settled down next to him. How Dog Raj had managed to escape from Velu’s clutches and how he had got out of the house he couldn’t figure.
‘How do you expect anyone to take me seriously if I’ve got you dribbling away next to me?’ he said.
Dog Raj gave him a guilty look. He was like a seasoned heroine now, coming up with crowd-pleasing expressions on call. There was already a small pool of drool on Abie’s pristinely maintained front seat.
Ray dialled Clive’s number on impulse. He didn’t stop to think of what time it would be in San Jose.
‘Namaste, Ray,’ said the voice at the other end.
He had trained his boss well. The ‘t’ in the ‘namaste’ was soft, something the American tongue rarely got right.
‘Guess what I’m doing?’ said Ray.
‘Getting married?’
‘Close. Crashing a wedding.’
‘Didn’t know your caper had got you that broke. Come back. We have plenty of food here for you.’
‘Not for the food, for the bride.’
There was a brief silence followed by what sounded like a gunshot. It was Clive’s explosive laugh.
‘Joanna’s going to love this. This is straight out of a Bollywood movie. The-whisking-away-the-bride-from-her wedding-and-riding-off-into-the-sunset bit.’
‘It’s not like you guys don’t do it. What about The Graduate, for starters?’
‘Easy, boy. All the best,’ said Clive, before hanging up.
Ray looked to his left, past the Lab’s resolute profile, at the sea he couldn’t quite see yet. Empty plots of his childhood now sported shuttered fast-food joints and factory outlets of international brands. The sea’s muted roar didn’t sound any different though. So much had changed, while so little actually did. The various sandy lanes at regular intervals, with their exotic names, leading to the never-ending stretch of beach, were still there. Sand Pebbles Avenue, Silver Shore Road, Blue Wave Boulevard. Back when he was in school, this was where the rich kids went in their father’s Opel Astras, in the hope of deflowering their not-so-innocent girlfriends in broad daylight. Kids of today couldn’t do that unless they were willing to have their shenanigans uploaded on YouTube by fishermen or watchmen with mobiles.
He remembered the excursion to the Crocodile Bank when they were in Class 10 or 11. Padmini, Abie, him and the gang. Having got the teachers and other reptiles out of the way, they had ended up down one of these roads. Five kids, a lot of money (courtesy PK) and a row of booze shops that didn’t know the meaning of ‘underage’. He remembered the conversation with Padmini he had had then, aided in no small way by his third glass of Old Monk diluted with Haywards 5000.
‘I’m getting the hell out of here,’ he had said. Padmini, who had been sitting next to him, with her paper cup half-filled with Old Monk and nothing else, had continued staring at the sea.
‘US of A. That’s where I’m going,’ he had said, ‘watch me.’
She had continued watching the sea and he had vomited.
Life had come full circle. He had hated all things home, gone to the US, settled down to the life of his dreams, come back for what he had thought would be a short trip, stayed on, turned his life inside out, and now, here he was, off to stop a wedding, mutt in tow, in the finest tradition of his father’s films.
‘I suppose you don’t know where Sirukoviloor is, right?’ he said.
If Dog Raj did, he wasn’t letting on.
According to Velu, the tiny town whose centre-piece was a tiny temple atop a tiny hill was at least an hour away.
‘Very powerful, saar,’ he had said, hands folded, ‘I was a sickly boy and my mother took me there for sixteen weeks. From that day, never sick. Not even cold.’
Padmini getting married was hard enough to imagine. But Padmini, wearing a kanjeevaram, getting married in some obscure temple known to cure anaemic children at a time of day that was good only for eye bags and stubbles?
Ray wondered how his father would have ended this story had it been his script. Would he have gone for a bravura finale á la Fooling Around, a movie he had made Ray watch on their rut-put VCR, or would he have gone the Dil Chahta Hai way? Like Gary Busey, crashing in through the church window with a hang-glider to stop Annette O’Toole from marrying the wrong guy, or like Aamir Khan, taking the teary speech route?
Selva could have given him an option or two from an Ajith or Vijay starrer from the ’90s when the southern demigods were okay playing the lover boy.
The old Abie would have taken the hit men route. But after the activity of the last month, and his exhausting role in it, it was more likely he would recommend a life of brahmacharyam for his frazzled friend.
Without preamble, the sun bobbed out of the sea like a swimmer coming up for air. Ray pulled over and stopped. Did people on frantic journeys to stop the love of their life from marrying the other guy do that? He could imagine the expre
ssions on Selva’s or his father’s face if he had suggested such a thing at a script discussion.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a sunrise over the Bay of Bengal. In fact, he realized he had never seen a sunrise over the Bay of Bengal.
The sun came out looking like a runny Sunkist orange that wouldn’t have made it past quality control, leaked some juice all over the water and smudged the sky. It lingered on the water’s edge for a second and took off upwards, messing up the monochromatic sky in its wake.
Dog Raj whined, reminding him of the job at hand.
‘Not big on sunrises, I see.’
With one piss-stop for Dog Raj, after having turned westward off a road far too efficient for the Indian motorist’s trigger foot, through a winding country road with picture-postcard fields on either side, about two herds of cattle, one herd of pilgrims in red shirts and seventy to eighty kilometres later, the Honda stopped outside a hill with roughly hewn steps leading into what looked like the sky from the driver’s seat.
A couple of cars and a Tempo Traveller were parked on one side. The marriage party had obviously arrived. There was no sign of Abie’s Accord, though. A temple florist measured a sparsely populated string of jasmine from index finger to elbow with the precision of a computer-generated loop.
Ray got out of the car. Taken out of the viewfinder that was the car’s window, the hill seemed far more surmountable. A muted pi-pi-pi-dum-dum-dum on warm-up mode signalled the approach of the muhurtam.
‘Enna thambi, kalyanaththuka?’
Ray nodded at the efficient flower lady.
‘Here.’ She proffered a pre-packed basket.
Ray looked at what was obviously the must-have kit for the wedding-guest-cum-devotee and shook his head. He figured it would have flowers, a plastic container of kumkum, a banana and some camphor.
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