Yaraana

by Hoshang Merchant

  Not that affection is intentional

  Or that, in matters of the heart,

  We should pull leaf and leaf apart . . .

  4.48

  But still: Phil’s always been attracted

  By vulnerable people; Ed,

  Eager, confused, intent, abstracted,

  Is passionate in both speech and bed.

  How good it is to be admired;

  And how much more to be desired!

  Ed’s restlessnesses, sudden calms,

  And, as he lies in Philip’s arms,

  His sad and serious expression

  Affect Phil more than he can say.

  Thus, in a strange, contagious way,

  Ed’s very lack of self-possession

  Reduces Phil’s, and so destroys

  The outer suburbs of his poise.

  4.49

  Next morning, at first light, Ed, waking,

  Kneels down in silence on the floor.

  A calm and chilly dawn is breaking

  Over the bay. As his first chore,

  He goes to nurture his iguana

  With three persimmons, a sultana,

  Some lettuce, and an unripe yam

  (a favorite, with a dab of jam).

  Now Phil awakens from his coma:

  ‘Monday! I guess I’d better call

  The Peaceniks, then head south for Paul.’

  They drive down to the Cafe Soma

  (On 12th and Howard, close to where

  Ed works); and order breakfast there.

  4.50

  Over large cups of coffee, steaming

  And fragrant, Ed says, ‘Phil, last night

  I almost thought that I was dreaming.

  But now—I know it wasn’t right.

  I have to trust my faith’s decisions,

  Not batten on my own volitions.

  The Bible says, if a man lie

  With a man, he must surely die.

  It’s in Leviticus, chapter 20,

  Verse 13—which means it’s as true

  For me, a Christian, as for you.’

  Phil laughs: ‘That old book, Ed, holds plenty

  Of rules that may have made sense once

  —Take shellfish—but you’d be a dunce

  4.51

  To trim your heart by its sharp letter.

  That kills, as someone sometime said.

  What’s wrong with sex? The more the better

  If you like someone.’ Flushing red,

  Ed frowns and says, ‘Don’t bring in shellfish.

  That’s trivial . . . How can

  I be selfish

  And lust for flesh instead of truth?

  It’s like a kid with a sweet tooth

  On a no-sugar diet breaking

  Into a cookie store for me

  To put myself where I can be . . .’

  ‘Tempted?’ prompts Phil: ‘No point my taking

  Exception to your version of

  Who first suggested making love.’

  4.52

  ‘Phil—please—don’t . . . how can I explain it?

  The point is that my body is

  Not mine alone—I don’t disdain it—

  But it’s God’s instrument—my bliss

  Is in his will—and its perfection

  Resides in love, whose chief projection

  Is to give life. All other use

  Falls shorts of this. It is abuse

  Even if lovers feel they’re loving

  When our will fails, we’ve got to pray,

  “Help thou my unbelief” That way . . .’

  ‘That’s bullshit. Ed, what are you proving?

  That two men or two women don’t . . .’

  ‘Phil, try to understand.’ ‘I won’t

  4.53

  I can’t . . . (His voice shakes) . . . You were saying,

  Before I interrupted, God

  Will help our unbelief, our fraying

  Resolve. But what was wrong or odd

  With last night’s loveliness between us?

  Given a God, if he had seen us

  And he is just and loving-kind,

  Why should you think that he would mind

  My touch, your trembling, our caresses,

  The loving smart in your clear eyes,

  My hands ruffling your hair, our sighs?

  If anything, I’d say he blesses

  The innocent bodies that express

  So forthrightly such happiness.

  4.54

  That’s how I feel. But for the lecture

  And weekend, thank you, Ed.’ His eyes

  Meet Ed’s, and with a sad conjecture

  Ed asks, ‘We’ll keep in touch?’ They rise.

  ‘Sure, sure,’ Phil mumbles. ‘You can write me.’

  Ed says, ‘Phil, why don’t you invite me

  Down to your place sometime perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, anytime, feel free . . .’ They lapse

  Into a bitter silence. Gilding

  The great bole of a churchyard oak

  The angled sun now shifts to soak

  With liquid light Ed’s office building,

  Near which, with nothing more to say,

  The two shake hands and turn away.

  Six Inches

  R. Raj Rao

  5 a.m. The alarm rings. I switch it off and go back to sleep. Then I wake up and jump out of bed. It’s one of those writing days again. I brush my teeth and switch on the electric kettle to prepare my morning tea. When the tea is ready, I sit on a chair opposite my bed and sip it.

  5.30 a.m. I clear my desk and stare at the blank white sheets of paper before me. I have to turn them into a screenplay for a TV film. The money’s good and it would mean a couple of months of hassle-free existence. I’ve been working the thing out in my head over the past few days. Now it’s time to write. I pore over my notes.

  1. Ext. Sahar Airport. Bombay. Night.

  (Rashid clears customs, picks up his bags and baggage claim. Ashok spots him and waves out excitedly. Rashid comes out of Terminal Two, puts his bags on the ground and hugs Ashok. Then he kisses him. Ashok picks up one of the two suitcases. Rashid and Ashok walk towards the car, exchanging pleasantries. It’s an old, red Maruti that belongs to Rashid. Their arms are around each other’s waists. They drive from the airport, using the Western Express Highway, to Rashid’s flat at Seven Bungalows, Versova, Bombay, where they live. Ashok is at the wheel.)

  Ashok: But you look well. The trip’s done you good. I thought the month would never end.

  Rashid: Did you miss me? Hope you haven’t been naughty while I was gone.

  Ashok: Of course, I have. Tell me, how’s New York?

  Rashid: Wicked. As wicked as ever.

  (Jazz music on the car stereo. Although it’s late, the roads are still full of peak-hour traffic. When they reach the apartment block, they park in the building’s basement parking area and haul the bags to the elevator.)

  2. Int. Rashid’s well-furnished flat. Night.

  (Rashid and Ashok are seated on a four-poster double bed, an imitation antique from Chor Bazaar. Rashid is unpacking his bags, his stuff spread all over the bed. The other furniture in the room, which includes a table and chair and wooden almirah, is similar to the bed. A framed black-and-white picture of a scene from the film Possession du Condamne hangs on the wall opposite the bed. Above the bed is a huge blow-up of Shah Rukh Khan. Rashid produces a cheque for $200 from his wallet and flashes it at Ashok.)

  Rashid: Sweety, I’ve brought you an unusual present. It’s not big bucks by American standards, but that’s not the point. It’ll allow you to exploit your creative perversities to the fullest. Six Inches, that satanic men’s magazine we both adore so much, wants us to send them, five or six unpornographic action photographs of Indian men, as a sample. I met Richard Franklin, the editor, personally, told him what a great photographer you were and everything, showed him specimens of your work, and wrangled this advance. It works ou
t to over thirty dollars per picture, don’t you see? How many rupees is that?

  Ashok: I’m not impressed, Meaty. It’s hazardous work, although I’ll be flattered to be published in Six Inches. People in India are no longer so naive. If they suspect what we’re up to, we’ve had it.

  Rashid: But you’ll do it all the same. For my sake. Won’t you, love? If our samples are okayed, there’ll be more orders coming our way. At higher rates.

  Ashok: Meaty, I don’t know why you insist on thinking that photography is like your fashion designing stuff. First the samples are okayed, then orders follow.

  3. Int. Robes, Rashid’s retail outlet at Flora Fountain. Day.

  (Rashid swings open the plate glass doors, enters and greets his sales staff who are eagerly awaiting his arrival. Salesman 1 is taking the trouser measurements of a young man. Rashid goes over to him, snatches the measuring tape from his hands, and takes the young man’s measurements himself. He allows his fingers to linger on the man’s crotch for just that extra second. His measurements taken, the young man leaves.)

  Salesman 1: How was your trip, boss?

  Rashid: Gorgeous!

  Salesman 2: Any new designs and things?

  Rashid: Many. But I haven’t unpacked yet. They’re still in my suitcases.

  Salesman 3: Will you bring them tomorrow, boss? We’re dying to have a look.

  Rashid: Not tomorrow. I’m going to be away for another week. You guys will have to look after the place as brilliantly as you have been doing all these days. Sweety and I are on a major photography assignment. See you Monday next. Bye.

  (Rashid leaves the shop, starts his Maruti and drives off.)

  8.30 a.m. Three hours to write a mere three scenes. I’m that slow. I switch on the radio. I’m a Vividh Bharati freak. I get carried away by a song and stop writing.

  9 a.m. I lower the volume of the radio but do not switch it off. I’m afraid of too much quiet.

  4. Int. The flat. Night.

  (Rashid and Ashok lie in bed in nightsuits. They are having an argument about the impending assignment.)

  Rashid: You never, never stand by me. You’re always letting me down.

  Ashok: And you’re always taking me for granted. You act as if you own me.

  Rashid: I don’t care about you. I want your work to be known on the international circuit.

  Ashok: That’s exactly it. I’m not good enough for you the way I am. It’s yourself you care about, not me.

  Rashid: Sweety, that’s mean. You know it isn’t true.

  Ashok: You think I’m your slave.

  Rashid: No.

  Ashok: You keep me in your flat, allow me to drive your car, so you can control my will.

  Rashid: No. No.

  Ashok: Stop screaming or you’ll bring the neighbours out.

  Rashid: I’m not screaming. It’s you.

  Ashok: Stop.

  (Rashid is crying. Ashok switches off the lights.)

  5. Int. The flat. Day.

  (Rashid and Ashok have made up. They are in the little study with a bookshelf. On the walls are portraits of Oscar Wilde and scenes from Death in Venice. There is also a writing table and a chair. A map of Bombay is spread out on the floor before them. They are discussing the possible sites where they can shoot.)

  10 a.m. I put paperweights on all my loose sheets of paper. I have Kellogg’s cornflakes and jam toast for breakfast and get back to my desk.

  11 a.m. Most people in Bombay are in their offices at this time, but I’ m jobless. I have no office. Sometimes I call myself a freelancer, but it’s only a euphemism. I’m really a hack. In the age of political correctness in which we live, there’s plenty of work for me. And for others like me: feminists, dalits, blacks. Maybe we should form a brotherhood.

  6. Ext. Chowpatty Beach. Evening.

  (There are hundreds of men who have gathered on the sands for no apparent reason. Many of them hold hands, or have their arms around each other’s shoulders and waists. Rashid and Ashok camouflage themselves in the crowd. Ashok has a camera hanging from his neck. He searches for the appropriate shot, then zeroes in on a pair who clasp each other so low on the waist that they virtually look like they’re clasping arse. The boys turn around and burst out laughing.)

  Boy 1: Foreign tourist, sir?

  Rashid: No love, we’re Indian.

  Boy 2: Want to posing with me, sir?

  Rashid: Why not, love?

  (Rashid poses with Boy 2 while Ashok clicks. They quickly bid goodbye to the boys and move away, but the boys keep looking at them curiously.)

  7. Ext. The Marine Drive wall. Evening.

  (The wall is lined with people from Hotel Nataraj to the Air India building at Nariman Point. Rashid and Ashok walk as if on a march past, closely scanning the faces that are seated before them. They stop before two collegians, one of whom has his leg on his friend’s. Ashok physically rearranges the lads in such a way that one’s knee is almost on the other’s crotch. He clicks.)

  Collegian 1: Are you guys press men or something?

  Rashid: That’s right. Press men. (stressing the word)

  Ashok: We’re doing a story on Marine Drive.

  Rashid: You know, the different faces of Marine Drive.

  Collegian 2: For which newspaper? Or is it a magazine?

  Rashid: Newsweek. You’ve heard of Newsweek?

  Collegian 2: Yes, make sure our pics are used, okay?

  Rashid: Of course, love. Bye. See you soon.

  12.30 p.m. This writing is a lonely business. I actually welcome it when the telephone rings. But there’s only a screeching noise in the receiver when I pick it up.

  I disconnect the phone. It doesn’t ring again. I feel like masturbating. I just did it two hours ago, but I want to do it again.

  1 p.m. I go to the balcony and see office-goers at lunch, patronizing the vendors on the street.

  8. Int. The flat. Night.

  (Rashid and Ashok are sitting in the drawing room. It’s full of cane furniture—sofa set, side tables, dining table, chairs. On the walls are original paintings by Raza, Gieve Patel, Jehangir Sabavala. A half-full bottle of Royal Challenge lies on the teapoy, along with platefuls of munchies. Both Rashid and Ashok hold their glasses in their hands and drink.)

  Rashid: Sweety, I’m sorry for what happened the other night. You’re such a darling. What interesting pictures we clicked this evening.

  Ashok: Me too, Meaty. And to tell you the truth, I’m enjoying it more than I imagined.

  (They drink for a while. Then they make love.)

  9. Int. Churchgate Station. Day.

  (Rashid and Ashok wade through the crowd to reach Platform Four, where a train is pulling in. They select a second class compartment and shoot. The compartment is so overpacked that the commuters, as they alight, virtually look as if they are on top of one another, especially as Ashok takes the picture from floor level.)

  10. Int. The flat. Night.

  (Rashid and Ashok are in bed in their nightsuits. They are drunk. Rashid is crying.)

  Rashid: You’re a cheat. A voyeur. That’s why you want to take so many notorious pictures. You’re getting a vicarious thrill out of it.

  Ashok: Meaty, don’t get me started again. You’re the one who . . . forget it. Go back to sleep, will you? We’ve got to be out shooting early in the morning.

  Rashid: I’m going to smash your camera on the Marine Drive wall. It’s your cunning alibi.

  Ashok: Shut up. Or you’ll have your head smashed.

  Rashid: Liar. Voyeur. I know what you were up to in my flat when I was away in the US. You’re not even queer. You pose as one because it’s trendy.

  Ashok: Meaty, we’ve been through this before. Just cut it out. I’m tired and want to crash.

  (Rashid continues to cry. Ashok switches off the lights.)

  11. Ext. The Bombay streets. Morning.

  (Rashid and Ashok are driving from Versova into town. Both have a hangover. As he is driving past Mahim creek, Ashok
notices two men squatting, facing each other as they excrete. He stops the car, steps out and walks towards them. Rashid doesn’t know what’s going on. Before the squatting men are aware of it, Ashok photographs them, runs back to the car and speeds off. Rashid is amazed at his courage.)

  Rashid: Sweety, that was neat.

  Ashok: Did anyone see us?

  Rashid: No, but I saw one of the two men zipping up and coming at us yelling.

  Ashok: You’re joking.

  Rashid: I’m not. I swear.

  (Jazz music in the car. As they drive they look for suitable shots. They do not find any.)

  3 p.m. I drive away the crow on the window sill. Its incessant cawing ruins my concentration. And I don’t need any visitors. I light up, first one cigarette, then another. I dream of my script being accepted. Then I fear its rejection. On the grounds of obscenity. After all, we live in an age of high fundamentalism.

  12. Int. The Talk of the Town restaurant at Marine Drive. Day.

  (Rashid and Ashok park their car outside the restaurant, enter and occupy a vacant table. They order coffee. Rashid ogles at the waiters. Ashok looks at them through the lens of his camera.)

  13. Int. Robes. Day.

  (Rashid and Ashok are in an air-conditioned cabin at the far end of the shop. This is Rashid’s office. Salesman 1 brings him some vouchers which he goes through and signs. Ashok is smoking. Rashid gives instructions to his salesmen.)

  4 p.m. I switch on the kettle and make myself a cup of tea. The neighbour’s children are playing outside my front door and tap on it frequently. My neighbours think I’m a saint.

  6 p.m. I’ve just woken up after a siesta. I never intended to take a nap, so I wonder how it happened.

  14. Int. The flat. Night.

  (Rashid and Ashok are in the drawing room listening to music. Each has a glass in his hand.)

  Ashok: I think the pictures are going to be wonderful.

  Rashid: I bet they are. Big bucks in the offing and all because of me.

  Ashok: There’s bigger money in porn. The next time you’re in the US, get me an assignment that requires me to photograph Arab men doing it.

  Rashid: Voyeur.

  15. Ext. Janmashtami. Day.

  (A group of young men in shorts has just arrived with a lot of fanfare [music, drums, etc]. They form a pyramid and attempt to break the pot of curd that is tied between two five-storied buildings. People throw buckets of water on them from the balconies of the buildings. Rashid and Ashok who are in the car, get out and stand with the cheering crowds. Ashok takes out his camera and clicks several times. His prize shot is when the men lose their balance, just as they’ve made it, and tumble over each other’s heads, their wet shorts prominent.)