by Vikas Swarup
'Do not regard me as an animal on show. I am one of you. And today I want to talk to you about injustice. Yes, injustice,' the voice continues. 'I have always said that Non-violence and Truth are like my two lungs. But Non-violence should never be used as a shield for cowardice. It is a weapon of the brave. And when the forces of injustice and oppression begin to prevail, it is the duty of the brave to—'
Before the sentence can be completed, the rear door of the auditorium bursts open and a bearded man wearing loose white kurta pyjamas storms into the hall. His long black hair is in disarray and his eyes shine with unnatural brightness. He rushes towards the stage, chased by a couple of policemen wielding sticks. Aghori Baba turns silent in the face of this sudden intrusion.
'This is a perversion!' the bearded man cries as he reaches the edge of the stage, standing directly in front of Mohan Kumar. 'How dare you dishonour the memory of Bapu through this commercial spectacle? Bapu is our legacy. You are making him into a brand of toothpaste and shampoo,' he shouts angrily at Aghori Baba.
'Please calm down, Sir. Do not get agitated,' Veer Bedi materializes on stage like a magician's rabbit. 'We'll take a quick commercial break while we deal with this situation,' he announces, to no one in particular.
The protestor takes no notice of him. He inserts a hand inside his kurta and produces a black revolver. Gripping it tightly, he points it at Aghori Baba. Veer Bedi swallows hard and hastily retreats into the wings. The policemen appear to be immobilized. The audience is in a stupor.
'You are worse than Nathuram Godse,' the bearded man says to Aghori Baba, whose eyes are still closed, though his chest is heaving up and down in a sign of laboured breathing. 'Godse merely killed Bapu's body. But you are desecrating his soul.' Without further ado, he pumps three bullets into the sadhu.
The sound of gunfire crashes through the hall like a giant wave. There is yet another burst of light on the stage and Aghori Baba's head slumps down on his chest, his saffron kurta turning crimson.
Pandemonium erupts in the auditorium. Screams cascade down the aisles as people rush frantically towards the exit. 'Help, Mohan!' Rita shrills as she is pushed off her seat by the jostling mob behind her. She tries valiantly to retrieve her handbag, but is sucked into the crowd which surges like an angry river towards the door.
Mohan Kumar, still sitting in his chair feeling dazed and lost, senses something graze his face. It is soft, like a ball of cotton, yet slimy, like the underside of a snake. 'Yes, let's go,' he says abstractedly to Rita, who can no longer be seen. But before his lips have closed, the foreign object has insinuated itself into his mouth at lightning speed. He gulps and senses it sliding down his throat, leaving a bitter residue on his tongue, like the uncomfortable aftertaste of swallowing an insect. He spits a couple of times, trying to get rid of the bitterness in his mouth. There is a mild flutter in his heart, a tremor of protest, and suddenly his body is on fire. A pulsing, throbbing energy crackles through him, from his brain all the way to his feet. Whether it is coming from outside or inside, from above or below, he doesn't know. It has no fixed centre, yet it sweeps everything into a vortex, boring deeper and deeper to the very core of his being. He convulses violently, as though in the grip of a frenzy. And then the pain begins. He experiences a heavy blow on his head, a blunt needle being plunged into his heart, and large hands groping his chest, mangling his guts. The pain is so excruciating, he thinks he will die. He screams in agony and terror, but the sound is washed out by the din in the hall. A blur of motion is all he sees, as people scream and fall, tripping over each other. And then he blacks out.
When he opens his eyes, the hall is silent and empty. Aghori Baba's lifeless body is slumped over the straw mat, looking like a hilly outcrop in a sea of blood. The wooden floor is littered with shoes, sneakers, sandals and high heels, and someone is tapping his shoulder. He turns around to see a policeman with a stick looking at him intently.
'Hey mister, what are you doing here? Haven't you seen what has happened?' the constable barks.
The Bureaucrat 23
He stares at him blankly.
'Are you dumb? Who are you? What is your name?'
He opens his mouth, but finds it difficult to speak. 'My . . .my . . . my . . . na . . . name . . . is . . .'
'Yes, what is your name? Tell me,' the policeman repeats impatiently.
He wants to say 'Mohan Kumar' but the words refuse to come out. He feels fingers squeezing his larynx, remoulding his vocal cords, shackling his words. They twist inside his gullet, are mashed around and made someone else's. 'My name is Mohan . . . Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi,' he hears himself say.
The constable raises his baton. 'You look like a decent man. This is no time for jokes. I'll ask you once again. What is your name?'
'I told you. I am Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.' The words come more easily this time, more confident and self-assured.
'Bastard, are you trying to fool me? If you are Mahatma Gandhi, then I am Hitler's father.' The policeman grunts as his stick arcs down and Mohan Kumar's shoulder explodes in pain. The last thing he hears before losing consciousness again is the wail of a police siren.
3
The Actress
26 March
It's tough being a celluloid goddess. For one, you have to look gorgeous all the time. You cannot fart, you cannot spit and you dare not yawn. Otherwise the next thing you know, your big fat wide-open mouth will be staring at you from the glossy pages of Maxim or Stardust. Then, you cannot go anywhere without a horde at your heels. But the worst thing about being a famous actress is that you get conned into answering the most incredible questions.
Take, for example, what happened yesterday on the return flight from London. I had just entered the first-class cabin of the Air India 777, wearing my latest bottle-green Versace jacket over denim jeans with a studded belt and dark Dior glasses. I settled down in my seat – 1A, as always – and draped my Louis Vuitton crocodile-skin handbag on the seat next to me – 1B, vacant as usual. Ever since that unfortunate incident on the flight to Dubai with the drunken passenger who tried to paw me, I get my producers to reserve and pay for two first-class seats, one for me and the other for my privacy. I kicked off my Blahniks, took out my iPod, adjusted the ear plugs and relaxed. I have discovered that sitting with my ears plugged is the best way to keep pesky fans and autograph-hunting air hostesses and pilots at bay. The ear plugs allow me to observe my environment, while absolving me of the need to respond to it.
So there I was, immersed in my private digital ecosystem, when in walked the air hostess with another woman and a little boy in tow.
'I'm sorry to disturb you, Shabnamji,' the air hostess intoned in the manner they use when they want to coax a favour out of a passenger, like asking him to move to a different seat. 'Mrs Daruwala here has something very important to tell you.'
I glanced at Mrs Daruwala. She looked just like the Parsi ladies in films – large, fair and florid. She was dressed in a fuchsia sari and smelt of talcum powder. Definitely economy class.
'Shabnamji, oh Shabnamji, what an honour it is for us to meet you,' she gushed in a sing-song voice.
I put on my polite but distant expression, the one that is meant to convey, 'I have no interest in you but am tolerating you, so make it quick.'
'This is my son, Sohrab.' She pointed to the boy, who was dressed in an ill-fitting blue suit complete with a bow tie. 'Sohrab is your biggest fan in the whole world. He has seen each and every one of your films.'
I raised my eyebrows. Half the movies I have done carry an Adult certificate. So either the mother was a liar or the boy was a midget.
Mrs Daruwala's face turned grave. 'Unfortunately, my dear Sohrab has got chronic leukaemia. Blood cancer. We were getting him treated at Sloan-Kettering, but the doctors have given up now. They say he has only a few months to live.' Her voice cracked and tears started flowing down her cheeks. I realized that the script had changed and immediately switched my expression to Caring and Solicit
ous, the one I employ when I do those publicity visits to cancer patients and the AIDS hospice.
'Oh, I am so sorry to hear this.' I pressed Mrs Daruwala's hand and smiled beatifically at her son. 'Sohrab, would you like to talk to me? Here, why don't you come and sit down next to me.' I removed my handbag from the adjacent seat and placed it at my feet.
Sohrab accepted the offer immediately, plonking himself down on 1B as if he had been travelling first class all his life. 'Mummy, can you leave us alone for a while?' he said peremptorily in the tone of a boss dismissing his secretary.
'Yes, of course, son. But don't trouble Shabnamji.' Mrs Daruwala wiped her tears and beamed at me. 'This is like a dream come true for him. Just give him some precious moments of your time. Sorry, again, eh.' Then she went waddling back to her seat.
I looked at Sohrab, who was gaping at me like an obsessed lover. His intense gaze was a bit unsettling. I wondered what had I got myself into.
'So how old are you, Sohrab?' I asked, trying to put him at ease.
'Twelve.'
'That's a nice age to be. You are learning a lot and also have a lot to look forward to, don't you?'
'I have nothing to look forward to. Because I will never be thirteen. I will be dead in three months' time,' he replied in a completely deadpan manner, without any trace of emotion. Frankenstein couldn't have said it any better.
'Oh, don't say that. I am sure you will be fine,' I said and gently patted his arm.
'I will not be fine,' Sohrab replied. 'But that is not important. What is important is for me to know something before I die.'
'Yes, what is it that you want to know?'
'Promise me that you will reply.'
'Of course. Promise.' I flashed my veneers at him. Things would be simpler now, I thought. I'm a pro at dealing with my little fans. All they want is to know the name of my favourite film, hear about my forthcoming projects and whether I have any plans to star with their favourite actors. 'Go right ahead, Sohrab.' I snapped my fingers. 'I am ready for your question.'
Sohrab leaned towards me. 'Are you a virgin?' he whispered.
It was as clear a confirmation as I could get that sitting next to me was Psycho Junior.
Of course that was the end of my conversation with the little twerp – I sent him packing pronto. The air hostess also received a tongue-lashing from me, which ensured that no more terminally ill passengers interrupted my flight from then on.
Later, when my anger had cooled, I reflected on Sohrab's question. He was crude and rude enough to ask me, but I am sure the twenty million Indians who claim to be in love with me would be no less keen to know the answer.
Men in India classify women into two categories – available and unavailable. The sacred cows are their mothers and sisters. The rest are fodder for their voyeuristic dreams and masturbatory fantasies. Any girl who wears a T-shirt in this country is considered loose. And I am seen most often in figure-hugging costumes, bosom thrusting at the camera, hips bumping and grinding to some catchy beat. No wonder I have been described as the ultimate wet dream. And the more unattainable I seem, the more desirable I become. They write me letters in blood, threatening to immolate themselves if I don't send them an autographed photo. Some send me semen samples, in discoloured patches on tissue paper. Marriage proposals come for me by the thousand, from village idiots and lonely call-centre executives. A men's magazine has made me a standing offer for a nude photo-shoot and sent me a blank cheque. Even women send me rakhis proclaiming me as their sister, hoping to enlist my support in keeping their men from straying. Pre-pubescent girls write me flattering letters, 28 SUSPECTS asking me to pray for them to become similarly endowed.
38-26-36 is my magic number. In an age of silicone synthetics I represent natural beauty and bounty. I am pure anatomy, and yet my appeal transcends my vital statistics. I exude an orgasmic sweetness which arouses and inflames men. They don't see me. They see only my breasts, get lost in them, become tongue-tied, agree to my every whim and fancy. Call it cynical exploitation of the repressed id, or the unfair prerogative of celebrity, but it has given me all I wanted from life, and then some. Despite all the changes of appearance, life is indestructibly powerful and pleasurable. So said Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, my Master. I have been extracting every bit of pleasure from life over the last three years, but is it compensation enough for the misery I endured in the nineteen years previously?
31 March
I was invited today as Chief Guest to a function to honour the memory of Meena Kumari, the 'Tragedy Queen', who died this day thirty-five years ago. It was a terribly boring programme, laced with the same unctuous speeches one hears at every award ceremony, and it made me wonder. Is an actor's persona confined only to what is seen on the screen? Cinema is so one-dimensional, just a stream of light, which Jean-Paul Sartre described as 'everything, nothing and everything reduced to nothing'. If I were to be judged solely by my films, history would remember me simply as a vacuous glamour doll. But I am much more than a trifling celluloid dream. And when my diaries are eventually published (with suitable editing, of course), the world will acknowledge this too. I have already thought of an excellent title for the book: A Woman of Substance: The Shabnam Diaries.
19 April
Aishwarya Rai got married today. Thank God! She will probably quit films now. That means one less competitor for me. Last year's Trade Guide, in its annual top ten heroines in the Indian film industry, placed me at Number Four, just behind Aishwarya, Kareena and Priyanka. Now I'm Number Three.
But in the eyes of my fans I am already Number One. They know that I have got this far in the industry under my own steam, without the benefit of having been Miss Universe or the backing of a filmi dynasty behind me.
Be that as it may, my goal for this year is crystal clear:
To become Number One.
To become Number One.
To become Number One.
20 May
A ruckus has been going on in the flat since this morning. A team of six workers in blue overalls has invaded my bedroom and bathroom and is intent on destroying my peace. Supervising them is Bhola, shouting instructions as though he is some PWD engineer. It was his idea to get new lights fitted in the bathroom, the recessed ones in which you cannot see the bulbs. They look really pretty, especially with the dimmer turned down, just like stars in the night sky. In the bedroom, he is having my old Firozabad chandelier replaced by a spanking new Swarovski crystal one and rectifying some faulty wiring.
I must say I have been pleasantly surprised by Bhola. One of the perks of stardom is the discovery of long-lost aunts and uncles, distant cousins and never-before-seen nephews. Bhola is one such distant relative. He turned up at my flat one bright morning, claiming to be my Aunt Jaishree's son from Mainpuri, and beseeched me to get him a role in a film. I took one look at him and burst out laughing. With his slick oiled hair, bulging tummy and rustic manners he seemed more suited to agriculture than culture. But I took pity on his awkwardness and employed him as my assistant secretary cum Man Friday, promising him a role in a film if his performance proved satisfactory. It's been two years since then. I think even he has given up on his dream of becoming an actor, but he has really flowered as a sidekick. Not only is he useful in keeping troublesome fans and autograph-hunters at bay, he is also good with electronics and computers (a technology that still intimidates me). In addition, he has shown wonderful financial acumen. I have gradually started trusting him with my accounts, though I still cannot trust him with my dates. That task continues to be performed by my secretary Rakeshji, whom I share with Rani.
Bhola has no special gift, no real talent. He is utterly mediocre. But then the world is made up of ordinary people. Totally ordinary people, whose only job is to serve the extraordinary, the exceptional, the glorious . . .
31 May
My fingers ache. I have just finished signing nearly nine hundred letters. It is a ritual I have to perform four times a year, another small price fo
r stardom.
The letters are replies to fans who write to me from all corners of the world, from Agra to Zanzibar. Five thousand letters arrive every week, twenty thousand a month. Out of these Rosie Mascarenhas, my publicist, selects approximately a thousand for personal replies, which consist of a standard boilerplate text expressing my happiness at communicating with my admirers, some blah, blah, blah about my forthcoming projects, and closing with best wishes for the health, happiness and prosperity of my fans. The letters are accompanied by a glossy photograph showing a close-up of me – a nice demure one for female fans and children, and a moderately hot one for the adult male fans. Rosie suggested the autopen option to me, in which a machine reproduces my signature on every letter, saving me the hassle of personally signing them, but I overruled her. As it is, I belong to the unreal world of films where everything is fake. I want my signature at least to be real. I think of the glow on my fans' faces when they open my letter and see my picture. There will be screams of surprise and delight. The letter will then be shown to family, friends and relatives. The entire neighbourhood will bask in its halo for a while. It will be talked about for days, discussed, debated, kissed and sobbed over. It may be photocopied, laminated, framed and, quite possibly, even worshipped.
The pain in my fingers disappears.
As a rule Rosie does not open letters marked 'Personal' or 'Confidential'. These come directly to me and have provided me with hours of amusement. India is the most star-struck nation on earth. Every second person wants to become an actor, come to Mumbai and make it big in Bollywood. These wannabees write to me from dusty villages and corner paan shops, from malaria-infested swamps and tiny fishing hamlets. They write in broken Hindi and pidgin English, in faltering sentences and floundering syntax, wanting simply to share their dreams with me and asking me for advice, assistance, and sometimes money. Most letters are accompanied by photographs in which they preen and pout, simper and smoulder, and try to compress all their wonderment, longing, commitment and desperation into a freeze frame which they hope will melt a producer's heart. But however hard they try, their rough edges cannot be hidden by the indiscriminating lens of the camera. Their essential crudity and vulgarity spills out of the poses which proclaim not only the silliness of their subjects but also their abject helplessness.