Cut

by Sreemoyee Piu Kundu

  ‘“What are you so damn scared of? That I will touch you? Here, in my room? With my wife sleeping, downstairs? Why do you hold back from me in this fashion? The same way you do on stage? Why couldn’t I see that madness in you? Why were you scared to stab your father? What frightens you? His shadow? His stare? His seeing you as a piece of flesh…why do you allow all the men in your life to treat you the same way? When will you stop running, Mrinalini Shirale? Where?” he leaned closer, his breath covering my lips.

  ‘It’s true then? “Kulasheshtra’s head sandwiched between your breasts…”’

  ‘Nothing happened between us that night, Razia. Actually, Amitabh was dead right. Every man I had ever loved…fucked…was to my mind, a guy resembling my father. It’s why I always left first, wanting them to get hurt, to suffer perhaps. Seeking retribution…“You, you must sleep…it’s late, let me help you lie down, please, it’s been a long night…” I gestured at the made-up bed.

  ‘‘Tell me the truth. why did you barge into my house, the way you did? Stay on, for days?” Amitabh ran his fingers roughly through my hair.

  ‘“It feels safer, here, with Aiyee….’ I had answered.

  ‘“You really love Sarlu, don’t you? In your own, childish way? Grateful that she took you in, that afternoon? I have heard about the way she nursed you back to health…the way she never let you out of her sight…Sarlu took me in, too, all those years, ago…she has a kind heart, despite her outward facade…Sarlu can’t watch someone fall…she has never let me fall, I’m one of her projects, as are you…’ he spoke in an icy tone.

  ‘Then before I could say anything, he added, “Anyway, promise me…that you’ll keep this name, from now on. You will be Maya. Maya Shirale, not Mrinalini, anymore.”

  ‘“Maya belongs only to Aiyee and you…she always will. I have no right to be her, after tonight, it’s not my place,” I kept my voice down, on purpose.

  ‘“No…you don’t understand. Everyone has taken my Maya away, my memory of her. Sarlu, especially, hates it when I say her name aloud. It’s what we’ve been doing, both of us. Playing hide and seek with each other. Maya…Maya was the purest part of us. She was so small, perfect. My daughter. I miss her. I miss Sarlu and the way she looked during her pregnancy…”

  ‘I touched his mouth. Amitabh fell forward, his body limp; he had passed out.’

  ‘So, it was his fault, then? Maybe, Amitabh Kulasheshtra wanted to seduce you?’

  ‘I cradled Amitabh, steadying his back. It was pitch-dark, except for a tiny sliver of light. From outside.’

  ‘Sarla!’

  ‘Yes. She saw me and assumed the worst. I wrote everything in a letter to Aiyee. Told her what he had said to me. I lied only to Amitabh. Saying I had won a spot in a prestigious beauty contest in Mumbai that I had concealed from him while we rehearsed and performed the play. Telling him I couldn’t wait to be famous; to see my name on billboards, eventually, start acting in commercial, Hindi films…make a lot of money…be like the men, you know…be a hero…I boarded a bus at 6 am. Leaving the way I had come. With nothing.’

  ‘So, Sarla lied then? Made up facts in the sensational Samna interview, just to frame you, falsely? To perhaps get back at Kulasheshtra…Mrs. Sarla Kulasheshtra…not quite the woman the world believes her to be…’

  ‘No, Razia. Aiyee never lied. Aiyee never lies.’

  AVIK DASGUPTA

  BLINDSIDE

  Interpretation is everything in theatre; unlike cinema that relies on neat conclusions, happy ones mostly; the stage begins and ends the same way – in the pulse and thrust of darkness. The measure of which changes constantly.

  For a long time, I tried understanding what I was doing. Trying to seek an explanation of my craft through the eyes of others. Each time, I took a risk. Taking up a cause. Each time the media and my colleagues wrote me off. Criticizing my seething need to re-invent the rules of how the world was being trained to view the stage. Fed on an elitist, bourgeoisie diet. Theatrewalas who’d constantly try to compete with cinema, instead of discovering a new idiom of stagecraft. Reach out to our glorious Indian past of storytelling. Returning to the simple village chowk that was the first ‘rang manch’ in a way…glorious indigenous folklore, pertaining to everyday heroes who exemplified goodness and championed the people of the soil. Dancers, musicians, puppeteers, and magicians, whose language of expression, was the source.

  My techniques were constantly debated….

  My cell-phone buzzed madly, falling out of my hands, toppling the copy of Blindside that I had been re-reading the whole of last month. I ran my fingers slowly over the cover, after bending down to lift it up. Thinking of how the past year had played out…how we had all made an uneasy peace with Kulasheshtra’s passing away.

  The tiny fairy lights on Maya’s sprawling rooftop garden gleamed at a distance. Resembling those on the 35th floor of JW Marriot, Juhu. One of the city’s plushest five-stars, that was packed to the brim with guests, stars and media.

  I closed my eyes, again. My thoughts travelling back to the biggest night of my life. And how Maya had let me down again.

  I had been smoking, non-stop. My eyes were bloodshot. Shirish Kulkarni, my first Assistant Director, kept coming up to me every few seconds, wanting to say something, before walking away, his hands inside his pockets. Finally, he thrust a copy of Bombay Times into my hand and stabbed his finger at a small write-up.

  Payal Shah, a small-time TV actress I had once dated, before I ran into Maya, with whom I lived together for some time, had made it to the back page of Bombay Times. It was supposed to be a tribute to Kulasheshtra on his death anniversary. The article came with a small disclaimer from the newspaper editor stating they were in no way looking to malign Kulasheshtra’s image, and that Payal’s remarks were hers, alone:

  ‘AD is just using Maya Shirale and she him. There is no love lost. I have my doubts Maya will even surface today to give the mahurat clap for AD’s big-budget, second film, Nirmaan, at the glitzy press conference that has been organized by his producers, Eros Entertainment. I am not saying all this because he dumped me for her or because I haven’t been invited. I am saying this because today is bound to be a manhoos day. Kulasheshtra, also died, today, exactly, a year back, right? Aaj ka din hi manhoos, hai. AD will never forget June 10.’

  ‘Maya is not coming, AD.’ Shirish had said emphatically. ‘Rosy called. She is suffering from a severe attack of migraine. Rosy is giving her medicines, but has been instructed to leave her room, as Maya insists she wants to sleep,’ Shirish cleared his throat, glancing at me, apologetically, walking closer to add in a muted voice, ‘Maya doesn’t want any calls.’

  I lit up again.

  ‘How can she do this to you?’ Shirish glared angrily, before throwing up his hands, ‘Media, aap dono ko saath dekhna chahti hai. Waise hi…bakwas likhti rehti hai, aap dono ke bare mein.’

  I flung my half-finished cigarette away. Looking up my speed dial to inform the Publicity head of Eros Entertainment, wondering what excuse we could give to the Press who had been patiently waiting for Maya.

  ‘Umar mein woh badi hai, aap se…kaee saal. Usske against legal case hai…Sanki woh hai! Time usska bura chal raha hai, your star, your star is on the rise!’

  I didn’t respond.

  ‘What shall I tell them downstairs?’ Shirish had raised his voice, probably waiting for my reaction.

  I shrugged my shoulders, heading towards the elevator, in silence.

  ‘Maybe, she is really unwell, she does have an issue with migraines,’ I wiped my mouth, checking my wristwatch.

  The event was scheduled for 7 pm. It was now 8.46 pm.

  ‘It’s your first commercial film, a big break!’ Shirish held the elevator door, ‘This is a huge deal…a two-film contract with Eros, the most sought-after production house, here. Besides, Maya could do with the positive coverage too! I mean, for the past year, the media has only been interested in raking up garbage about that Kulasheshtra fellow and
her, as if anyone cares anymore. This is the 20th century. Everyone’s doing someone, in this industry! How long can she ride this unsaleable image of hers? Sit on her high horse! How can you just let Maya off the hook, so easily? What kind of a man does that?’

  His eyes were turning red. ‘You deserve better, man,’ Shirish muttered under his breath.

  ‘Maybe,’ I turned to face Shirish. ‘Maybe, so does Maya. Everyone deserves better, Shirish. Maybe, even Kulasheshtra!’

  It was the first time I had spoken of Kulasheshtra, this way.

  ‘Has Maya ever spoken to you about Kulasheshtra?’ Shirish quizzed, sounding suspicious. ‘No one really knows if they were in touch, and if he was actually coming here to Mumbai to meet her the night he died.’

  ‘Maya Shirale Ditches Live-in Boyfriend, Avik Dasgupta at the Much-Talked-About Nirmaan Mahurat,’ the Bollywood tabloids gleefully reported the next morning.

  My team was unusually silent.

  The very next night, we left for Rajasthan for the gruelling outdoor shoot of Nirmaan.

  A full month passed before I tried Maya’s number again.

  I had been shooting non-stop. The last few months before I had left for the shoot had been especially difficult. Every time, I’d made plans, she’d inevitably disappeared, sans an explanation or citing an attack of migraine. Occasionally, on the rare days when she was when she was available, I was away on location or in meetings related to production. Talks were also on with Fox Searchlight Pictures for a new deal as they were planning to launch their studio in India with four breakthrough Bollywood directors.

  Maya never asked me when I would be back or how my day was, or if I had missed her. Or surprised me on sets as I used to, when she would be shooting, earlier. She had been drinking a lot, of late, as well. Alam would report back, making me swear I wouldn’t breathe a word of this to her. Some nights, Rosy would call too, her voice laced with anxiety. I drove around town like a maniac. At dawn, when I entered the apartment I’d find Maya curled up on the couch with her designer heels still on. I would be livid, and yet, there was something so fragile about Maya this past year, especially.

  Between us…

  Something I was so scared to touch.

  Or, maybe, I knew it would take one bad day.

  Just one last fight…

  ‘Maya…Maya, what do you mean, leave the room? Do you have any bloody idea what time it is?’ I smashed the glass on the floor, as Maya removed her make-up, smoking constantly, asking me to leave her alone. Citing the same excuse: migraine.

  ‘Stop screaming, Avi, mera sar phaat raha hai…just leave…this house has four bedrooms, Goddammit,’ she walked towards me, her footsteps unstable.

  ‘Migraine, huh? Bullshit, Maya,’ I pushed her shoulders roughly, losing my cool, ‘Alam called me, an hour or so ago…saying your cell which you gave him in the morning, has been buzzing, nonstop, and that you asked him to not take any calls. To just tell people you are out of the country, or something. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing, either, Maya…it’s always the same…every time, the same crap…I am summoned, probed on your whereabouts, as if I am your bloody, personal secretary…Maya, are, are you…talk to me, Maya…just how much have you boozed?’

  ‘Turn off the lights, this is my house. Do as I say,’ Maya fought off my advances, flinging the cigarette away.

  I covered my nose. ‘Snorting that shit, again, huh? Fuck Maya! Have you lost it, completely? You’re doing drugs, again, combined with alcohol. Do you have any idea how dangerous this combination is…you could die, Maya!’ I tried grabbing her hands.

  ‘I won’t die, Avi…please just turn off the lights, now…I can’t take the glare…not tonight…let me be by myself…. Please, Avi…get out of this room…this house…leave now…’ she rubbed her heavily mascaraed eyes, trying to pull away from my arms.

  ‘Maya…this is getting out of hand. I can’t keep rushing back from my shoots, always…thankfully, I was in the country, today…my staff in office…how many meetings have I cut short…to manage your mess…it’s started affecting me…my reputation…’ I tried gripping her waist, firmly.

  ‘What reputation, Avi? You are barely two films old…abhi teesri banne toh do, pehle…chalne toh do…everything you have, is Maya Shirale’s. I made you, Avik Dasgupta. Maya made you, samjhe? You were nothing, so don’t you dare shove your reputation in my face. And as for Alam calling you…I’d told him clearly that I’m not interested in taking calls today…’ Maya’s eyes glared, her lips quivering with rage.

  ‘Maya, stop yelling. You have had too much to drink.’

  ‘Let go of my hands, Avi…’ Maya tried wriggling out, again, her jaws clenched.

  ‘Maya okay…baby, look, calm down, you need to take a shower, sleep,’ I pulled her chin up.

  ‘Patronizing me, babumoshai...’ she chuckled, looking mean.

  ‘No, Maya, that’s not what you pay me to do. I am just concerned, that’s all. Your drinking has gotten worse in the last one year…and now this…you are back to these drugs…. Maya…I am worried, sick…’ I paused, wiping the bleeding kohl from her eyes, ‘I…I can’t sleep…nights you disappear…when you leave home and I don’t know when you will get back or where you are…it drives me insane…I’ve tried being okay about it, accepting your need for personal space…’

  ‘Stop trying to save me all the time, Avi…’ Maya stared back at me.

  ‘Why, Maya? What’s wrong if I am saving you or want to?’ I was hurting.

  Maya said nothing.

  ‘You had a script reading with Romil Ratnam, this afternoon, Maya, he flew all the way from Chennai…and you just didn’t show up…he, he called me, so many times, utterly frustrated with your erratic behaviour…Romil is a legend…’ I ran my hands over her back.

  ‘Aren’t they all, Avi? All you, guys? Directors? Legen….leg…’ she slurred.

  I tried getting her to sit down.

  ‘I am Maya Shirale. I will get a million Romil Ratnam’s begging me to spare some time. I care two hoots that I spurned him…anyway, this is the fifth or sixth time he’s expressed a keen interest in working with me…last time, he wanted me to play that Vikram Sampath’s sister…sister…me! The time before that, he wanted me to do an item song…kamina saala! He may be a miracle worker down South, but in Mumbai, I rule…’ she wheezed, beads of sweating trickling down the sides of her face.

  ‘Unfortunately, Maya, that’s hardly the case,’ I cut her short rudely. ‘You are getting on in years, and, despite your costly skin peels, overseas Botox sessions and enhancement surgeries, you can’t hide your age forever. There are younger, prettier girls, today, in Bollywood…desperate for that one big break…including star kids and Miss India’s, who anyway, have an extra edge…so, unlike what you think of yourself and others bending backwards, for you, you actually have to work that much harder, so…Maya Shirale, instead of putting words in my mouth, clean up your act…and…for God’s sake…’

  ‘…Sleep with Romil?’ Maya smiled spitefully and pushed me aside.

  ‘Must you bring every conversation down to sex? And every man to being a recipient of your sexual prowess?’ I retorted as she sashayed away, unsteadily.

  ‘That’s what they all say, don’t they? That Maya Shirale gets away by sleeping around. C’mon Avi, stop acting coy. They all say I seduced you. That I used you as my toy boy, even that ex-girlfriend of yours, do takke ki television…badi aaye Bombay Times mein…’ she shot me an accusatory side glance.

  ‘How do you think such rumours and headlines make me feel, Maya?’ I raised my voice, this time, ‘every time, you end up doing something out of hand, things are inevitably connected to us? Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you, instead? Why I always have to beg? Like the time you didn’t turn up for the premiere of Nirmaan?’

  Maya strutted over the broken pieces of glass, not caring if she hurt herself: ‘How many times will you keep hounding me about that, Avi? I had a migraine. Simple,’ she turned to
face me, directly.

  ‘I was upset, Maya, humiliated…you could have taken some medicine, called me beforehand, stretched yourself for once…knowing fully well that the first clap was to be given by you…fully aware the media would play this up big; straightaway alleging there was trouble in paradise…throwing up muck…’ I looked away; the memory of that evening still haunted me.

  ‘Tumko tumhare reputation ki badi padi hai aaj, huh?’ Maya lit up, flinging open the balcony door.

  ‘Yes! Yes! Goddammit! If I say yes…what would that make me, Maya? An ungrateful lover? A cold-hearted, prick or another selfish jerk? Why can’t we be just an ordinary couple in Bollywood?’ I followed her out, my face flushed with anger.

  Maya was drinking again. ‘If you wanted ordinary, you should have still been fucking that C-grade chick you were about to settle down with, before you decided to up your game and shag me in my car…thought of “ordinary” before moving in with the Maya Shirale…Drinking her expensive single malt and smoking her imported cigarettes…. ordinary!’ she sneered, the colour rising in her cheeks.

  ‘You are insulting me, Maya,’ I shouted.

  ‘No, you are, Avi, because in Bollywood, no one is ordinary. This word, ordinary, it’s utter trash. It means nothing,’ Maya lashed out at me.

  ‘Is that what I mean to you also, Maya? Utter trash? Ordinary? Is that why you chose me, when you did? Wanting to change my appearance, my wardrobe…share your contacts, freely…ask your driver to drive me to my meetings…Why did you do what you did? Because, you were in love with me, or because you hate ordinary?’ I retaliated.

  ‘Mera sar, please, Avi…go watch some football, or something,’ Maya clicked her tongue.

  ‘Why? What’s so bloody special about your migraine, today? Just say it, Maya. What are you so damn afraid of? So, it’s been a year already? So, my Nirmaan mahurat was on the same day. June 10? It’s manhoos, right?’ I gripped her shoulders, violently.

  ‘How dare you!’ Maya widened her eyes, her drink spilling on my shirt.