‘How dare I what, Maya? Bring up Amitabh Kulasheshtra to your face? Why not? Everyone wants to know what was cooking between you both…if, after he left Mumbai a few months after the shocking Samna article by his wife, you both were in touch again? If you reached out to him…and if he was, as is being speculated, indeed on his way to meet you? Why don’t you spill the beans, Maya? It was just a fling, right? He cheated on his wife with you. He was years older. Your teacher. A guru. So what, Maya? You just said it yourself…nothing is ordinary in this industry, no couple is ordinary, so what was so special about Amitabh Kulasheshtra and you, answer me, Maya Shirale…’ I yanked the glass out of her hand and banged it down on a small wrought iron table.
Maya placed her trembling hands over my chest.
‘Amitabh is not your concern…’ Maya grit her teeth, ‘I mean, it’s not as if you are fucking me to get back at your mentor…a man you looked up to as a role model; who cut short your dreams of being a director in theatre…your first love…everyone knows your issues with Amitabh Kulasheshtra, so quit pressurizing me to play into the hands of the popular press…just, so that you can feel even, after all these years. I mean, why didn’t you try to gain admission to NCD, the next year? It’s your ego, Avi…even that night I didn’t show up at your mahurat, it was your same bruised ego. All you men are the same. You pretend to care. But all you want is a version of a woman you can remote control,’ she wheezed.
‘Go fuck yourself, Maya Shirale!’ I clenched my fist, my chest heaving agitatedly.
‘And, just where do you think you are going, Avi…strutting off that way, huh?’
‘None of your business,’ I met her eyes, one last time.
‘You’re turning a mountain into a molehill, Avi…’ she rushed inside.
‘No, Maya Shirale, that would be your thing,’ I banged the bedroom door on her face.
RK CHOPRA
This Kulasheshtra’s childhood is bloody dilchasp…’ one of my lawyers remarked lewdly, waving a cheap pirated edition of Amitabh’s memoirs in my face. After Amitabh’s death, the copies of Blindside, that had rotted on the shelves during the years he was alive, had suddenly received a new lease of life. Everyone seemed to want to lay their hands on it. On him, in some way.
‘Where did you get this from?’ I asked impatiently, grabbing it from him, running my fingers slowly over the cover.
‘Better buy yourself a copy, to keep yourself engaged, RK. After all, you might have to spend a few weeks in the hawalat, in the lock-up, just to make it seem all is fair,’ he cackled, not directly answering my question.
I looked away. The case against me was dragging on. It had been over a year since I had got any work. ‘Didn’t know you were into reading…’ I remarked, placing the book on the bed and walking up to the mini bar. I poured myself a stiff whiskey.
The lawyer pointed at the book. ‘It’s been selling like hot cakes, it seems. Just picked it up from the Juhu Tara Road crossing…sasta, sundar, tikao…never heard of this shit, before,’ he laughed, scratching his beard.
I hadn’t been able to focus on anything, beyond a point. My thoughts constantly travelled back to Banno. A part of me was desperate to just see her once. I imagined her lips pressed over mine. The way she would kiss me, not holding back
‘Can I travel out of Mumbai? A day trip?’ I pulled myself a seat.
‘Nothing before our confidential meeting with Amol Rawat, RK,’ Jayant Salve, Singh’s junior, a sidekick of sorts, who always carried a shiny black briefcase and faked an American accent, said. ‘He’s a big man in the party, with close links to the Centre…a king-maker, of sorts, he’s the only man who can bail you out of this mess, if he puts pressure on the system.’
Mahesh Singh, senior advocate, who was known for his filmi links and who headed the legal team that was representing me, flopped down on the edge of the bed. Flipping open Blindside, he smirked: ‘Remember how Rawat fucked Kulasheshtra? Aisa danda mara tha saale ko, he got such a stick up his ass…No wonder, he ended up being beaten to pulp on that train to Mumbai. He had supposedly misbehaved with one of the ladies, or something…’
Jayant, who was making some notes burst out laughing. Then he suddenly remembered something and turned to me: ‘Hang on a minute, didn’t you also know this Kulasheshtra chap? I read somewhere that…’ he piped in, as I took a large gulp of the single malt.
‘Go slow, RK. Daaru ke paise bhi tumhe hi chukane honge,’ Mahesh rolled his eyes as I raised a toast in their direction.
‘Rawat’s PA messaged saying he’s free this Friday, and will meet us at the Bombay Gymkhana. He will book us a private table. For lunch. We’ll manage the local police,’ Jayant, spoke out of turn, scanning his sleek, black phone.
I shrugged my shoulders listlessly.
‘Whatever happened to that case between Amitabh and Rawat?’ I turned to face Mahesh directly.
My phone buzzed. It was my son Monty calling. I put it on silent.
‘As expected, nothing much,’ Mahesh removed his rimless spectacles, and continued, ‘As far as I can recall, nothing came of it, after a point. Rawat had the full support of the Centre, and was a force to reckon with in Maharashtra state politics by then, so he is said to have bought out most of the witnesses, all those who had seen his goons actually bash up Prakash Lele.
‘Lele’s own daughter also backtracked, at some point, showing keenness for a hefty out-of-court settlement. A few years later, she was given an election ticket by Rawat. She lost, though.
‘So, after a while, technically it was just Kulasheshtra vs. Rawat. And while the Congress always had a glad eye for the theatre stalwart and his brand of grassroots activism, its chips were down in Delhi, the Lok Sabha polls were also nearing back then, and no one wanted to risk too much. I have heard that the Rashtriya Dal had tried through some fellow theatre artists, to reach out to Kulasheshtra…or, maybe, actually his wife. To strike a convenient truce. They were willing to drop the sedition charges on Amitabh, if he withdrew the counter allegations against Rawat. There was a lot of back and forth, was all I knew. I think the case is still not closed, but due to lack of circumstantial evidence, there was nothing proven on paper. Rawat was innocent, as in, until proven guilty. Kulasheshtra also lost his allies. And while there were protests and some student agitations organized by the National Centre of Drama and the Film Institute, random stuff... some show of solidarity towards Kulasheshtra who tried his best to keep the fight for justice alive... but the incident had taken a toll on him, mentally and financially. He sustained substantive head injuries himself, and never regained his full health. He was also suffering from Alzheimer’s towards the end of his own life, or so I heard. Or, maybe it was dementia. There were numerous versions, when he was found dead on that train.
‘Kulasheshtra was a formidable force, no doubt. But, a spent force. At some hearings, he was represented by his wife, Sarla…she was always, there, never missing a single hearing, even as Kulasheshtra could not make it. Maybe, there was no point, anymore. Maybe, it was just a case of saving face. Artistic integrity, or whatever bullshit these arty folks are all about! Bakwas…’
My heart skipped a beat.
‘Hadn’t things soured between them, though? I believe they lost a child, or something?’ Jayant commented casually, walking towards Mahesh with an open file.
For a while, both of them whispered between themselves. ‘Well, it isn’t as if Kulasheshtra was any doodh mein dhula insaan. Wasn’t he shagging our very own Bollywood drama queen, Maya Shirale? At some point, even relocating here, supposedly wanting to make a film with her? She was his “Muse”,’ Mahesh winked, meeting my fixed stare.
‘Maya Shirale, of course, has slept with everyone,’ Jayant quipped cockily, pulling open the curtains.
The room was suddenly flooded with the mid-morning sun.
I covered my face.
‘Hey, you know what that Rawat’s PA, Satish Manjrekar, told me in confidence, making me swear I wouldn’t tell anyon
e.’ Mahesh opened a bottle of mineral water, and gulped down a large sip. ‘He says Kulasheshtra was carrying some cloth bag with him on that train when the skirmish happened…it was lost in the commotion, it seems. The railway police had it with them, not handing it over to his widow along with his other worldly possessions…he bragged about how one of their men in the force who subsisted on their hefty bribes had sent it over to Rawat…’
I swerved. ‘What bag?’ I asked in a shrill voice, placing my whiskey glass down with a thud. ‘What was in it? Was Amitabh coming here to meet someone in particular? Did that Manjrekar chap say anything more…?’
Mahesh was just about to answer when Jayant who was walking towards me with some documents, looked up in our direction: ‘Maybe, it was case related stuff, though I am dead sure he was headed here to reunite with Maya Shirale…his old flame…wasn’t she a small-time Pune stage actress, or something, before she became a star, when old man Kulasheshtra spotted her talent? Casting-couch wala scene…’ He winked lewdly at Mahesh.
‘Maya Shirale’s quite an item, huh?’ Mahesh chuckled, adding in the same breath: ‘Tell us, how was she in bed, RK? I mean she debuted with your production house? Bet Monty had the hots for her, too. Had a family threesome, kya?’
Jayant who was gesturing to me to sign on the legal papers, hissed: ‘Maybe, you should ask Monty that question, Mahesh. Maya wouldn’t have spared him. The slut.’
‘Is there any chance we can lay our hands on that cloth bag, that Kulasheshtra was carrying?…If we can buy out Rawat, guys?’ I changed the topic, clearing my throat, stirring my drink restlessly.
The lawyers looked stunned.
‘Are you off your rocker, RK? You know how hard it is to get these income-tax guys off your back? To convince the cops on your trail that you aren’t hand-in-gloves with the D company? What we’ve had to do to ensure you get police protection…a safe refuge, here. Bahut papad belne padte hain,’ Mahesh snapped, looking offended, adding agitatedly, ‘Besides, what interest is Kulasheshtra’s cloth jhola, to anyone? What’s the maximum he could be carrying inside? He was practically a finished man by then. That Rawat…he’s one dangerous bugger. You wouldn’t want to mess with him, RK, not after the shit that you are currently swimming in. No one is in this for charity, you know…save your own ass!’
I unfastened the satin robe I wore. Running my hands over my hairy paunch, I let out a stale burp, ‘Which is exactly what I pay you for. Buy one, get one free!’
‘Noon, this Friday, Bombay Gymkhana. Will have you picked up. Don’t fuck this up, RK. Just repeat exactly what we have tutored you to say to Amol Rawat,’ Mahesh stuffed the signed papers back inside his briefcase and instructed me tersely, before both the lawyers strutted out of my suite.
‘Don’t bother jerking off on Kulasheshtra, woh toh saala mara insaan hai, RK. Unless you have started fantasizing about corpses, now!’ Jayant could not resist making a parting shot, before shutting the door with a bang.
All these months after Amitabh’s death, I still hadn’t called Banno. There was so much I wanted to say. Things I was sorry for. Mistakes that I needed atonement for. Somehow, Amitabh’s death had put everything into perspective. Made me feel we were less invincible than we once thought ourselves to be.
My phone buzzed. ‘Cash crunch, Papa. Call back, ASAP,’ Monty’s text read.
I flung the phone on the bed.
I planned to set up a small business for him and his family in America, eventually. Monty was a good-for-nothing fool, whom I suspected had now joined hands with my second wife. Maybe, they were even sexually involved. Monty had my genes, after all. He needed a woman to warm his bed daily. Constantly.
I dialled Sarla’s number. I had sourced her Pune landline in the week Amitabh died.
The phone rang and was picked up. But there was silence on the other end. I knew she was listening. ‘Banno, I know it’s you. Listen, I happen to have some news…some important news…’ I felt myself stiffen, as I brought the cell closer to my mouth, adding in a low voice, ‘Amitabh was carrying a jhola when he left for Mumbai…I can’t say anything more, at this point, Banno…this damn mobile phone, too, maybe tapped. I am in a sort of house arrest situation…’
I redialled impatiently as soon as the line was disconnected.
‘Are you still angry with me, Banno? Did you blame me for the life you led – for losing a child, and now your husband?’
I took a deep breath, ‘Please, Banno…I want to see you…just once…I am trying to recover that jhola bag…Bhai Jaan’s akhri amanat…I will be the hero you once dreamt of…Banno? Hello, Banno?’ I heard was the silent click of a receiver being placed down.
Thoughts raced through my head.
‘Pirated…’
‘Sasta, sundar, tikao.’
‘Dilchasp.’
The phrases haunted me.
What would I say if Banno actually agreed to see me? If I managed to retrieve the cloth bag Mahesh mentioned? At what cost, this time? Could that turn time back? Help me, move forward?
Did Sarlu know the part I played in his love affair with Maya Shirale, in Mumbai? That I was determined to ruin Amitabh Kulasheshtra, as a man, as a maestro? The fact that I had lived, almost all my adult life, consumed by an all-encompassing need to seek revenge? To punish Amitabh for what he did to us?
I made one last call.
‘I need some cash…urgent mamla hai…ek khokha se kaam nahin chalne wala…’ I spoke fast, lowering my voice. ‘I need a crore. My bank accounts are all frozen, as you know. The cops don’t trust me even though I have said I am willing to become an official khabri. I know your issues with Bhai. I would rather side with you guys, this time. Also, I am meeting Amol Rawat, this Friday. I will see to it that your name is cleared from that Panvel builder murder case that’s been dragging on for years.’
The man on the other end of the line listened in silence.
‘Rawat is one of our men too…bahut logon ko tapka diye hain uss se supari le ke…His son’s Lower Parel and Thane real-estate business is also run under our supervision…I will arrange for the money…but if you try to play games and double-cross us with Bhai, then that’s the end of you, RK. Toh soch lo…Bhai and us have an old rivalry…toh double crossing kism ki zyada hoshiyari dikhaoge…toh seedha upar jaoge…’
There was a piercing laughter.
‘Waise Indian hawalat ki hawa itni buri bhi nahin hoti hai…samjhe, dost…’
‘Dost,’ I repeated, before hanging up.
Dost.
A codeword common in the underworld. Meaning someone you can trust.
Someone who doesn’t switch sides.
I remained restless for the rest of the day. Wondering if the private number I had used to call Chotta Shamim, one of Mumbai’s most notorious ganglords. was safe. After all, he was a sworn enemy of Bhai’s – and, incidentally, also his younger stepbrother who had fallen out with him when he had abducted and married his second wife. Was I taking on another huge risk? Playing Rawat and Bhai against each other? Not to mention the cops and my lawyers, who were all also on the take? I didn’t change out of my nightclothes. Nor did I sext the whore I had made out with the day before. I wasn’t in the mood to order my usual chicken malai tikka and butter naan.
Unable to sleep, I picked up Amitabh’s book. As always, looking to him to make sense of things.
BLINDSIDE
My father was a much-desired son born after three daughters, to a prosperous cloth merchant, Narayanrao Ghorpade in Ichalkaranji, a small town nestled in the Ghats on the western coast of India, located about 425 kilometres south of Kolhapur in the state of Maharashtra. By the time he grew up, Baba however realized that he had no interest in the burgeoning family business, and dreamt of being an actor on stage – something he could never quite share with his own father, one of the most prominent merchants in the region, also credited with setting up a power loom there that changed the destiny of Ichalkaranji forever.
After he finished h
is matriculation, my grandfather insisted that Baba visit him in the factory every day, in the hope of initiating his only son into the trade. By his own admission, Baba hated the stifling environs, the way the only talk was of money and business rivals, about the impending marriages of his older sisters, and, how his cunning uncles were perennially conspiring against his father, jealous of his soaring financial success.
Baba aimed to study acting, finding his solace in watching plays like those by Dada Saheb Sarat Chandra Joglekar, whose travelling theatre company was making waves in the whole region. Baba made it a point to catch all the shows, sometimes travelling from village to village to watch them again. Lapping up any book on theatre that he could find in his school library.
It was his passion to join theatre that made him defy my grandfather’s wish that he quit his studies and eventually join the business, full-time, midway through his BA. Baba was a satirist, deeply influenced by Tamasha, a form of Marathi theatre that involved mostly song and dance and poking fun at authority. He sang beautifully and wrote all his own scripts, mostly monologues, since he had no money to pay anyone else.
Baba’s insistence on going to college in Nagpur, was also linked somewhere to his thirst to hone his craft, meet more like-minded people, maybe even Dada Saheb, who often travelled there.
It was on the train to Nagpur that he met my mother, in his second year of college. A young Muslim girl, clad demurely in a burqa, she had been separated from her family when she had hopped off at the station to buy herself some tea. He noticed her looking lost and had bought her a fresh ticket, escorting her home. On the way, they had talked deep into the night. He learnt she had trained in dance in Nagpur and that she aspired to become a professional dancer someday, if her conservative family allowed her to forgo marriage and motherhood – the fate of every Indian woman.
It wasn’t love at first sight. But, perhaps two people slowly discovering a quaint world of their own – safe from the rigid suffocation of their respective families – their own aspirations, their own art. Their fears, somewhat, similar. They met often, after that, in secret, mostly bunking college.
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