Avi nodded. It was time.
I couldn’t speak. I threw down the script and fled from the stage. Unable to control my emotions.
The green-room door was slightly ajar. Avi pushed it open with his forearm, barging inside unannounced. I was still trembling. Avi stood towering over me. His chest heaved. I was about to offer an explanation, when he screamed:
‘You just can’t walk out that way, Maya. This isn’t a film set! What’s the problem, huh? Why couldn’t you complete your lines, despite us having read the scene so many times?’
‘It’s hard, Avi…’
‘What is hard, Maya? You are a seasoned actor…’
‘But this isn’t acting, Avi. I don’t know why you just can’t get it; this is Amitabh’s last play, goddammit…and playing the character of his wife…Aiyee…retelling his entire life…bringing up so much…even us…through her eyes…it’s just…’
Avi kneeled down and looked deep into my eyes, saying, ‘Maybe, it’s the only way you can let go of him, Maya…and maybe, it’s why he wrote this play…’
‘How, how did you get this play, Avi? How did it fall into your hands?’ I struggled to speak.
‘I told you…someone found it on the train and had it in his custody before he sold me the rights…’
‘Does Aiyee know about this? That you are directing this play? That her husband’s last work was about her, in a way…that she is the main protagonist…’ I stared up in his direction, adjusting my wig, feeling my cheeks burn up.
‘I intend to invite her when we stage Cut,’ Avi replied casually.
‘I think you are taking a huge risk with this casting, Avi. I mean, seeing me, after all these years…what will she say? We haven’t met, as you are aware…since the night I left Pune. And after that damaging Samna interview appeared…I think it’s abundantly clear she will never wish to see my face again…’ I wiped my eyes, rising up from the chair and walking towards Avi.
‘I think, it’s quite the coup. Being able to do this, Maya… I’ve brought back so many of Kulasheshtra’s old cast members…the legendary technicians he worked with…Imagine someone of the stature of Sultan Ahmed agreeing to come onboard!’ Avi took a lengthy drag of his cigarette changing the topic.
‘You’re letting go of Amitabh, too, then…’ I murmured, touching his back.
‘No, Maya, you are wrong there,’ Avi swerved.
‘How? What do you mean?’ I was taken aback.
‘I’m letting him in,’ Avi stubbed his cigarette under his shoe.
The next day, the same thing happened during rehearsal. Only this time, I added a line, inviting Avi’s ire as he screamed at me in front of the whole cast. I chose not to react, walking off the stage in silence. Avi was no less than a tyrant. Guarding Cut with his life. It was hard to convince him to see anyone else’s point of view…He stormed into my green-room five minutes later:
‘What’s with you, huh? Either you cannot finish a full scene, or this…’ his nostrils flared: ‘These lines are sacrosanct…you cannot do this, Maya…there is no way I will allow you this liberty,’ he had thundered, pointing his finger in my face.
‘You said to me earlier that I had the licence to see Sarla’s character through my own eyes…when I was unsure about playing her on stage,’ I retorted. ‘And, I felt it lacked something, Avi…like someone was strangling Sarla. I wasn’t desperate to prove a point or be one up on you. I know how sacred Amitabh’s writing is and I know just how clinical you are about authenticity. But, I just felt the anger in Sarla was slightly diffused, that’s all. You know what I mean, right? Avi, this is a woman who is speaking about her husband leaving her for another woman…without a legit explanation…having to explain his betrayal to the world…a man as well-known as Amitabh…’
‘Go on…’ he clicked his tongue.
‘Stop patronizing me, okay?’ I flopped down on the couch facing a lone window.
‘Fine, sorry,’ Avi, calmer now, sat down beside me.
‘No, Avi, sorry won’t be enough…in fact, that’s precisely where the mistake lies. As a director, you are viewing Sarla Kulasheshtra with an impassive impunity…but, have you ever thought what Aiyee would have actually felt…after that night, when Amitabh returned to Pune…to their home…how she never asked him why he returned…how she had no choice? How she was never given a choice? What did she do, when he went away…all the times, he left her, alone? When he was in Paris? When he was in Mumbai fighting for the mill-workers? When he was in Delhi staging street plays, in front of Parliament? In Malegaon? When he was on that train, even? When he was with me?’
‘Can you just come to the point, for once, Maya…’ he cut me short, restlessly.
‘Why can’t you allow her this outrage, Avi? Imagine this character, as Sarla, just Sarla, not as Amitabh’s restrained and dignified wife. Not as Sarlu.’
Avi listened in rapt attention, and then lit up. Blowing a ring of smoke, he said, ‘Okay, so now that we are on the subject of wives... what the hell were you thinking telling Reema that she needed to come back to me? Give our relationship another chance? Who are you to interfere in my marriage?’
I adjusted my wig. Thoughts crowded my mind.
Was I getting overly attached to this play? Why had I botched up my lines? Why was I so desperate to do justice to the screenplay, even tampering with Amitabh’s script to have my say?
Was it because I didn’t want Avi to fail?
Was I trying to save him?
The way Amitabh tried to save me?
By loving me enough to see who I really was?
As an artist? And as a woman?
‘Maya, let me put this on record, calling up my wife is not your job. You need to focus only on Cut. We open in two months. There’s already so much of media publicity for this play…the word is out that this is Kulasheshtra’s last work,’ he snapped.
‘That is not why you are here though, right?’ I slowly removed my wig.
‘Maya, look, I understand I may have overreacted this afternoon – or maybe, it was the way I wanted the scene to play out in my head. The exact manner in which I hoped each thing would fall into place, eventually…’
‘Avi, we have to stop creating a scene each time we disagree on method, on, anything, going forward,’ I interrupted.
‘I know, Maya. I get that it’s weird for us to be working together, this way; just as I know how challenging it is to essay this character…how demanding each day of rehearsal has been…to see yourself as a woman you have run away from…. your whole life, practically. I too am so damn stressed about the production. What if Cut bombs?’ I’ll have lost everything, Maya, but what unsettles me the most is the thought that I will take down all the people involved…those who sank their money in this venture with me…the formidable cast…the backstage team…the sound, set design and light technicians…Sarlaji…and, and most of all, Kulasheshtra.’
‘Please don’t be so hard on yourself…’ I reached out to touch him.
Avi backed away. ‘No! Don’t do this, Maya! Not now. Quit trying to protect me. My marriage! My issues with Kulasheshtra, his memories, the guilt I felt when I never tried again for NCD, for moving to films, for dating you…for the way he died…How we failed him as a society, as a people. I mean, Reema going away was my fault, Maya. Not yours,’ he said, when he was done.
‘Reema is hurting, just as much. She’s not a bad person,’ I resumed in a soft voice, reaching out, again. ‘Besides, she is pregnant, and you are going to become a father soon, Avi. Look at what this means, this new phase: You coming back to theatre, your biggest dream ...and starting a family…it’s all meant to end well, Avi…’
‘It’s not that simple…’ Avi threw up his hands in exasperation.
‘Nothing is, Avi. But, you have a responsibility towards the kid. Talk to Reema, see what she needs,’ I said, trying to calm him down.
‘And, and what if she asks me what we are doing here, now? Look Maya, you know jack about my mar
riage…so stay out of it,’ Avi got up from the couch with a start.
‘Reena has called me a couple of times on her own. I’ve asked her to come and watch the play when it opens. I said she must attend the first show in Pune,’ I rose up, glancing back, to add, ‘She said she’d think about it. I told her everything, Avi…things she needs to know as a woman in love with you, carrying your child…things I should have told you when we were together…secrets and lies that ruined us, in the end.’
‘I said I don’t want to talk about it, okay?’ Avi screamed, his eyes inflamed.
‘What do you want to talk about then?’
‘Getting the scene right,’ Avi grabbed my shoulders, violently. ‘Let’s get back to rehearsal.’
I grimaced.
‘Cut means more to me than anything, Maya. More than anyone,’ he said.
AVIK DASGUPTA
Two months later, Cut opened to a packed auditorium in Pune. There were throngs of people waiting outside for tickets. My phone hadn’t stopped buzzing. I stood backstage, alone, for a few minutes. In my hand, I held the original manuscript Sarlaji had handed me, here, in the same city. The crew manning the sets made last-minute adjustments. A thick black curtain separated me from the audience. I flopped down on a wooden stool, kept in the wings. The exhaustion and excitement of the last few months had worn me. I wiped my face and opened the file. To a passage that was my favourite. Looking at the stage shrouded in shadows.
Shirish and Razia stood behind me. I looked back, facing them, after a few seconds, wondering if something was amiss.
‘Looks like a full house AD, there are people still waiting outside, well done,’ Razia flashed a victory sign.
‘Is Sarlaji here?’ I searched Shirish’s eyes.
‘Nope. Not yet,’ he answered, his brow creased.
‘Has someone from the production team tried reaching her?’
‘The call is not going through, I tried from my cell, and from my camera person’s, too,’ Razia pitched in promptly.
‘What is it saying?’ I cut her short.
‘Nothing,’ Shirish shrugged his shoulders, impatiently.
‘What does that mean?’
‘As in…the call is just not getting through. Shall I make someone try and call again?’ Shirish volunteered, hoping to calm me down.
‘You just said the call’s not connecting. Make up your mind. Do we have a lot of Press, tonight?’ I paced up and down.
‘Yes. Some really big guns have also specially requested for passes, Vishnu Jain, NDTV CEO, with his wife and Girija Prasad, Editor-in-chief, AajTak have especially flown down for the first show as have a whole lot of national media heads and celebs from Bollywood and the arts fraternity. In fact, I believe some of our rival channels were desperate to cover the sound check etc., this morning…kept calling someone or the other from your team. Who would have thought the opening week would turn out, this stupendously? The kind of crowd this play is getting is nothing short of historic. Cut is literally on everyone’s lips…the next two shows in Pune are fully booked. Social media too has exploded with news of the play, every detail being eagerly anticipated. The Bookmyplay head called, he’s asking if there are extra shows being added in Mumbai, the next stop…. before the six-city tour begins. This kind of euphoria has never been witnessed before, for a play…I mean it’s bigger than a godamn film premiere…’ Razia replied emphatically.
‘Did she leave any alternate number?’
‘We’ve called everyone, AD. Everyone’s saying the same thing…’ Shirish walked alongside me.
‘Which is?’
‘Woh apni marzi ki malik hai, she has always been stubborn and listens to know one... but…siwaye…’ he bit his lips.
‘Siwaye?’
‘Siwaye apni dil ki…they used the word dil. All of them…everyone we called. Everyone close to her…to Sarla Kulasheshtra.’
Razia shot me a sideways glance.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Avi…I think what Shirish is trying to say is simply this,’ she touched my chest, lightly, ‘What you have achieved is a bloody casting coup. Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s wife, being played onstage by Maya Shirale, in his last play, being directed by Avik Dasgupta, ace Bollywood director, also Maya’s one-time aashiq, who hated Kulasheshtra with a vengeance…who turned away from the stage, thanks to him. Who broke up with Maya Shirale exactly a year after Amitabh Kulasheshtra died on his way to Mumbai. Everyone knows the chequered history all of you shared…the media, like the audience, are completely bloodthirsty, possibly hoping to piece together a part of their lives, through this production, and, maybe, wondering, if it’s all an act of fiction or purely autobiographical…Cut as you know, is being touted as a magnum opus…the theatrical offering of the year…the dramatic stage debut of Avik Dasgupta…Sultan Ahmed…Govind Deval…the original team members of Kulasheshtra…and…’ Razia threw her hands in mid-air, panting slightly.
‘And what? This is not just about Maya, Razia…though I am aware what her comeback on stage probably means for the media and her fans…I mean, after Kulasheshtra’s death, especially…’ I raised my voice.
‘You are getting me wrong. I wasn’t talking about her at all, AD. The whole world knows why you chose Maya for this part…the fact, that you guys were a couple, apart, you’ve always idolized Maya Shirale, since, ever since the day you first saw her light up a screen. You were a youngster, back then, and you fell for her watching a hit number of hers, on television? That Dhak Dhak song, all this stuff…most papers have been carrying the same trivia, ever since you all started rehearsing for Cut. The insinuations going back to when she was chosen to judge the dance reality show, Dhak Dhak India, that your newly-launched, television company co-produced. Post the casting for this play…naturally those rumours have been fanned…but…’ she suddenly paused, glancing down.
‘But what?’
‘But these two women meeting, in person…’ Razia pursed her lips.
‘And, you think that pushed Sarlaji to stay away?’ I searched both their faces.
‘Maybe, it just made it a tougher decision, AD. One that she didn’t want to take now…given the excess baggage Cut already carries…’ Razia remarked, pointedly.
‘Excess baggage?’ I was taken aback by her choice of words.
‘It’s almost six twenty…’ Shirish checked his wristwatch, and announced, looking anxious.
‘Nearly time for the final seating request,’ I muttered, distractedly, checking the time again.
Shirish received a call just then. Hanging up, he faced us, and excitedly said: ‘Good news! The production team head just saw Sarlaji enter the auditorium. I think there’s no reason to delay matters further. Should I get the announcement going, in that case, AD?’ Shirish held up his left hand, and pointed at his watch.
‘It’s showtime, yes…’ I whispered, feeling a weight lift off my chest.
‘Stage, in fifteen,’ Shirish gestured urgently, speaking into his walkie-talkie.
The curtains parted slowly. There was thunderous applause. I placed my hands before my eyes, pulling the cordless microphone closer to my lips. The hall was chock-a-block, the back of the auditorium jam-packed with television cameras. Everyone’s eyes were on me…
Ladies and gentlemen, I am Avik Dasgupta.
As many of you maybe aware, this is my first play.
I couldn’t make it to the National Centre of Drama.
I just tried getting in once.
I cared a shit for the longest time.
It’s the only thing I really did.
Cared about things that hardly mattered to me.
This is however not my story, none of it.
This is everything I could never be.
This is stuff I learned to stop wanting, a long time ago.
This is real.
This is robust.
This is raw.
Parts, of it.
The parts he wrote.
The parts I imagined
.
The parts she narrated.
Only, tonight, I’m going to shut up and let you decide.
Who you want to be?
Missionary or mercenary?
Platonic or passionate?
Failure or famous?
Dead or alive?
Or, barely breathing?
Cut.
The story of a man who wanted to change the world.
A King.
And a woman who never loved him.
His Queen.
In an ancient empire that was rapidly changing.
A bloody war.
Until a girl with eyes the colour of rain, appeared.
The Enemy.
Standing before us.
We. The people.
Today, you will have to conclude.
Who wins and who loses?
I looked down into the sea of faces. The seat reserved in the first row for Sarlaji was empty. Had she left? Changed her mind about watching Cut? Was Razia correct in her assumption? Was Maya Shirale playing Sarla Kulasheshtra, the real raison d’être? Both for the audience? And us?
MAYA SHIRALE
Avi had allocated a separate green-room for me. I sat in front of the large mirror now, its circumference dotted with tiny light bulbs, as Usmaan Bhai, veteran hair and make-up expert whom Avi had brought back on stage after years, once a core member of Amitabh’s team, expertly transformed my face. I watched my reflection in fascination as, under his adept hands, my face gradually transformed into Aiyee’s.
I had always known that I had to resemble her, physically. That’s what Avi had insisted on, for me to get totally into character. But, now, watching the dark lines around my mouth, I was hit anew by a fresh attack of nerves. Woud just looking like Sarla Kulasheshtra be enough? Did I even have the moral standing to be allowed to play her?
‘Am I a good enough actor, Usmaan Bhai? Kya…kya woh khush hote…if, if he was here, now? If Amitabh was alive?’ I drank a sip of warm water, mentally rehearsing my lines.
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