Usmaan Bhai was a man of few words. He looked at me with a kindly smile: ‘I think of him, too, Madam. And I do wonder. But, this morning, as I was reading my namaaz, I happened to look up at the skyline, here, in Pune, and I felt as if Amitabh Kulasheshtra was looking down on us. I felt, then, that he’s the one directing each thing happening on this stage; happening to us, now, from above. It was his will that has brought you here today. His will that AD is the person coordinating it. Even back then, as today, he knew what he wanted. And why. The stage was his salvation, Madam. He was invincible. And the stage is invincible because of him…’
Just then there was a knock on the door. Usman Bhai looked at me and I indicated to him to answer the door.
Aiyee stood outside.
Many times, in the past, I’d imagined what it would be like to stand in front of Mrs. Sarla Kulasheshtra. What would she say to me? Would she simply walk past me, indignantly? Insult me, publicly? Refuse to acknowledge me even? Hold a grudge? Abuse me? Treat me with the scornful disdain reserved for a husband’s mistress…?
Aiyee walked into the room with slow, measured steps, greeting Usmaan Bhai politely, before making her way inside. Before occupying the faded green-room couch, her hands neatly folded in her lap. She was attired in a traditional, Maharashtrian weave in olive and ochre. Her neatly-pinned pallu was a carbon copy of my costume. Her hair was in a tight bun, the way I was wearing mine. Her hands were without bangles. I ran my fingers slowly over my dry lips, over the wrinkles that Usman Bhai had so brilliantly created.
Aiyee looked at me, in silence. As did I.
Her eyes had aged; she looked tired, but at peace,
I removed the spectacles I was wearing. I tried speaking to her, hoping to come up with a suitable greeting to begin with, especially after all this time. But, I just couldn’t. Feeling completely tongue-tied, I knelt on the cold, hard floor and buried my face in her lap.
Aiyee caressed my head for a while and then gently raised my chin. Wiping my eyes, using her softened pallu, she said, ‘Shiish…You are ruining Usman’s brilliant work! He’s done such a great job! The only difference is I stopped wearing a mangal-sutra a long time ago…it’s probably the only difference between us…Maya Shirale and Sarla Kulasheshtra…on stage, tonight.’ She ran her finger over my collarbone and along the length of the thin black-and-gold beaded mangal-sutra necklace that hung around my neck.
I swallowed hard.
‘You are just the way he would have wanted me to be, Maya…and, and I was right about knowing Amitabh’s mind…this play, Cut, would be nothing without you,’ she brought her face closer to mine: ‘That’s why I came here. I needed to thank you for saying yes to this part. I know what must have gone through your mind when you read the script the first time…Avi…he, he told me all about your self-doubts…why you initially turned down the role…I guess I would have felt the same…’
‘Avi…?’ my lips quivered, ‘You have been in contact with Avi? You both have met before? Avik Dasgupta?’
Aiyee was briefly lost in her own thoughts, before slowly looking up to talk to me: ‘I gave him the manuscript of Cut. I wanted Avik Dasgupta to direct the play, and I only laid down one, strict, precondition; that no one but you was to essay the leading role…I made Avi promise, however, that he would not share details of my involvement with you before tonight. I didn’t want you to feel any more pressured than I knew you were…or, maybe, I just wanted us to meet, like the way we first did on that the afternoon you stood at the gates of our Pune home…Maybe, I missed being alone with you, Maya.’
I felt myself tear up again.
‘I never wanted things to turn out this way, Aiyee. You must believe me,’ my shoulders trembled.
She nodded. ‘Maya, I remember how it is to be young and impetuous in love. I also know why you left Pune that night; not so much because of Amitabh…but, what you felt for me, what you felt you probably owed me, after what I had done for you…what you were correct to sense, I was also set to lose…’ She took a deep breath: ‘The way I lashed out against you in the Samna interview…I owe you an apology, Maya…it was just that I needed to accuse someone to make sense of my own feelings…the humiliation I felt when rumours about Amitabh living in with you in Mumbai made their way to me…I would always ask the person or persons carrying this news, if they had seen you with him. If they were sure it was you, Maya…Mrinalini Shirale…the girl who I took in, who lived in my home…Their silences, the way they refused to say anything else…it, it added to the pain…making me want to hurt you in the way only a woman can hurt another woman…instead of understanding you…and, maybe even Amitabh…in a way he had always wanted me to, perhaps…’
‘Is that the truth? Your truth?’ I searched Aiyee’s eyes.
For a while, she remained silent, studying my face. Then she resumed:
‘We happened to love the same man...make love to the same body, Maya... confront the same mind…the same quirks, the same fantasies, the same fears, the same fallacies…the same principles…the same lies... the same losses... the same dreams, the same dilemmas. The same demons. We are the same. You and I. Separated only by this thing... called time.’
‘You’re in love with Amitabh, aren’t you, Aiyee? And you’ve only just come to terms with it now…what you feel…the things you could never quite put a finger on, earlier,’ I questioned, softly, staring back into her tired eyes.
‘We don’t fall out of love, Maya. We only stop pretending…’ she murmured, meeting mine.
‘You were his wife, Aiyee,’ I stood up. ‘A bond I could never share with Amitabh. Something I realize all the more after reading Cut. Maybe, we ran out of memories, after a point. Perhaps, that’s why Amitabh never came back to me, in Mumbai, and, I too, didn’t reach out; rebelling against his rules and transforming into a mainstream Bollywood actress. Though, looking back, Aiyee, it was all for him. I’ve never really stopped proving myself to Amitabh, in a way, waiting for his acceptance. You know something, Aiyee? Despite everything that was said and speculated about us, all the rumours and the reality of us living together in Kalyan, he was my teacher. My mentor. Mrinalini Shirale…she, she died with Amitabh Kulasheshtra. I died on that train from Pune to Mumbai. Whereas, you, Aiyee, Amitabh, set you free with his death. Free to find yourself. Find yourself in him, all over again.’
‘And where does that leave you, Maya?’ Aiyee walked over to where I stood, facing the green-room mirror, once more. Our facial features almost identical.
‘I don’t know, Aiyee, but for once, I’m at peace with the uncertainty,’ I took a deep breath, speaking to her through the hazy glass, ‘All I know is that every time I mouth my lines...I can tell he’s watching. I feel him, in the darkness, the shadows like the darkened edges of his eyes. Luring me eternally, melting my insides. I could never love him, fully, Aiyee, during the time we stayed together in Mumbai, all those years ago. Something was amiss, even in me; as if there can be anything more important than loving someone…’
‘You are being too hard on yourself, Maya. Amitabh was a difficult man to understand. I never could fathom him when we were married; for all the years, we spent under the same roof. I held him responsible for too much. My father. Losing Rakesh. My daughter. But, now, in his absence, and, minus the enormity of the daily struggles I went through trying to sustain his genius and substitute our collective losses, I think I’m finally allowing myself to see him…to…to feel the way I did when he first came to live with us. When he stood watching us from a distance, in Satara, as we rehearsed for Dada Saheb’s adaptation of Sita Swayamvar. Just like then, Amitabh awoke a plethora of feelings in me…things I could never understand in totality or at once…emotions not as simplistic or as holistic as love, or, love at first sight…the journey felt so new to me, Maya…these were altogether new sensations, in a sense…curiosity about a new person, protectiveness, almost a maternal urge, in some way, compassion for his poverty, the struggles he had seen, the squalor of his background�
�the pain at the way he lost his mother…how he was never really loved by one, or remained attached to anything, beyond a point…and, and then…slowly, after he lived with us, when he just wouldn’t leave…when I realized, the way my father knew, that Amitabh had nowhere to go to…and that walking out of Ganesh Circus was as much to prove a point to his blind father who was a clown, as much as it was to avenge Ammi’s death…the way the world had failed his family…the angst Amitabh carried with him…till his dying day…the reason he directed and wrote the plays he did…why he always fought for those who lacked a voice…why he could never love a woman...the way he hated his father for never standing up for his mother…I began to admire Amitabh’s smouldering courage…the way he didn’t care for my father’s larger-than-life persona, leaving his troupe even after he was married to his only daughter and had been handed his legacy on a veritable plate…the manner in which he answered back, the first afternoon he stood in front of him, sans self-doubt. A part of me wished I was Amitabh. That I had his heart. More than once…’
Aiyee coughed, placing her hand over her heart as she continued:
‘Last year, on September 16, we were headed to the courts. We had lost our daughter, Maya, on the same date. Our cab stopped in front of a traffic signal. A small girl, her torso bare, wearing only frayed pajamas, was performing difficult headstands and somersaults on the pavement. After her act, she banged on my rolled-up window, her lips pressed to the glass.
‘“Don’t pay them a penny, Mataji…all these children who beg like this are actually a part of a much bigger racket, padhaiye kyun nahin karte…” the cab-driver scorned, shooing her away.
‘The girl showed him her middle finger, narrowing her eyes. “Ghar mein beti nahin hai kya?” she screamed.
‘Suddenly, Amitabh got very agitated and wanted to get off the cab. He was suffering from Alzheimer’s. The condition had worsened, and doctors feared that given the history of his head injuries sustained at Malegaon…that it was a matter of time, before he would develop dementia…anyway, he started following the child.
‘“Amitabh!” I called out. “It’s too costly to keep the cab waiting. And we have to reach the court on time. Today you will be called to the witness-box. Our lawyer says this is your last chance.”
‘But Amitabh had picked up a dhol and was sitting in the middle of the road and was banging it furiously, his face alive, radiant, as the little girl danced for him, sans inhibitions. Throwing up her dark, skinny hands into the air. Their eyes spoke a secret language.
‘After the dance finished, Amitabh scooped her in his arms. “What’s your name, thōdē r>ānī (little queen)?” he asked, kissing her forehead.
‘“My friends call me Meenu, but that’s not my real name. Abba would always call me Mumtaz. My father named me.”
‘“See, I could tell you were a queen! Mere naye natak mein kaam karegi, Mumtaz-Mahal?” Amitabh affectionately cupped her cheeks, before I could respond.
‘The girl giggled and kissed him on his forehead then. Over the line of stitches that stood out. After Malegaon.
‘“Nach ne dega?” she retorted sassily.
‘Somehow, little Mumtaz, reminded me of you, Maya. The way Amitabh kept correcting her, telling her how she should sing a particular high note, and holding her back when she tried performing a complicated head-stand. I had never thought of you, until that day, with anything but disdain…I had vowed that I would never discuss you with anyone…even Amitabh…never as much as take your name…and, and, then…just looking at both of them…it was like suddenly your relationship with Amitabh, why he needed you, became clearer to me, Maya. It was like I saw you, the way the audience will see you after they watch Cut…through his eyes.
‘When we reached the court that day, we learned that Prakash Lele’s daughter had also agreed to an out-of-court settlement. Our lawyer had offered us a monetary settlement as well, advising Amitabh to walk away, adding how he had picked the wrong fight. I said nothing. By the time, Amitabh was finally summoned to the witness-box, he was so disoriented that all he could speak of was Mumtaz, a streetside child-beggar. He rambled on, sans context, going on and on about the importance of standing up for a little homeless Muslim girl who had been abandoned after the 1992 riots. Who had watched her family being killed in front of her own eyes. Who had been molested as well in the shelter she was sent to by the cops and the courts. Who hadn’t eaten for days, and who now performed tricks in the blazing sun. Her tresses matted.
‘The lawyer representing Rawat had grinned salaciously all the while. “Open-and-shut case, huh? A man who is out of his mind, clearly as we can all see. Who cannot even think straight! Who is bedridden for the most part of the year…sloganeering, as he’s known famously for…maybe, his next play is going to be called Mumtaz. Note, my lord…how he’s always inciting the communal angle. How he is manipulating our minds…”
‘The judge duly made a note.
‘“As you can see, there are no witnesses. And yet, this man cannot seem to understand that his allegations are baseless…and that he was the one to blame…that Prakash Lele being killed was a simple accident…that he died thanks to the unruly stampede that ensued…” he went on, pointing his fingers at Amitabh’s eyes.
‘The court proceedings lasted less than an hour.
‘Rawat’s name was cleared of the charges. His two sidekicks were not. The judge would set another date, we were told. Another wait…
‘On our way home, we stopped again by the same light. Amitabh jumped out of the car, screaming, “Mumtaz mujhe maaf kar dena…Mein aaj phir se har gaya…” That’s when I remembered, “Mumtaz” was his mother’s name too.’
Aiyee sighed deeply, closing her eyes, for a few minutes: ‘After reading Cut, and Blindside, after meeting all the people he had influenced, after the outpouring of grief…the candle-lit vigils, the genuine expressions of regret and respect…I realized why.
‘I’m going back to the courts tomorrow. It’s what strengthened my resolve to stage Cut, come what may, my reason behind asking Avik to direct this play and to make it amply clear that only you could play Sarla Kulasheshtra. This play, Amitabh’s battle…this crusade…this country…its conscience…my husband’s unfortunate death…the slander…the silence…the survival…this moment, now…that, that stage, waiting for you, outside…Cut is not just Amitabh Kulasheshtra’s unfinished legacy, Maya. You must know that. Amitabh may have started a war with Malegaon. But, this battle, it’s now mine. And, Avik’s. And Usmaan Bhai’s. And Govind Deval’s. And Sultan Ahmed’s. And yours. We owe Mumtaz a win. We owe it to ourselves, first.’
One of the backstage assistants knocked on the door. It was time to go on. Wordlessly, Aiyee adjusted the pallu of my dull brown Narayanpeth sari, settling a few stray strands of hair behind my ears. Her fingertips icy.
We stood face to face. Just the way we had. Once.
‘Maya, to take position on stage, Act One, Scene One. Sarla Kulasheshtra,’ Avi’s voice wheezed from a walkie-talkie.
I stretched out my hand in Aiyee’s direction. She fought back her own tears, ‘Amitabh shouldn’t have to lose, Maya…’
I smiled back at her reassuringly, walking out.
‘Amitabh didn’t like to lose, Aiyee…’ I whispered.
Before we parted.
The spotlight shone brightly, almost blinding me, at first.
Everything else was invisible.
Everything else was inconsequential.
I stood on the spot marked ‘SK’ on the stage.
I spoke my first line:
‘Artists don’t die. Artists must never die. Amitabh Kulasheshtra is not dead. Not in here.’
My heart skipped a beat. As it always did.
There was thunderous applause.
‘Amitabh Kulasheshtra amar rahein,’ someone screamed.
I opened my eyes. Soaking in the moment.
As Amitabh’s words, in a deep voice-over, resounded on stage:
All your life
you fought my wars,
Wore my victories as a crown of thorns,
All your life you swallowed my salt tears,
Camouflaged my bloodied cuts,
With a fleeting touch of your soft palms.
All your life you stood in my tall shadows.
Your eyes so sanguine; so still.
Your face never fully visible.
Who were you in secret?
In the light of the setting sun?
In your own skin?
When the curtains came down?
Who burns out, first, Sarla,
Leaving things unfinished?
Which of us is the hero?
Whose side is time on?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The idea behind Cut came to me on a long, bleary night in Mumbai, which is where I lived and worked as a journalist a decade ago. A tiny snippet in a leading national daily, almost inconspicuous by its placement among more gritty, hard-hitting, attention-grabbing headlines told of a forgotten Marathi theatre personality, a character actor, obscure to most, a recovering alcoholic, who had been found dead on a train to Mumbai. The nature of his accidental death juxtaposed with the irony of fleeting public memory left a lasting impact on me. What was an artist’s life worth? What was his darkness? What were his demons? His deities?
Cut is, in more ways than one, and much more starkly than any of my other books, also my own trajectory. The voice of Amitabh Kulasheshtra that permeates this novel, is akin to the shadow of another artist, a poet, my biological father, Basudev Kundu, to whom Cut is dedicated; whose life was cut short by the all-encompassing darkness of schizophrenia when in his early thirties.
I have lived practically all my adult life grappling with a suffocating anger and hatred towards the man who so selfishly abandoned my mother, leaving her widowed in her late twenties, to struggle against the social stigma and familial shame, to raise her only daughter. The pain of not knowing my father, of being estranged from his family, of growing up sans even a single portrait of him in my maternal grandparents’ home – where I grew up in Kolkata – of lying about his identity to escape being bullied in school where I was perhaps the most obese girl in the class, of discovering how he died a day before my tenth board exams, of blaming every failure and obstacle in my own life to his absence – to writing imaginary letters to him that were perhaps my first works of literature, being desperate to know if he loved me, and of desperately wanting to be loved.
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