‘What Sethji means is Madam needs to rest, she can give her instructions on the phone, and it will be done. That is why I am here, na Sethji?’ Anil had intervened. But then, Anil had not been himself in the last days, the more since she had returned to the studio, Ramola mused as she sat alone. Perhaps it was the shock of it all. He was trying to shield her, she could see that, taking the responsibilities on himself. After all, he had fairly worshipped Shankar. Though some of his changed manners were plain discourteous…presenting himself unasked in Shankar’s office that morning, despite her signals for privacy. It had never happened before while Shankar was there. Surely he had known enough of her to tell that she would not like it. He seemed to be always around her now, arriving at the house as she was leaving for the studio, shepherding her around, insisting she needed to rest more. Jumping to her defense at some imagined affront, even scolding poor Nishith Babu for bothering Madam. He had gone so far as to seek a private appointment at Sethji’s daftar—‘On some important matters of the studio,’ he had said, without so much as looking her way. Did he imagine she had taken leave of her senses, in her grief? That now Bharat Talkies was rudderless? That she was now so weakened that she needed to be looked after…like she was only Shankar’s widow…like Ramola Devi—the star—was a nobody?
Who anyway had assigned him this task? Shankar would never have wanted it. He would call her his Bengal tigress. She was already so tired of all the kindness around her. A hundred thoughts roamed her mind as she played with the pens on Shankar’s desk. What should she do with Mirabai now? She had not spoken of it in the three days that she had been back at the studio. Everyone had seemed so uncertain around her, so afraid that they would distress her, though she had been her own self… or at least she thought so. But it had to be taken up, they had a decision to make. Who could have Shankar’s imagination? Give shape and form to it. What they had imagined together. Should she speak with Nishith Babu? He might be the only one now, though he was rather fixed in his ways about things.
She had heard every kind of rumour in the last days, most of it through Anil who had dutifully visited her every day. That Ramola Devi was about to retire from the screen. That Shankar Chattopadhyay had debts, and Bharat Talkies might now be sold to an American corporation. That they were looking for somebody able enough to take over the studio’s management… somebody that Ramola Devi could trust…she herself being lost to the world in her grief. And then that piece of malice in the two penny paper about her being the home-breaker that had gotten her dues, and that she now wanted to give it all up, do penance. ‘Who knew…’ she wondered. Amy had never been to the country, and she was already married to Shankar when they had started Bharat Talkies. No one except perhaps Shankar’s closest friends had known about his first marriage. How did it get out now? The paper had said ‘A source very close to Ramola Devi…’ It was so odd. Only days before Shankar had brought it up, the first time since they were married. He had wanted to see his daughter Amelia on this trip abroad, and had written to Amy. Amelia was not yet two when he and Amy had parted. He had never spoken of her, and she hadn’t asked. Though he did keep a photograph of her in a drawer in his study at home. A little girl with eyes like his…had he mentioned it to someone else? About wanting to see little Amelia. Perhaps he had, to someone that he had trusted. She had faulted him for it sometimes, for being more trusting than he should.
She had understood him though, when he had brought up Amy and Amelia. They had never thought of having children, it was almost a given. Of course some of the kothawalis who became heroines had children from their different marriages but they came and went with one picture or the next. She herself could not have taken time away from her work, nor had she ever wanted it. Shankar neither. They had needed each other to make Bharat Talkies grow, like it was their own child. Though now she wondered if they should have had a little boy or a girl. It gave her a sudden pang. How would it be to have someone to call her own, her very own flesh and blood, theirs? Amy must have found her world in her little daughter when Shankar had left them. A little warm bundle to hold close to herself when she found herself breaking. Perhaps Shankar had missed having a child around him. He could be so adoring, ever so gentle, so much of it was lost on her, when she would tell him to not fuss. She had never been one for too many shows of affection, Shankar just the other way. Perhaps a child would have changed that in her. Why did such things come to mind when it was so late…
She forced her thoughts back to the things at hand. Three new pictures…Ambarish Dev Burma’s Pativrata, the new director’s comedy, and Mira. And two of them struck by death. First Menoka, then Shankar, the two so separate, yet somewhere, her mind had not been easy since Menoka’s death. What if she had died so suddenly, and Shankar left behind? Would he give it all up? Like how people thought she now should? It would be so easy…to just stop there and then, to not have to think about so many things. To get back home and try to sleep. People would understand, anyhow, they really did think that she should not carry on, without Shankar, her life in the pictures at the very least. That it was her time for bowing out.
Ramola sighed, got up and walked to the window overlooking the garden where she would so inevitably station herself in her moments of disagreement with her husband. If only she could be Ramola and Shankar both…take another life from him, wherever he was. Like in the stories from her childhood, where gods and demons drew strength from different founts…when they had more than one life…and lived so many lives beyond life and death. They became new people, took avatars so they could do new things, rise and not fail, changing themselves from one life to another. Perhaps they had had too great a love of life to ever give up. Shankar had loved his world in the very same way. And he had loved her more than that whole world and everything that was in it. Still, he would have carried on, somehow. And wasn’t that what he had taught her, every time that he had succeeded, or even lost? To rise back, to never go wasted. Often he had pushed her to exceed herself. Sometimes it had angered her, that a star like her should not rest on her laurels. But she knew it again now. To forever strive…like the gods…fight new battles, be born anew, for new things.
IV
Avinash Mukherjee waited at the traffic lights on Park Street, one hand on the wheel of his Hillman ‘14’, nibbling the nails of his other hand, which he did when he was nervous. It was lunchtime and he wished he could disappear into one of the busy restaurants or bars in the area, and forget about the task at hand. Pretend it didn’t have to be done, put it off one more time.
He was going to see Ramola Devi in the Bharat Talkies studio. Eight days had gone by since Shankar’s death and he had still not mustered the courage. He had heard when Ramola got back to the studio, four days now, and he knew that he would have to see her… about Mirabai. He was awaiting a reply to his cable to the bosses, but he shouldn’t wait another day, he knew that, to tell her that the collaboration was now not likely. If only she would have the good sense to see things in the light of the changed circumstances. If he was her, he thought, he would simply give it up…the whole Mira thing…write off those expenses. Resign to her fate, what they called kismet. Bharat Talkies had other directors, but without Shankar Chattopadhyay this picture could not be made, it would not ever be the same. Shankar had put his heart and soul into it. Could it ever be how Shankar had thought it…them together…all those hours spent talking and planning, and dreaming. He had not taken Anil’s calls. The boy Keshta had answered the office phone with his rehearsed ‘Babu just went out’, dutifully noting the callers. At other times he had put the phone off its hook. He simply couldn’t bear its ringing. He hadn’t spoken much, these last days, even Shankho had not been able to coax him to go out.
The news had been like a high voltage electric shock to him. Just his luck, he thought glumly. It went bust every time he tried to do something worthwhile. What would happen to Mirabai? Would Bharat Talkies still go ahead and make it with a new director? Or would Ramola Devi leave
it, as it was, just those few reels that Shankar had taken? Her husband’s last, unfinished work. She was the new boss of Bharat Talkies. Her fragile, delicate self, forever sheltered from life’s realities, she would buckle under the strain of it all. She was a good actress, no doubt, and beautiful, and could become the talk of town with a new sari-blouse or a new style of the khopa, but he doubted that she was capable enough to run the film business. Shankar Chattopadhyay had run Bharat Talkies almost single-handedly, and it was no easy task to match his caliber or energy. The different people there, each looking out for himself…those that so long had been tame only because of Shankar’s presence. They would try to get the better of her, and who knew how long Bharat Talkies itself would survive. The widow would probably be given to fits of nervousness. Perhaps she would remarry before the year was done. Society ladies like Ramola Devi needed a shoulder to lean on…a rich somebody. She was herself a rich woman. Perhaps she would sell off the studio and go to live abroad, wherever she fancied, London or America, he thought bitterly.
What if she wasn’t in that afternoon? He hadn’t called to say he was coming. How simple it would be to arrive and not find her in the studio. He could leave a note, with Anil perhaps, conveying his sympathies… or perhaps, if she had another visitor…she must have a dozen every day now. He could leave right away, pleading that he did not wish to be a bother, that he could always return when she was better disposed.
He had almost dreaded seeing her, as if she would read his mind. His demons had plagued him incessantly. Was it karma…that he had…thought of her…wanted her…when all the time Shankar had been like a brother to him. He had wanted to hide after he heard, like he had hidden away when his only sister had died giving birth. She was four years younger than him, only seventeen then. He had pocketed the telegram with its summon, ‘Sister dead, come soon’, locked his rooms, then taken a train from Howrah Station. Boarding and alighting one train after another, he had spent his nights in waiting rooms and platforms of unknown rail stations…three days, or four…until he was sure they had not waited, for him to see the body. Put her in the fire. He had cried his heart out the day she had left after getting married. She hadn’t come home to have her baby, their mother and father both being dead, and no one to take care of a girl in the family way. He was glad for it, later…that she had not been with him in her dying moments. He had shut out those feelings forever, he thought. But they had come back to him, on hearing of Shankar’s death. Making him want to hide away. The same inconsolable regret of an untimely passing, and anger and despair.
A half hour later, entering through the door of Shankar’s office at the studio, a sense of the unreal almost overwhelmed him again, like the day that he had heard the news. Ramola was at the window, in a pale chiffon, her hair done in a simple low knot. Her sight made Avinash’s heart lose a beat, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. She had had her back to him as he entered, turning with a sudden flourish, as if to deliver the opening shot of a picture…eyebrows raised, her signature style, as she beckoned him to sit.
He sat down hesitantly, having muddled his rehearsed lines and groping for a suitable opening. He was almost grateful for Anil’s presence behind him. Anil lingered near the door but did not take a seat.
‘Madam is in delicate health Avinash Babu, she needs me with her at all hours…advice and guidance… Shankar Da never allowed her into the studio’s matters, you know…she is not made for it. Avinash Babu, only because it is you, I know how close you were with dada, else I would not allow it…not at this time,’ Anil had confided as they had walked together from the studio’s gates to the office. The durwan at the gate had sent word to Anil Babu when he had asked to see Madam.
‘I have to keep a check. She is a lady, na Avinash Babu? We cannot have anyone and everyone going in to see her…Shankar Da, he could deal with all kinds, educated, illiterate, marwaris, sahibs,’ he had gestured towards the office as they had neared, ‘not her…’
Anil had seemed in command and Avinash was glad. Shankar had trusted him, he knew that. And perhaps, if Ramola Devi was not keeping well, the talk need not go towards Mirabai at all. Perhaps a letter to her would suffice, once he had a reply to his telegram. Though now, in her presence, he saw none of that frailty. If anything at all she looked more beautiful than ever and he struggled to speak, like always.
‘Madam, I…’ he started, then paused, when Ramola asked, ‘Will you have tea or coffee, Mr Mukherjee?’ ‘Coffee,’ said Avinash without thinking.
An awkward silence, then Ramola said, ‘Mr Mukherjee, I understand that we will need to have some discussions…some changes…though of course we will try and make up…for…’ her voice trailed off, unsteady a moment as she lifted her eyebrows, puckered her mouth and ran her eyes over the large writing table before her… trying to keep her composure, Avinash imagined. Still, she seemed to be in control, though clearly with no inkling of which way this was to go. She didn’t look like a widow, and she was trying her best to fill Shankar’s shoes, in a ‘The show must go on’ spirit.
‘We will of course need to consult with Miracle,’ her voice wavered again. ‘Let me see, where the Miracle papers are…I did bring them in here yesterday…from the house…’
Ramola erupted in a sudden spurt of activity as she leafed through some papers on the desk, uneasy moments passing one into another. Avinash felt his heart sinking, how in heaven’s name could he bring himself to tell her. Even Anil had been quiet. She’s thinking though…he thought, as he stole her a glance, almost like she’s trying to decide on something. No need for any papers here, she must know this is not that kind of meeting, she’s deciding what to say.
The coffee arrived as a welcome distraction and they drank it in silence. Anil had stayed near the door, cup in hand.
‘Tell me Mr Mukherjee, are there any ladies in the studio business in America?’ Ramola looked up at Avinash from the coffee service.
‘No ma’am’ he said without thinking, ‘…I don’t think…I’m not very sure ma’am…’
‘Why do you think that is the case, Mr Mukherjee?’ Again she had her eyebrows raised, her mouth pursed. She stirred her coffee, eyes fixed on the swirling brownness. Then looked up again.
‘Do you imagine it to be a man’s job?’ he felt her eyes scouring him and looked away.
‘I’m not sure…I mean, yes ma’am,’ he felt a tinge of anger. She was rather purposefully discomforting him. That too, when his unease was only too evident. And when all he wanted was to say a few words and leave.
‘Why do you think it a man’s job, Mr Mukherjee? After all, the biggest stars of our industry are women, not men…’ there was resoluteness to her voice.
Avinash ran his fingers over the edge of his teacup.
‘Do you think stardom is an empty thing? Not real at all…only a play of light and shade? That stars are made and unmade by other people? That they have no control of their own destinies?’ She was being relentless. Was it her nerves, Avinash thought worriedly as he studied the half-filled inkstand on her table, his face quiet.
‘Do you imagine that the likes of us…stars I mean… that we cannot get about in this world, the real world I mean, without someone or other to hold our hand…a little bit of help, if you will, a shoulder to lean on…Anil here certainly thinks so…’ Ramola cast a meaningful look over Avinash’s shoulder in the direction of the door. ‘I have had a difficult task, Mr Mukherjee, assuring Anil that my health is not the least bit affected…though, of course, I have…suffered a great loss…’ Ramola paused, as if spent by the edge of her own words.
‘But surely Madam…’ Anil’s indignation was sharp, ‘surely, I have only your interest to mind, only what Shankar Da had asked of me. He had wanted to keep you away from studio matters, a highly educated lady as yourself…you know this line Madam…’
‘Do you know Anil, why Shankar and I had agreed that he run Bharat Talkies and not me? Did he ever tell you that?’ Ramola didn’t seem angered. Avinash eluded
her eyes but turned just enough to snatch a glance of Anil’s flushed face.
Ramola spoke quietly, almost kindly, ‘He didn’t, did he, Anil? But then, he wasn’t supposed to. Because that was between him and me. He believed that I needed to free myself from the studio, to be able to reach the heights of my art. He gave me that luxury…that freedom. Not because he thought the studio business was his calling and not mine but because one of us had to step back…from the lights…to build Bharat Talkies. He had stepped behind. But he was getting back, you know… Anil…Mr Mukherjee…to the lights again. And he had asked of me…’ she paused, almost choking and Avinash feared she would not hold herself back very much longer. But Ramola bit her lip, sat back in her chair, and went on, ‘To…to stand by him, to now share with him the duties of which he had relieved me. That is why I was not going to America with him, to carry on with the studio… when he was away…’
She examined her manicured fingers closely, now almost speaking to herself.
‘This picture, it was different. Shankar was…dreaming again. Like when I first met him, when he would talk of having his own studio. And I…I wasn’t worried about my image, you know…if people would accept the glamorous Ramola Devi as a jogan…No romance, no big hero, only Devdutt, to support me, even the dialogues were so very different. I never had such lines ever, you know, Mr Mukherjee, they would make me think, every time I spoke them. So much of it was poetry, and the songs…so deep, with so much meaning…about love and forgiveness and devotion. One or two people here at Bharat Talkies felt it would be risky, you know, that people might not understand it, here at least. That we should make different versions, one for here and another for America. Shankar said no. He had wanted us to take that chance, try something brave, even if it did not give us a big hit. He had wanted it to be his best work. He said people would remember us by it…after we were dead.’ She shook her head despairingly, ‘Now, he’s really dead…’
Menoka has hanged herself Page 8