How she had dreaded it, coming into the studio on that day. Coming face to face with Rajbala Dasi. The new Mira.
III
Nishith Babu had a red face, and quivering lips. Ramola feared an outburst. Nishith Babu used to be known for his quick temper though he had calmed with age. But he will blow his lid today, surely, this wicked wretch of a girl.
Raju’s blank eyes shifted from Nishith Babu to her own finger nails. Then backwards to Anil where he was stationed by the bookcase, causing him to look away, discomforted. She had the cheek. Ramola couldn’t imagine why though, why she seemed to pick on Anil. She needed a talking to, poor Nishith Babu was at his wits end.
Listen, now Rajbala,’ she started, ‘you have to understand this very clearly…’
‘Yes Madam, I have understood…’ Raju nodded.
‘What…what is it that you understood?’ Ramola was grim.
‘What else, that if you do prem-pirit…love affair with thakur, god…meaning, like Mirabai didi, then no juice. Only singing and crying. I understood.’
Nishith Babu’s head disappeared in his hands.
Ramola pursed her lips. Before she could speak again, Raju asked, ‘Achha, tell me Madam, can there be love without juice? God or no god?’ She bit the end of her lip and again looked back at Anil. This time he glared at her.
Ramola struggled to find words. Nishith Babu tried again.
‘This is rasa, ma, bhakti rasa, devotion. That is what you have to understand, ma. Mirabai’s bhakti for her Lord, God Krishna, that love is a very high love…full of rasa but no bhog, enjoyment, only tyag…sacrifice.’
‘She told you…?’ Raju snapped.
‘Ke? Who told me? What?’ Nishith Babu paused, taken aback.
‘Mirabai didi, that prem-pirit is no fun? Why do it, if she got no fun?’ Raju snorted. ‘Eating my head for nothing. You did prem ever with anyone, that you will know?’ Nishith Babu’s outburst arrived.
‘Ma,’ he turned to Ramola. ‘Spare me. I agreed only for your sake, but I cannot bear this insolence. I have not whitened my hair in this line to be insulted by such girls. Bharat Talkies used to be something else, girls like this one would know their place. They could not ever look me in the eye. Why you made this humongous mistake I cannot say…you know best…na, na, leave me, ma. I am too old for all of this now.’
He stormed out of the office. Anil rushed after him. Ramola shook her head. Was she purposefully doing it? But why? She simply didn’t seem to care. What anyone thought of her. Unlike other girls of her ilk who would bend over backwards to make a good impression, trying to appear well-bred and ladylike. Had it all gone to her head? Them whisking her away from Unique studio almost overnight. If only Kedar Babu had not been so hell bent. Oddly though, he had taken leave, from the day itself that Rajbala had made her entry. Put the assistant sound engineer on the picture, sent word that he had taken ill…asked for a few days off from work.
That was a week now gone. The first two days they had sat with the girl, she and Nishith Babu, telling her about Bharat Talkies…Shankar’s dream…about Mirabai. Through it all she had fidgeted with her bangles and nails and the ends of her sari, and Ramola suspected she had not heard much. They had rehearsed and tried to take the first shots. She had looked beautiful in the costumes, there could be no argument about that. But she simply failed to grasp the gravity of the whole thing. It was next to impossible. She was far too ecstatic. The close-ups they had taken simply went against the whole idea of it… the seriousness, and the sacrifice of Mirabai. She looked ready for a rapture, like it was not a spiritual thing… but…a…a carnal attraction. She simply couldn’t get the thing right. Not surprising though, girl of her class. No matter how much Nishith Babu tried, or she herself, for that matter.
Rajbala asked, ‘Madam, can I go? It’s lunchtime, I’m hungry.’
‘No, not yet…wait…’ Ramola snapped.
She pulled out a drawer by her side and rummaged inside. Where had she put those biscuits? ‘Here, take this…’ she handed the girl a packet of milk creams.
‘She’s not shy,’ Ramola thought, as Raju tore open the packet without a word. ‘She’s not quite grown up, really…but she knows the ways of the world.’
‘So Rajbala,’ Ramola recommenced two biscuits later. ‘Are you sure that you do not understand what Nishith Babu has been trying to tell you? You know that we have paid Unique studio to release you, very specially for this picture. You will have to obey the director. Or we cannot make the picture. Do you understand that?’
Raju nodded. Ramola doubted that she’d heard. She waited for the girl to finish the packet.
‘You are no longer at Unique studio, Rajbala. It is your good fortune that you are here now…at Bharat Talkies. Do you know what that means?’
Raju nodded again.
Ramola was starting to grow impatient again. ‘No Rajbala, I don’t think that you do know. Any other girl would give anything to be in your place. You have been selected heroine of Bharat Talkies’ top picture,’ she paused, ‘the role that I myself would have played. You will have the papers writing about you if you do it well, like Nishith Babu tells you. People will remember you.’
‘That they will remember, Madam,’ Raju spoke with certainty. ‘I am so famous, you know, everybody knows Raju Darling. I will make your picture a hit Madam, do not worry. That old director babu of yours does too much bak-bak. You tell him Madam, Raju cannot work like this.’
‘Rajbala, I will not have you talk that way about him. Didn’t they teach you at Unique to obey your director? Do you know how much everybody respects him… Nishith Babu? What books he has read, what knowledge he has?’
Raju smirked. ‘Hmmm books…those books told him about love also? What if Mirabai did not love Krishna thakur, if she loved somebody else and pretended she loved Krishna? Because she couldn’t say to everyone, could she…about who she really wanted? How will your director babu know?’
Ramola was aghast. ‘Really Rajbala, what utter nonsense, I don’t know what to say. What is there to know? It is written in the books.’
‘Hmmm books. Good that I cannot read so well. What use would it be? Books are also written by men, like your director babu, na? How will they know what we girls feel? Our hearts? As if we will say the truth to them…men? I am Mirabai, na…not him? Then why, all what I do is wrong, and what he says is right? When you were Mirabai, Madam, you liked everything your director babu said? Everything?’
No, I didn’t agree with him…on everything…thought Ramola that evening, though she had sent that wayward Rajbala off with a scolding that afternoon. She sighed. She had given in to Shankar’s script for Mira, when and where they had differed. He had been so very eager, she hadn’t had the heart to dispirit him. Though sometimes she really had felt he was overdoing some things, sometimes she had resented it just a little bit. Shankar really could be so undaunted sometimes that he failed to see his own faults. But it had been his picture. And she had tried her best to be his Mira.
In some things…in all of those years that they were married, she had relented, without him ever knowing. Like when he had pushed her away, almost in revulsion when she had tried, only that one time, to get his mouth in her mound…only in the heat of the moment. She had been a little bit ashamed later, not ever tried it again. But she had had dreams, of him bringing her to fulfilment, his head between her legs. Poor dear Shankar, he had been so very constant, she always knew what to expect from him in their moments together…ever so loving, enfolding her, wanting only to please her. She had sometimes craved to be bonded, be made captive…to be made to do things against her will. To scream. And writhe and cry for help. But Shankar had worshipped her, he couldn’t have imagined it, and she had buried those longings.
Strangely enough, that awful Rajbala had reminded her. That silly, stupid girl with her ‘us girls and our hearts’ babble. Love for her was only a pleasure and delight… what would she know of the pain of love? Mirabai was not just any w
oman, not mere mortal like us…Ramola sighed again. Mira had liberated herself from desire and lust, she had embraced anguish and agony. Mightn’t they aspire to be her?
IV
Avinash Mukherjee lay back on the hard wooden takhtposh soaked in sweat. In the anteroom where he practiced his dands. He had done close to a hundred, but it had not had the desired impact, of relieving his body and mind. He was restless, he simply couldn’t make sense of it. Why would she do it? Had she become completely mad? Who was guiding her? It did not sound plausible, what he had heard that afternoon.
Shankho had come home. With the news. ‘Have you heard? About Bharat Talkies?’
It had stunned the full studio para, he said. That Ramola Devi, now proprietor of Bharat Talkies, had engaged Rajbala Dasi, known to the world as Raju Darling, to play Mirabai. Shankho was bubbling.
‘I’m saved baba. The very thought of that Raju Darling in Bharatmata was giving me sleepless nights. The boss is furious though. She had said she would take their offer, then whew, she is at Bharat Talkies and no one the wiser…but I’m saved, baba, I am saved.’
Avinash had not let Shakho know his utter amazement. ‘Tea?’ He’d wanted something to do, to allow him to turn away from Shankho.
‘Hmmmm.’ Shankho had nodded. He never said no to Avinash. Especially to his home brews of his own mixing of different teas and herbs, of which Avinash was rather proud. Shankho would drink stoically, as long as it made Avinash happy. Avinash had placed a yellow brown fluid before him.
‘A little milk?’ Shankho had mumbled.
‘No milk. Drink it.’ Avinash had ordered. He wanted Shankho to put his mind to the tea. He needed to think. ‘Rajbala Dasi…Raju Darling.’ He’d said to himself.
‘What am I saying?’ Shankho had cut in excitedly. ‘They’ve released her from Unique. Paid them off.’
‘So Ramola Devi is no longer the heroine…’ his voice had trembled just a little bit when he had said her name, but Shankho never noticed such things.
‘Na, not anymore. She is overseeing, meaning directing, so I heard…but there is also that Nishith Roy, that old buro. Potla was saying, he’s my good friend…’
‘Potla who?’ asked Avinash absently.
‘Sound assistant, to Kedar Babu, their chief sound engineer…great man, don’t you know him? Everyone in Bharat Talkies swears by him.’
‘Hmmm…I know…’ Avinash knew Kedar Gupta well. ‘What else was this Potla saying?’
‘What to say? Bharat Talkies is finished now, you take my word…now with Ramola Devi the new malik. Though, Potla was saying this Rajbala, he just couldn’t understand it. Why a man like Kedar Babu had said good things about her…that she is a very popular artiste and they had better chances of getting a hit now, with her. Didn’t sound right, Potla said, just think, this Raju Darling and Bharat Talkies. Nishith Roy has already thrown his hands up. They’re having to change the full script, what to do…getting in more songs, much less dialogue…this Rajbala, she’s messing the serious scenes, that’s why.’
He had packed off Shankho. ‘Come another day. I’m a little bit preoccupied.’ Shankho had downed only half his cup.
What had gotten into Ramola Devi? Whatever was she thinking? Making a naachgana of Shankar Da’s Mirabai? All of those lines, penned with so much thought, the whole beauty of it…all gone?
He wouldn’t have thought it of her. This backing down. Better do away with the whole thing than this tamasha. Raju Darling! Even some chorus girl at Bharat Talkies would be a better choice…at least, the public wouldn’t want to tear off Mirabai’s clothes.
The cold water felt good. He poured another two mugs on his head then dried himself slowly. His body felt taut, he wanted to feel something soft…silk…that had once held together the softness that cascaded from her head and down her shoulders. They were in the wooden box by the window, locked, where his manservant wouldn’t get them…the silken scarf and that chain girdle with those little balls on it. He had stolen them from her and never felt ashamed of it. The scarf had carelessly held together her tresses, knotted just above the shoulder, showing her bare nape. She had slipped it off absently and forgotten it, he doubted that she had missed it even. There had been some searching for the waist thing though, it was part of the Mira costumes. She had designed all of that stuff herself. He’d watched furtively as she had slipped it off that day after rehearsal. ‘It’s pricking my waist…’ she’d said softly to her maid. He had read her lips. He had picked it up when nobody was looking, scrunched and slipped it into his deep trouser pocket. He had caressed it, many nights…held it close to his heart. He loved to feel it, more even than the softness of the scarf. The jeweller had missed a sharp edge or two, where it had hurt her…on that dainty waist. He had thought of it, again and again…slipping it back on her, that chain with its baubles…making it so very tight against her white flesh that she would writhe, begging him to take it off. Then he would unshackle and kiss her, where the sharpness had cut her.
V
Raju contemplated another kick, this time on Kamala’s bent head, then let it go. She was thinking hard. He was no small fry…this one. And Kamala Masi had said that he was dying to get fried by her.
‘Shona, my lovely, listen to me…’ Masi had pleaded after the first kick, ‘after that, hit me, kill me, I won’t say a word.’ Dev Burma saheb had seen her in Bharat Talkies. And fallen in love with her. He wanted to make her his new heroine. But first, he would see her, alone. They had to keep it secret, for now, not knowing what Madam Ramola Devi would think. But he would speak with Madam himself…soon…if she said yes.
‘See him one time, ma, for my sake…’ Kamala squatted at Raju’s feet. ‘Look here, I know you take them babus, I know it all. That Jhantu saala nyaka half-man, he and that other one…king of them all, that Natabar, both spoiling you. But I am your masi, re, have I ever said a word? Stopped you, ever? See, you got called from such a big studio, tell me, wasn’t it this Kamala that got you in this line? Not one day did you take Kamala Masi to see the big studio. Before, I went everywhere with you…and now…people in the studio para think Kamala is dead. Still, I did not say anything? You going to the big studio is like Kamala’s going. Not even asked for a new sari, ever…see, what rags your Kamala Masi is wearing.’
It was true. Kamala, whatever her faults, had learnt to keep her mouth shut. But today her mind was made. It was going to be iss paar or us paar, her way or nothing, enough of kowtowing to the little slut. Padma, her dear friend and confidante of many years, had sought her out after so many long months. ‘What re,’ her soi had scolded, ‘taken sanyas, left this world, or what? Left the studio para. I went to your old basa, where you stayed before…Kalbhairab Lane…no one could tell your whereabouts. Then finally that cha-wala, Kadamba, he told me, Kamal Di, she’s memsahib now, stays in a new basa, with her girl, Raju.’
Soi had made good in the line. Kept a cheap room where she had homed studio girls, the ones that had eluded their erstwhile keepers, mothers or aunts or husbands and needed a place to live and eat. Padma Masi became their eyes and ears, and took care of them. She had set up her girls with some big fish. And grown fat on them. Padma Masi could be trusted, the fish she’d hooked could swear to that. When one of the girls new in the line had choked to death because of some silly game her poor young babu and his two friends had decided to play in the night, masi had taken full charge. ‘Could I let the boy hang, even his milk teeth haven’t fallen, the lamb…when the fault is that girl’s?’ she had consoled the boy’s hapless rich father. Masi had gotten the price for her silence and for getting done with that mess of shit, vomit and girl. Even the doms that burnt the dead humoured Padma Masi.
‘That Tara…’ Padma had reminisced to Kamala over cups of hot tea and fried papads. ‘With Dev Burma saheb she was, full six months…more. I set all up with Saheb, but these girls, no gratefulness, thinking they can put one over masi, thinking these babus are little boys they can keep tied to their aanchals�
�happens like that, na ki, you say? Drinking finished her, what to do. But Saheb, he is kind. Never returns masi empty handed…’ Padma had devoured her tea and papads as Kamala hung on goggle-eyed.
‘Saheb sent word to me, through his khas chakor, I went to see him, four days now. Head has turned, seeing your Raju…’ Padma had winked. ‘Has his heart on her, wants to make her his heroine. Get her…Saheb will make you happy…what? Tell me, how long will you do jhi-giri here, be slave to that slut?’
Kamala was in a quandary. What did Padma know of Raju? So very easy to say, but not so easy done. This girl was not like other girls, she too had seen many years in the line. What if Raju threw her out? Who knew, with that girl? What she would do when.
Still, greed got the better of her. That fat gold chain around Padma’s neck. Kamala hadn’t been able to take her eyes off it. ‘New one, or what? Never saw it before… let me see…’ She had leaned closer and fingered the shining gold again and again. ‘Wear it, take, here…’ Padma had taken it off and placed it around her neck. ‘How much I had wanted, gold balas…my fate…that girl, balas, chur, necklace all for herself, and not even a new sari for me…’ Kamala had shed a tear or two. ‘All will yours, soi, now, don’t lose heart…only ready the girl. Saheb will give with both hands, then say, that soi had not said for nothing…’ Padma had consoled Kamala as she extricated the gold chain from her neck.
‘What use living like this, under that girl’s feet? Better I wash my soi’s feet and drink. Bajjat magi, you whore, you think you’ve become too big a heroine? Kamala has seen many such magis, this time you don’t listen, then gone is Kamala Masi. My soi will give me a roof on my head. I will lick my soi’s spittle, do her ghulami…better than this fate.’ Kamala had murmured to herself after Padma left.
Once she had her mind made, she was the Kamala of old. Kamala gleefully hugged herself to sleep that night. She had gotten the girl to say yes, where will you run, ma…where will you hide, my lovely? Kamala Masi has kept quiet so long, but not anymore. This Kamala fears nobody. Saali, taking Kamala for a ride, you see now, what Kamala Masi can do.
Menoka has hanged herself Page 14