Menoka has hanged herself

by Sharmistha Gooptu

  ‘Mukherjee Babu, he is my pathpradarshak…my guide, the driver of my chariot,’ Makhandas had sobbed to an astounded Ramola. She herself had had no inkling of Sethji’s profound love for Avinash Mukherjee. If anything they had first met here, in Shankar’s office, and wouldn’t Shankar say that Mr Mukherjee would sometimes pull poor Sethji’s leg, even angering the poor man?

  ‘My sins are beyond any measure, beti, I am your doshi, your offender, punish me beti, this Makhandas Khemka, he forgot his kartavya…his god-given duty,’ had not his girth prevented it, Makhandas might have prostrated himself at Ramola’s feet. ‘So many days passed since Shankar Babu’s sad demise and this Makhandas did not think once even of his devi-like Ramola beti… dhikkar hai, shame on this Marwari, I have shamed the full Marwari samaj.’

  ‘But Sethji, you did come to see me…remember? Anil, you were here that day,’ Ramola had turned to Anil.

  ‘Yes Sethji…I even went to your gaddi, but you only had said then that, beta, now with Shankar Babu not there I will have to think again, my relations with Bharat Talkies. My full faith was in him, but now…don’t you remember Sethji?’

  ‘I had lost my mind…my buddhi, mat mari gayi thi meri’, Makhandas had let out a piercing howl silencing Anil. ‘Mukherjee Babu has brought me to my senses, he is Devi Ma’s messenger…’

  His Devi Ma had ordained, through the medium of Avinash Mukherjee, that he resurrect Shankar Babu’s dream of taking his picture to the ‘phoren’ firangi public, bioscope lovers the world over. Show those Miracle people that they were but nothing. ‘I will take this picture to the world beti, take it from me in writing, here, now,’ Makhandas had swelled his chest fourfold.

  ‘But Sethji…you…how is that even going to be possible? I mean, abroad is not exactly between Calcutta and Rajasthan,’ Ramola had started to lose patience.

  ‘Na na beti, hum kuch na kare…I have nothing to do, all will be in Mukherjee Babu’s good hands, he will do all…book showings, publicity, everything…yes, money is mine, but buddhi, the brains will be his. So long he has worked for those Miracle people, will he not know to do this much?’

  ‘Do you mean to say you are leaving your job with Miracle Pictures, Mr Mukherjee?’ an incredulous Ramola had turned to Avinash Mukherjee.

  ‘Err…no…not exactly, not really…no…Madam,’ as always he had faltered speaking to her. ‘It is an understanding between myself and Sethji…Sethji wishing to take this picture to foreign audiences, as Shankar Da had wanted it…I merely offer my…err…assistance…to this…err…noble purpose.’

  ‘Yes beti, yes…Shankar Babu’s last wish is my command. I will not hear no,’ Makhandas had beamed at a confounded Ramola.

  Avinash Mukherjee had found the words to sway her. ‘It cannot hurt anyone, Madam. I know the proper channels…and the people, through my work for Miracle. Even without the big partnership it can still reach the foreign public. True…it will not have the same prestige as a Miracle co-production,’ he’d faltered, ‘nor could I guarantee any degree of success, still it cannot hurt, to try it…to see if we can make a mark, and now that we also have a backer for it…’ he had turned to smile at Sethji.

  No, it cannot hurt, thought Ramola, once a visibly calmed Makhandas Khemka had departed. But what was in it for Sethji? Or Avinash Mukherjee, for that matter? Unless Avinash Mukherjee really did still feel a certain closeness with this picture? Like she did, no matter that everything had turned on its head in these last months. Possibly…he blamed himself for the Miracle partnership falling on its face. Hardly his fault, though she had not been kind to him, when he had come to see her before, she remembered that. Shankar had thought highly of Mr Mukherjee, perhaps he had not been wrong, clearly, he had prevailed on Sethji…somehow…to undertake this enterprise. Who knew what would come of it, if anything at all. Indian pictures hardly ever showed abroad. It would be quite something really…if Makhandas Khemka did keep his word…if they could open Mirabai in picture houses in America, perhaps…Europe. She herself could not take that gamble, not without a backer for it, like Sethji. She would have to speak with Mr Mukherjee though, about how the picture was shaping up now. Not really what he or Shankar had imagined it, nor she herself…but still, it was not bad…Raju had put her heart and soul in it. That girl wasn’t what she had thought of her. There was something about her that made you take notice, even outside of the picture, when she spoke or looked at you. Kedar Babu had not been wrong. But why…why in the wide world would Makhandas Khemka put his money on Mirabai…now that they had neither Shankar, nor her playing Mira? Surely, he was not so very naïve, Seth Makhandas, even with his antics…it simply did not explain. Ramola sighed. She hoped Sethji was not being too emotional for his own good.

  Emotion would be small name for the fear that Makhandas Khemka had felt in his bones when Avinash Mukherjee had said the name Dhonu. That slim lithe beautiful creature that had taken his heart and a lot more. Dhonu was the Nepali boy at his daftar, rosy and fresh from his village in the mountains. His chacha, the darwan who guarded the gates, had begged he be kept in the malik’s service and Makhandas had not said no. In the afternoons Dhonu would set out the thali for Sethji, a full meal of chupra hua phulkas, dal, two or three vegetables, mithai, papad and achar sent from home by the sethani. Dhonu had known the art of pleasing, coaxing his malik with an extra phulka or another helping of the sabjis. After clearing away the plates he would sit at Sethji’s feet like a shy bride and start to knead his soles. Makhandas had sighed in contentment and leaned back in his big chair, feeling the softness of Dhonu’s fingers as they had moved from his feet up to his calves and knees, parting the folds of his dhoti. In course, those fair delicate hands had reached up, to that which had lain supine, the sethani having forsaken all such indulgences for her Guruji’s service once they had had their fifth child.

  Dhonu had awakened the tiger in Makhandas. Forever subdued by the formidable sethani who had commanded his life from behind her ghoonghat, he had reveled in being lord and master to the pliant nymph. So much so that he had given in to Dhonu’s pleas of getting him into a bioscope picture. Sethji had discreetly pulled a string or two, and Dhonu had arrived in the studio para, and in that circle of nyakas where everybody knew what the next one was up to. And Avinash Mukherjee would be forever grateful to Shankho, who had so fortuitously revealed to him one of the circle’s well-known little confidences.

  ‘That Makhandas Khemka, don’t you know?’ Shankho had laughed his head off. ‘Backer of your Shankar Da…do you know what else he backs?’ There were photographs even, taken at some backstreet photo studio, of which the nymph had bragged in the circle.

  Avinash had acted on hearsay, but he had not had too hard to try. Makhandas had capitulated without much ado.

  ‘Hum mar jaye Mukherjee babu, I will kill myself. What of my good name, what face will I show my sons, my full biradari…my brothers, hey bhagwan, the sethani…’ Makhandas had sobbed into his hairy paws.

  ‘And that is not your only wrong-doing Sethji,’ Avinash had reproached grimly.

  ‘Why Mukherjee babu, except for that saala harami beiman, that rascal Dhonu, I am pure as Ganga maiya. That jhutha kamina miserable liar, not even shown his face to me after all of that paisa he took from me… all new notes, said his mother was sick, the liar. Just as well, that I was rid of him, but, Mukherjee babu, if anyone should know, then, what will become of my good relations…with everyone?’

  ‘And what Sethji of your relations of so long with Shankar Chattopadhyay…and Bharat Talkies?’ Avinash had worn his most menacing face.

  ‘Yes, yes, but that was while Shankar Babu was there…now…’ Makhandas had been bewildered.

  ‘Yes Sethji, now…when she…’ Avinash had bitten his lip for so inevitably faltering over her name, ‘Now that Shankar Da’s dream is to be lost forever, of taking his picture to the world, now, with Miracle Pictures not anymore a part of it. Do you and I have nothing to answer for…Sethji?’

  ‘Yes ba
bu, but what am I to do? I am a simple Marwari. If it was a matter of Jaipur or Jodhpur…but America? No one in my whole biradari ever set foot in England or America, Mukherjee babu.’

  ‘And that is why you will be counted a true leader Makhandasji…a man of the future,’ Avinash had kept a straight face. ‘You will take this picture to the world. Can you imagine it, Sethji, sahibs and memsahibs in America watching this picture that you will bring to them, now as a distributor.’

  ‘But why me…?’ Makhandas had sounded stubborn. ‘All of this will cost money, na, Mukherjee babu? And what guarantee of this picture now…now that they have got that naachgane wala chokri, that little slut to be their heroine. What is left now of the prestige of Bharat Talkies? Of Shankar Babu’s good name…you tell me? Na na, Mukherjee babu, my money is not there to waste.’

  ‘But you could throw enough money Sethji, on that boy of yours…’ Avinash had caused Makhandas to pale again. ‘Do you want to wash away your sins, or not? Or do you want the whole world to know? I will wash my hands off but then…tomorrow someone else might get wind of it, na Sethji?’

  Makhandas had been wise. He could well be an actor in the bioscope, Avinash smirked as he set out the milk that evening for Manimala, the cat. Makhandas Khemka had wept copious tears, in the end getting the nod from Ramola Devi. Avinash hummed a tune as he picked up Mani and fondled her. Mani knew, he kept no secrets from her. She had watched, through glassy green eyes, as he had played again with her scarf that evening…lain it on his bare chest, then buried his face in it. He had made his way back into Bharat Talkies…as Sethji’s advisor, Seth Makhandas Khemka…backer of Bharat Talkies. Not that he really didn’t wish this picture to go far and wide. Though…it was to be seen where it was all going, what with that new heroine. But for now he had gotten what he had wanted. A reason to call on her…and sit close to her, to be able to furtively watch her again…each and every bit of her.

  II

  Natabar was worried. He ran his hands again through Raju’s long hair, and threw another anxious glance at the girl. She had said no, even with what the party was going to pay. But it was not that. He didn’t care so much for any fat party as much as he cared for this girl. It wasn’t even the moods that these girls got, when it was their time of month. It was something else. Natabar just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Raju pushed away his hand. Natabar smiled. ‘What, didi? Angry with me, or what? What have I done, tell me?’

  Raju turned away. She was finishing her lunch of muri-cononut and ripe bananas in her spot in the studio’s back garden. Unlike the other days when he would come by, she hadn’t offered Natabar any of it.

  ‘Go now Natabar Da…I have to go for rehearsal.’

  ‘Should I stop by, tomorrow or day after?’

  ‘Don’t come now Natabar Da, work is too much. This is not just any picture. You won’t understand…this is not your naacha-gaana Natabar Da…this is art…’

  Natabar looked away, then smiled wryly. ‘Who said, didi, naacha-gana is not art? Who can say, what is art or not art? Pour money, and you get art, you think that, didi? That art only happens in your Bharat Talkies, in your big studios? Art is your own thing…how you will do or not do something, understood? I have seen so much art come and go, didi.’ Natabar sighed. ‘I have not been in the line for nothing…saw it all, from the time of the first silent pictures, don’t teach me art, didi.’

  Raju was feeling her temper rise. She had started to clean up the remnants of her lunch.

  ‘You can say what you like Natabar Da. But then, tell me, who cares for you, people like you? Tomorrow, if you die, who will give any patta, will anyone even notice? But the big names…Ramola Devi, Barua sahib…’ she bit back his name even as she had started to say it. ‘People will remember them, because they are the true artists. Do you know, there are books…on acting…they have read those books, gone to America…they are up there because of what they are and not for any of your naacha-gana.’

  Natabar was nodding to himself.

  ‘Right…right you are didi, us and them,’ he smirked. ‘My mother was a baiji…singer, naacha-gana wali. I picked up my first steps from watching her. She sang even when she had my brother inside her…full nine months. My father put her in this line. He lived on her, all his life. Then on me. I couldn’t leave him. We…those like us…can we ever be the artists? We come cheap didi, our lives…art…everything comes cheap.’

  Raju was not going to give in. Why should she…he had said she had art in her.

  ‘Na, Natabar Da. I don’t come cheap…then, I would still be there, at Unique Pictures.’

  ‘Don’t forget didi, what you are today is for Unique… who would have known you, otherwise?’

  Raju laughed. It was an angry laugh.

  ‘Natabar Da, you’ve become just like Lily Madam… hum tumko star banaya, we made you a star! Natabar Da, why doesn’t every other girl in the line become Rajbala? Get called by Bharat Talkies? Become heroine of their top picture? Because…not every girl is Raju. Unique Pictures will be Unique Pictures…nothing more… so many like Unique will come and go, you will see, Natabar Da, people will remember Unique for Raju, not Raju for Unique.’

  It was Natabar’s turn to laugh aloud.

  ‘Slow didi…dhire chal, look and see then put that foot forward, my pretty. In this line Natabar has seen so many get left by the way.’

  Raju tossed her head as she walked off.

  ‘Raju too will leave many by her way Natabar Da…if they try to pull her down.’

  Natabar had understood. Raju was not turning away that new party. She was turning her back on him…and on what she was herself.

  III

  Avinash Mukherjee blushed and looked away. Ramola was smiling. He really could be so very shy, almost like a boy, it amused her. Yet, Shankar had thought him rather persuasive.

  ‘Avinash is quiet in his ways, but he can get things done. I’ve seen him, he has his way with people.’

  It was true, Ramola thought as they both played with their teacups. He had convinced his bosses at Miracle and pushed for the partnership, and now Seth Makhandas. Though it still baffled her, how he could have such a hold on Sethji. Seth Makhandas was no fool…yet…she looked again at him. Avinash Mukherjee was smiling at his empty teacup.

  She smiled again.

  ‘No, Mr Mukherjee, I mean it, really. It is awfully nice of you, to come by. I was quite elated yesterday, I must confess, with your endorsement of Rajbala. She has been rather a revelation. You did see her…while we took the scenes. She does have a rather singular style…her very own, don’t you think? So much like how it would be in the old American pictures…speaking through her arms and hands and legs and eyes, leaving those cues for the watchers,’ she laughed, ‘mix of pride and pluck, I should say. She’s a plucky girl, a little bit too spirited for her own good…I must say Mr Mukherjee, I have become rather fond of her over these last few days. I never thought I could ever get attached to…you know… girl of her class, but she is rather different from the rest. You did see how she transformed that song, the way she performed it…you did think she was good, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes ma’am, quite…err…’ he hadn’t looked up from cup and saucer. ‘She is…umm…rather quick in her uptake…as I understand…from speaking with Nishith Babu.’

  Ramola giggled. ‘Oh yes, Nishith Babu has warmed up to Raju now. After all of that drama between them, thank god for that. Though Raju doesn’t still lose a chance to talk back to him, she can be very naughty sometimes. And of course, he firmly believes that he taught it all to her, dear old Nishith Babu…we don’t ever change, do we?’ She leaned back in her chair, ‘Mr Mukherjee, do you find Bharat Talkies changed very much from how it was before…after Shankar? I do understand that there has been a lot of talk, about my suitability as a studio head…the choice of Rajbala.’

  He seemed at a loss for words, suddenly a little bit uncertain. Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked it. She tried to turn
the conversation.

  ‘Mr Mukherjee, is there something you would like to say to me…by way of your ideas for Mira, to enhance our efforts? We still have half the picture to shoot. I know that he…Shankar…did greatly value your views,’ she smiled gently.

  ‘Err, no…not exactly, ma’am.’ He still wasn’t looking up at her.

  Did she say something to upset him, Ramola wondered. He seemed suddenly so overcome.

  She tried again. ‘Is everything alright with Seth Makhandas? He was in such a state the other day. I was quite afraid he would take ill if he went on that way, and I do hope he knows what he’s doing…unless, of course, he’s putting on an act, and not really serious about taking the picture abroad.’

  ‘He is serious alright Madam, no need to doubt that, he has given me his word.’ Avinash Mukherjee sounded sharp, though he had addressed the teacup.

  Oh dear, thought Ramola, now he thinks I doubt his sincerity. I can be so very stupid sometimes.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Mukherjee,’ she was going to lighten the mood. ‘Is this a very busy time for you, at office?’

  He hesitated. ‘Busy…yes…well, not greatly…just the regular.’

  ‘In that case, would you like to have lunch, day after? At the Grand? I can pick you from your office. Should we say one-thirty? It would be nice to talk things over… over a meal?’

  ‘Madam,’ he looked definitely annoyed. ‘I will have important things to attend to…that day. Should you wish for a meeting you can inform me so that I may come by…now I must take your leave.’

  He glanced across at her for a brief second, through his dark rimmed glasses, almost defiant, then stood up pushing back his chair, looked again at the teacup like he had something to say to it…then turned and walked out.

  ‘Well, I never.’ Ramola muttered. Such rudeness, what a very odd man he was.

  IV

  Avinash Mukherjee held his head in his hands. The newspaper lay before him downside up, the weight of his resting elbows creasing it at the corners. He had come straight from Bharat Talkies to his office. To shut himself in.