‘…who had any way of knowing that…before, when you cast her my way? Forced me to take her, make her my top heroine. Did you, any of you, give a thought to Bharat Talkies? To me or to Shankar?’
Kedar Gupta spoke, the first time since he had sat himself down before her that afternoon. ‘I am your culprit Madam, and for that god will not forgive me. I have lost all, my self-respect, peace of mind, love for my work, everything. I have betrayed Shankar Da and you. I wanted to go Madam, but you, you did not let me. You held my hand, you stopped me. But today, I must take your leave…forever. I will leave this city, go back to Comilla. I will not ever work in a bioscope picture again. How can I, after all of this?’
Ramola slowly bobbed her head, starting to feel the anger rise again, hot against her insides. ‘But of course, Kedar Babu, that will be your nistar, won’t it? Your release from it all. And what more could I expect of you, now…at this time, when I have come close to losing my all, even the good name of this studio. And when, after having made this picture with this heroine not of my choice…but at your insistence, it seems, we might now not finish it. When all I have is a standing set…and no heroine.’
‘But why Madam?’ Anil interrupted eagerly. ‘Manna’s habit is always to paint the gloomy picture, but he did admit that he could cover it up. I spoke with him Madam, and it is only three or four more days of work now.’
Ramola felt her head would burst. She struggled to keep composure. ‘Cover what Anil? Hide what? When we have no heroine here. Raju has gone. Disappeared. And I have a feeling that it is for good, that she will not come back.’
‘But…but…she was here, in the studio, in the dressing room. Manna had gone in again, after you had left, after you spoke with her.’ Anil balked.
‘Then Anil, Manna must have been the last person to see her, for she has not been seen since.’ Ramola bit her lip. ‘I did wrong, to tell her that I was taking her to stay with me, till our work on the picture was finished. Possibly she thought she would be like a prisoner. And I do not imagine that she will be found in her home. She has run away Anil, and nobody knows where. She must have slipped out through the gates without anybody seeing. Where were you Anil, all of this while? They have searched the whole studio…she has gone.’
PART 7
I
Fan hadn’t been ready for it, when he first told her that he wanted it. He had seen them, just some days old, and then returned to watch them. Pink rats with their puckered lips. He had kept count…ten days old… then thirteen…twenty…thirty-three. Suckling under that monster sow. He didn’t dare go near her. That beast only trusted Fan. And she had given them up to him, after all of that na na. He grinned. Fan loved him. He wished he could love her back…how delicious she must smell when she got naked to wash herself, after she had skinned and cleaned one of them. He sighed.
Fan had shaken her head fiercely when he had signalled his plan to her. ‘It’s going to be a game Fan, be a sport. Only three…’ He had held up three fingers of his right hand. ‘Give me three of those…’ She had motioned back angrily, ‘Can’t you see they’re little…’ and then broken into that smile, and motioned again. ‘Let them grow up…’ He had known then that she would give in.
She had left them for him in the other yard, the one that was further from the kitchen and the sties. From where the muffled cries would not reach the sow…or perhaps they did. It had startled him at first, how loudly the first of those piglets had squealed, as he had landed the stick on it. Fan had watched from the kitchen window, he had seen her watch. Later she had smiled shyly, like a woman smiles at her man when he has proven his worth. He had handed her some notes, the price for three pigs. She had taken them smilingly. Business was business after all. And then he had gone about his own little business, the business of giving a taste of things to that malkin of Bharat Talkies, the high and mighty Ramola Devi. She had dared to think she could snatch his game from him. Gave you the slip, didn’t she now, your little Rajubala.
Ramola Devi. How that rosy mouth of yours must have drawn a startled breath. Your face twisted, your guts churned. When you chanced upon them, lain in your path, this very same morning. He had come in early to the studio, not wanting to take any chances. The durwan had greeted him as he had opened the gates wide for the car to pass, ‘Saheb, after many days…’
He had stationed Asghar by the gate. To slip in and tell him the minute madam’s car arrived outside. His old faithful Asghar, ready to do anything for his Saheb. Only he had not told him about the dead piglets in the small trunk in the backseat. Haram for him, Asghar could be rather stubborn about some things. The car had smelled of course, of the bloody mash inside, though Fan had lined the trunk with some herbs from her kitchen. He had been afraid Asghar would ask but dear old Asghar, his lips were sealed. After all, what were some dead piglets next to that woman he had taken, the time of that danga in his village…cut her up after he was done with her. Not a Hindu woman, he had confessed, but the young wife of the old miyan from the madrasa. She had smirked away his endearments so many times, and still teased him with her walk and her smile. And if not for his Saheb, Asghar would have had the sipahis on his back. He had told the police that Asghar had been in the city on that day, driving him to the studio and back. And Asghar had not gone back since, to his village or his wife. His son had come to visit, a boy of eleven or twelve, and Asghar had extracted a promise from Saheb to put the boy in some line in another two or three years.
No. Asghar would not talk, he thought, as he ran his hand over his chin and lips again, sucking in the scent left from so quickly laying out the garnish in Madam’s path. But he hadn’t minded getting the gore on his fingers, her face had been enough reward. When she had leaned out to catch the air, throwing open her window right across from where he had stationed himself, hoping and praying he could see her. How he had wanted to see, how she looked, after taking in that sight. He had laid them in the little niche by her office where the orderly wouldn’t so easily see, but where she would find them when she turned the corner. All of it done inside a minute or two even as she had left her car and walked inside.
She had stood there quietly, her face empty, but shaken, he could tell that. Later he had heard the rushing about in the corridor and grinned. Madam had deployed her troops to clear the mess. But what of your mind’s eye Madam? When you see them in your dreams…and then that darling girl of yours, when you see her, after she hangs from the roof? Rope around her neck. Not that long a wait Madam. It would have to be soon now. While that girl was in his hands still. Before somebody from outside got to know.
All because of you Madam…all for your own mistakes. Sorry Madam, but your little heroine dances to my tunes.
II
The nyakas knew when trouble was at hand. Natabar… Jhantu…Dhonu…even the fultu, drunk to his neck Shankho. With them was Kamala Masi.
Kamala was shouting. ‘That Padma…this Kamala will chew up her insides, that rakhshasi, that monster, too long she has feasted on the blood of these girls…but not anymore, this Kamala will cut her and fry her…and eat her alive.’
‘Chup, be quiet masi…cut her and fry her and eat her alive…’ Dhonu mimicked Kamala. ‘Kon saala jinda rahega, who stays alive after cutting and frying?’
Kamala snapped back. ‘What else? Took the girl from under my nose. If only I had known, never would I have let her go. When she came back so early that day from the studio I should have known…so close to finishing they are too, that big picture. Only three days before she threw the thala at me. Would have broken my knee, and all that uneaten food all over the place. For what? Only because I asked why she took so long at the studio. Will your baap finish this picture…whitened your hair in this line, don’t you know how it is when they are finishing a picture? But then, how will you know…this is Bharat Talkies, not some teen paise theatre, she said.’
Kamala paused to catch her breath. ‘And then that last day, she comes back in the afternoon just when I am finish
ing my bhat. Face is white, like all the blood went from it. I said, what re, so soon, I didn’t hear the studio car, who brought you? She said, I walked…covered my face, nobody saw, then I got a carriage on the main road. Didn’t let me sit for even one minute. Said get Padma Masi, I have to speak with her. Hundred times I asked her, what work, tell me. Na…that same thing, get Padma Masi. Anyhow I got to Padma’s dera…had to wait, that magi was gone somewhere. Then, when she returns I get her straight back home with me. God alone knows what phish-phash whispering they did…then off goes Padma. Comes back after dark…in that car…byas what else? Then off goes Padma…with the girl in the car. Last that I saw of that girl. Whole night I waited, but na, that bird had flown. Still, I counted my breaths…waited another night, then only I went, to this here Natabar. By then everyone in the studio para knew, that Raju had gone hawa, with whom nobody knew…no one, only this Kamala.’ Kamala squared her shoulders.
‘Why you didn’t go another time, to that your soi’s place?’ Dhonu demanded.
‘Tham, be quiet, Nepali minshe, stupid bumpkin.’ Kamala pulled a face. ‘Go again…there? Didn’t I say what she did when I went, that morning after…spat on me…she spat on this Kamala. After so many years of sharing her joys and sorrows, that magi she spits on me, says whose thing has gone to him, tor ki…what’s it to you, you whore. But I said to myself, she is no man’s jamidari, not Raju. That girl cannot be any man’s slave… achha, put your hand on your heart, Natabar, don’t I know how many she ate alive? That same Raju will now be some sati, all washed, clean…then keep a dog in my name.’
Jhantu spoke up. ‘You only said she went on her own, with that haramzadi rascal Padma. Then what can you do, or we?’
‘There is poison in love. I know it all…she has gone there to die.’ The drunk had stirred from his slumber.
‘Chuup, quiet you drunk.’ Jhantu scolded.
Natabar spoke quietly. ‘True it is. If she went there on her own, then who can do what? Why will she listen to us, and how can we get there even? To her…inside of that house?’
‘She’s still there?’ Dhonu demanded. ‘It’s been what… three…four days, na?’
‘Four days, today.’ Natabar bit his lip. ‘She’s there alright. I sent Kajol, after I heard where she had gone. He got it from the durwan there, Kajol. She’s there, but for how long? Those girls before…one day they were there, then just hawa, gone, the last one went and hanged herself inside that studio.’
‘Saw him, three four times, when I was at Sethji’s. Put my ear in the door and heard…he wanted paisa, to make his own picture leaving Bharat Talkies, after that malik of theirs went phuss.’ Dhonu signalled skyward. ‘But Sethji, he said no. Our Sethji, he knows, from seeing the face…who is what.’
Jhantu slapped his knee. ‘We…saala bekar people, we good for nothings. If we were some borolok… some keuketa, a big somebody, then still we could do something. But us. Who will hear us, believe us even?’
‘Why, there is a big somebody…high up…who can do something.’ The drunk looked out of bleary eyes.
‘Someone big will do something, hearing from us, about him…hear this drunk! That man, he is a bhagwan…a god, of this our world of bioscope pictures, understood, you drunk?’ Dhonu spat his words.
‘One person…might make that high up, that big somebody listen.’ Shankho smiled bitterly. ‘I know who.’
III
Ambarish Dev Burma was feeling pleased with himself. And his kapal…fate. For how it had all turned out in the last few days. Really, it couldn’t have been any better. Pativrata would be his masterpiece, his slap to the face of the meki false hollowness of their make-believe world. He would show them how it looked, a real work of art, no pretence and no meki beauty. And what a truly great director could get from his actress…unquestioning obedience and full surrender, to his every wish. Though that producer of his would need some persuasion, after he laid his eyes on Rajbala. Her appearance. He smiled, picturing that poor man’s face. But, of course, he would come around. After all, this was no ordinary picture, and she was no ordinary heroine. And how he had made her now, why, wasn’t that the key to it all? He already knew how he would turn the script around, to suit Rajbala’s new appearance. It was to be an experiment, like in the great laboratories of the world, where they transformed living things, sometimes with remarkable outcomes. She would play the part that he had given to Menoka, what Menoka had run away from…to her death. Now Rajbala would give it her all. For art, he had said to her, beauty had to be sacrificed in the service of art. It had delighted him, beyond any measure, when he had sat her down before Ma’s mirror and taken them off her, the last of those tresses. He had made her how Ma ought to have been, bereft…shorn.
It always got a tad tiresome with these girls at the end…always. Like how the bolir pantha, sacrificial goats knew when they were going to get loaded on the harikaat…the wooden racks, blood-caked from previous sacrifices. Could they smell the blood that had run there before, like Fan’s pigs could when she dragged them screaming into the yard from their pens? And, the girls… they knew alright, when their time was nearing. Menoka had known, and before her Jumna, that fair girl with the big eyes. He had taken her from the Benaras kotha… and before that, Renu…or…was she Radha? They had all known their end. And then, the pae dhora pleadings, the smiles edged by tears, maan abhimaan…sentiments. It would only spur him on, make him push them harder, till it was finally over and done with.
And now Rajbala…she knew it too. And how every part of her writhed and racked in the hell of it. That which she now knew inside in her bones. Though still, she was holding her own, through clenched teeth, that doggedness…zid, not giving up. Rajbala, she was different from those other whimpering wretches. He had not wanted her for nothing. He had pulled her in little by little, and still some part of her had held back. Made his blood rush, it did, the delight of it. To see her slowly break, and then, still, sometimes, stand strong and stare him in the face. Yes, she had held out, this Rajbala. But then, for how long?
Such lengths he had gone to. To know those things about her…little bit by bit. Some of it from that yakking whore Padma. But Padma herself had not known it all. Where she had been, and what she had done, before she had become Raju Darling. But still, he had found her out…hunted…back again in those fuzzy muddled years between the silent pictures and the talkies. And then he had known, what she had thought was forever hidden… gone…with the tide of the talkies, when everything had changed in their world, the world of bioscope pictures. Gone were they, the fly-by-night companies that had fed on starving girls like her, girls that had sold themselves naked to a dark room full of louts for four annas, worse even than the beshyas. Whatever did you think Rajbala? That nobody would know any more the naked girl of those two minute silent pictures? Nodu Babu…Nodu Gopal Ghosh, cameraman from one of them companies, he had known. He remembered…the girl who even then had been different from them all, her face…those eyes. And then, Nodu Babu had told about the photographs… of unclad beauties like her, hidden inside the handbills for those companies, sold in the evenings outside Hogg Sahib’s market. He had himself taken them. Nodu Babu was a true artist. He had won medals, as a student of art. He could sketch on his old drawing board those photographs he had taken then, he had said, that girl he remembered so well…if Saheb would say the price for it.
How very stark and beautiful she was in them. Black chalk on white paper, those pictures that Nodu Babu had drawn for him. He had gotten her alright, his little heroine, dug up her old skeletons. Rajbala, she would go any lengths now, to show him she was not afraid, that she was worthy of him. He grinned. Perhaps… even a naked shot or two in the new picture, taken in half-darkness half-light. Surely, he could talk her into it. He would have to be careful though, too many of them pious prigs around these days. He could already see the hand-outs for the picture…‘Sensational! Heroine sheds her shame, for art’s sake!’ He smiled again. Art it would be like they had
never seen before. And wouldn’t it make their hair stand.
He still could not believe how it had all landed in his lap. The invitation to leave Bharat Talkies and make his picture, all costs taken care of, and all in the matter of one week. All of it so sudden…just like that, out of the blue. Why now, he wondered again, and not before. He frowned, then shook his head. His doubts were for nothing. It was karma…fate…his reward at long last for all of those wrongs they had done to him. Ma, and then Ramola Devi, putting him down with her ‘I am malkin now’ airs. Who could have thought it, he making off with her little heroine? He smirked. Whatever would she do, that malkin of Bharat Talkies, when she heard of his new picture, with her very own Rajbala? Would she take the girl away? He ran his hand through his hair. No… he did not think so. He might tell, might he not, what Madam’s saintly Mirabai had been up to in those her first bioscope pictures? What if he let it all out now, all in the papers, and a little something on the side? Interview of Nodu Gopal Ghosh, cameraman from the silent pictures! Nodu Babu would fairly jump, given one chance…and Rajbala, she would give her everything to stop it. No, she never would, never could anymore go too far away from him. Only he had to be careful. So that he did not get carried away again in the night, not right now, before the new picture. Night before last, she near did herself in again…naked…neck in that noose. He had coaxed her to it, then watched…feeling the fun of every little second of it, as the water had run from her eyes and nose…and between her legs. No…he would have to wait a while now it seemed, till Pativrata was made, much as it irked him. He could not lose his chance to make this picture, not this time. He would take his time with her. Perhaps as the picture would finish…then Rajbala’s time too would come.
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