Menoka has hanged herself

by Sharmistha Gooptu

  She softened. ‘I do not wish to do any of that, Raju.’ She placed her hand on the girl’s arm. ‘Raju, from now you are free. And I too wish to be free…of the hopes that I had built on you, my expectations and my unhappiness for how you have pained me. Do you understand that, or don’t you?’

  The girl nodded.

  Ramola took Raju’s face in her hands.

  ‘Come down with me, Raju. So that I can go from here knowing I myself gave you away. Of my own. Sethji is coming, I know it. I will myself take you to him. My Mira will be heroine of his picture.’

  Smilingly Raju stretched her arm to take Ramola’s hand.

  VI

  Seth Makhandas Khemka’s eyes very nearly popped. As Raju crept into the library after Ramola, ‘Hey bhagwan… good god!’

  What was this bald thing that Ramola Beti was leading by the hand? They had said it was their heroine, Bharat Talkies’ Mirabai, and that Dev Burma Saheb had made off with her. And that he and only he, Makhandas Khemka, could trick that devil, woh shaitan…Ambarish Dev Burma. Still, Ramola Beti, she was devi-like, but this Mukherjee babu, what lies he had had to tell at his behest…Ram Ram. And now this chudail, this ghoul with only some clumps on her head! Would they now tell him to make a picture with her? Was he a gadha, a donkey, or what? He threw an angry glance at Avinash Mukherjee.

  Makhandas cursed himself another time. For still not getting over Dhonu. That nimble nymph that could make his heart heave, and his old bones feel young again as he touched him ever so gently. And his tongue had gotten all jumbled every time that he had tried to say, na na, nahi. To this pagal jaisa mad plot of theirs.

  God alone knew how Mukherjee babu got his hands on Dhonu, both arriving one fine afternoon at his gaddi. Dhonu after so many months, after he made off with all of that paisa. Still, he had not had the heart to scold him, so beautiful had he looked, in his fashionable pant-shirt. Even now, as he stole a look sideways his heart jumped. Who could tell it was Dhonu…so sweet in the red sari-blouse, and that long plait on his head. Pretending he was that other heroine for this picture…Devaki…that bakwas, all of those lies he had had to tell Dev Burma Saheb. All for Dhonu and Mukherjee babu. Dhonu had known surely that Dev Burma Saheb had come asking for paisa to make his own picture. That too, saying he would leave Bharat Talkies, and all so soon after Shankar Babu’s sad passing. He had turned him away…how could he not, after he had held Shankar Babu’s hand all those years, and with poor Ramola Beti a widhwa. Na, he had said to him.

  Only to have to go back rubbing his hands. What with Dhonu and Mukherjee Babu on his back. Even Ramola Beti had pleaded with him, that evening when Mukherjee Babu had driven him to see her in the Bharat Talkies studio.

  ‘Sethji…’ she had said, ‘will you not do something for my sake. You have heard Sethji, the whole story, how I have been betrayed. Ambarish, he will not hear us, but you, he will not turn you down.’

  He had not been able to raise his head before her eyes. He had taken her wish to be Devi Ma’s command. But, what was this? Why, wasn’t he only to present Dhonu as Devaki, and baas, that was to be that. End of this little natak, Mukherjee Babu had promised. How was he to know they would both be here, Mukherjee Babu and Ramola Beti, in the house, at this time, with Saheb? Ramola Beti entering just now with this bhootni, this ghost of a girl…chi chi chi, beti seeing him with Dhonu like this, and that too the boy dressed like a girl. He had wanted to hide his face inside his dhoti. The anxious moments he had passed in that room had seemed to Makhandas Khemka like the fourteen years of Ramji’s vanvaas.

  Ambarish Dev Burma spoke first. His voice was cold.

  ‘Rajbala what are you doing here, downstairs? Go back to your room.’

  The girl trembled slightly as her eyeballs shifted and she took a step back, towards the door. ‘No wait, Raju. Sit down.’ Ramola held her hand. ‘Ambarish, I have told Raju…Rajbala, that Bharat Talkies will release her, let her go…that we will not be able to use her in her present state.’ She coughed delicately. ‘We will have to make do without her, in the last bit…alas.’

  She turned again to the girl. ‘There Rajbala, was that not what you had wanted, why you ran away from Bharat Talkies? Now you can be Ambarish’s heroine. Sethji…here is your heroine, for your new picture. Alas, Sethji, such a big thing and you nor Ambarish thought to tell me. And after all these years of our knowing each other.’ Ramola smiled wistfully.

  Seth Makhandas was starting to feel afraid. Did they really think he was going to put his baap-dada ka paisa, his hard earned money into some picture with this adhmari, this half-dead half-bald little urchin?

  He started to speak. ‘But beti, you only had said… and Mukherjee Babu…’

  ‘Sethji…we only heard from Devaki here…of your partnership with Dev Burma Saheb, when she came to show us her…errm, photographs’, Avinash Mukherjee cut him short. Devaki was playing with the end of his sari. His lips speaking the unsaid as he fluttered his lashes at Seth Makhandas.

  Makhandas Khemka shrank into his seat. This kamina badmash Mukherjee Babu, forever saying ‘photographs’ ‘photographs’ to him. Making him dance to his tunes. And his very own Dhonu, stabbing his back…hey bhagwan, why had he taken those photographs with Dhonu. And Ramola Beti, surely, she did not know, about him and Dhonu? She was speaking to him again.

  ‘Sethji, Rajbala here tells me she is to be heroine in Pativrata. The part that ill-fated girl Menoka was to play…you know, don’t you Sethji, how Menoka hanged herself inside Bharat Talkies, took her own life. That too within days of us starting work on that picture. Such a tragedy it was…’

  Seth Makhandas swallowed. Atmahatya…selfannihilation, Hey Ram. Was it that picture then? People said she had brought bad luck to Bharat Talkies, that girl…Shankar Babu, so young and passing just like that, so soon afterwards. He had heard all the talk then, when the girl did herself in…but…who was to know it was that very same picture. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face.

  Ambarish Dev Burma was looking hard at Ramola.

  Seth Makhandas was trying to stop the trembling in his knees. He rose and slowly walked to where Raju now sat, on the low stool by the door, Ramola by her side.

  ‘Beti…’ his voice shook. ‘What happened…to that long hair. I saw you before one time, in Bharat Talkies… how did you change…so much?’

  Raju lowered her eyes.

  Tell me, beti’, Makhandas Khemka’s words came in gasps. ‘It’s her, na? That atma…it is her, is it not, that other girl? That is why you ran away from Bharat Talkies…because she gave you aadesh, commanded you…she does not want you beti to take her place…’

  Ambarish Dev Burma laughed aloud.

  ‘What other girl Makhandasji, how very ridiculous!’

  Makhandas Khemka’s eyes bulged.

  ‘That spirit…woh atma, it has gotten in her…made her sick. Can you not see it Dev Burma Saheb, how this girl looks…so pale, her eyes red…her beauty all gone, like the hair on her head.’

  Makhandas was himself like a man possessed. Even the stony-faced Avinash Mukherjee shifted uneasily in his corner on the sofa. Only Ambarish Dev Burma was laughing.

  ‘Sethji, girls like Menoka have no atma, only sharir… only their bodies.’

  ‘But what of Raju, Ambarish?’ Ramola broke in. ‘Is she not different, from Menoka and those other girls that you kept before, in this house? Is she not fit to hold your hand? Surely, you will not find another girl so ready to give her all for a picture?’

  ‘Madam…’ Ambarish spoke quietly. ‘It is no secret that girls like Rajbala have been many in my life. And they have all obeyed my wishes. Given their all, as you say, when I have so commanded it. It is Rajbala’s good fortune that she caught my eye, that I chose her, over the many other such girls that cross my path every day, and who would gladly give their lives if I so much as glanced their way.’

  ‘But Ambarish, surely, Raju has proven her worth. She is herself a star, and second to none.’


  Ambarish was looking at the clawed feet of the marble top table. He chewed his words before spitting them out.

  ‘Star indeed! Like you yourself.’ He grinned. ‘Why, in America they have made stars of dogs and cats that have appeared in the motion pictures. Like you, Madam, such little animals have scores of admirers, who cut their photographs from the pages of magazines and paste them in their little notebooks. It is nothing…take my word Madam, you yourself are nothing. I have myself made and unmade many such stars…they are nothing but puppets, little playthings…’

  He nodded his head, his eyes bright.

  ‘Cats and dogs can be made stars. But not artistes. Madam is not just any star. She is a great artiste. She is the sky, and we others…we are not even the little toe of her left foot.’ Raju spoke without looking up.

  ‘An artiste is she, your Madam?’ He glowered at Raju, his voice thin. ‘Is that why she left her own picture, her very precious Mirabai and got a char anna wala heroine, like you? What happened Madam, did you get afraid, after the boss died? But of course, however could you move a finger even, without his hand to hold, or his shoulder to lean on, still less direct that picture. Isn’t that why you needed that old fogey Nishith Roy at your side? Because Madam, you simply are not good enough…and you know that as well as I.’

  ‘Beti…’ Makhandas Khemka nodded tearfully to Ramola. ‘I always knew it, no good would come of this, getting this…this bazari girl. Now see what happened. That atma…it has got inside her…Hey Ram.’ His eyeballs darted to the glass door and back. ‘Is she here then…in this house…woh atma?’

  Ambarish flicked his head impatiently.

  ‘Enough of this talk, Makhandasji. There is only one spirit in this house, she who has always commanded everything here. And that is my mother.’

  His mouth pursed as he ran his hand over it. He shouldn’t have said it, he knows that. Ramola’s eyes narrowed as Ambarish smiled again, his half smile. He’s not really smiling, she thought. He’s angry.

  ‘That’s her isn’t it Ambarish, in the picture upstairs, where you had kept Raju? Did you also keep Menoka there, Ambarish?’ That same smile, Ramola was thinking…but still, not the same really, not all of it.

  ‘Yes, that is her…my mother. And such girls,’ he glanced towards Raju. ‘They are not fit even to look upon her face.’

  Ramola felt Raju stiffen beside her.

  ‘But…but…you had said that I was…like your mother.’

  ‘My mother, Rajbala, was educated…and high born, a princess…a queen, with a curse on her head.’ He sighed. ‘That curse still lives on…here, in this house.’

  Makhandas Khemka let out a sob. ‘Did I not say it? There is a saya, a curse…a spirit…it has got inside her, eaten her from inside…taken her hair.’

  ‘I gave my hair of my own.’ Raju had fire in her eyes. ‘I gave it for art…for him.’ She pointed at Ambarish Dev Burma. ‘Why…did you not say to me, I want a girl as my heroine who is brave enough to show the world that art is not only beauty…art is tyag, sacrifice…that, only a true artiste can sacrifice beauty for art.’ Her voice lowered as she ran her hand over her head. ‘A girl like my mother, did you not say? My mother did not care for the world, that was why she had me. But then she did not care, for me even. And then Menoka, you said, she was afraid of the world, that was why she ran away. You said, Rajbala, I want you to give your all, for me…did you not say it?’ Again, her eyes burnt.

  Ambarish Dev Burma smirked. His eyes fixed on the grey and white of the stone floor. ‘You think, Rajbala, that you are any different from Menoka, or any of those other girls? That you can be like my mother, only because I chose you? For what, Rajbala? Only to be heroine in my picture?’ He laughed.

  ‘What picture, Saheb?’ Makhandas Khemka was shaking his head, mopping the beads of sweat on his face. ‘Sab bakwas, bogus all of it. This Makhandas Khemka is not making any picture, Saheb. That too with this hairless bhootni, this wretch.’

  Ambarish Dev Burma held up a hand.

  ‘Patience, Makhandasji, we will make this girl your heroine.’ He pointed carelessly to the sari-clad Dhonu. ‘That was your wish, was it not?’

  ‘Haan, but…’ Seth Makhandas gulped.

  ‘And me? What of me?’ Raju cried.

  ‘You Rajbala, will do as I say. And do not dare to question what I will do in my picture. Heroine or not, you will do my bidding. For that is what you are made for, to bow to my wishes. You…and Menoka and Radha…and Jumna, you all.’

  ‘And this sari, your mother’s sari, what you gave to me, only me?’ Tears rolled down Raju’s face as she clutched the Benarasi.

  Ambarish Dev Burma let out his breath through clenched teeth, and rubbed his face with his hand. ‘My mother…she was different. She never gave in to me. Not once.’

  ‘And your father, Ambarish…what about your father?’ Ramola was thinking how alike they were, that high forehead and the hair that fell across their faces.

  ‘Only person that ever made her give in, that was my father. But that too not forever.’ Again, he ran his hand over his face.

  ‘That is him, isn’t it, Ambarish, on the wall upstairs… where she is, your mother?’

  He forced a smile through his gritted teeth. ‘You are sharp aren’t you, Madam Ramola Devi?’ He sighed. ‘I couldn’t hide my good looks if even I tried, could I? Yet the man that I was forced to call father, by the world and by my mother, he was little and ugly, like a rat, his daughter like him…my sister Putu. But me, I am like my real baba. I made them all give in, all of those girls…like he had done to my mother. His sister…his very own little sister.’

  He turned to Raju, his eyes filled with loathing. ‘I was high…high born, no mix in my blood. My father and mother were of a line of kings…and then, she lay with that man, Putu’s father, spoilt herself. She became like one of them.’ He pointed at Raju. ‘Like a beshya…low… lowest of the low.’

  Ramola held Raju close as the girl wept inconsolably.

  Ambarish was laughing. ‘She would cry like that every night. I think, it was after he knew it…Putu’s father. He would punish her for it. Then…when Putu was inside her he jumped from the roof. And she…she said afterwards, that I was her paap, her sin, she said to me. That she should have killed herself and me, before I could see light of day. For what? For only wanting Putu out of the way? Putu never should have come into this world. She was Ma’s paap, not me…rotten little worm, like Menoka and Radha and her sister, and her…’ He pointed again to Raju. ‘I had wanted…so very much, to see Putu like her father, bloodied and broken. But Ma, she stopped me, every time.’ He shook his head. ‘She couldn’t stop me forever, though, could she? Those girls, all of those girls in this house…then…upstairs. I put them there, in her room.’

  ‘And this picture Ambarish, Pativrata…why did you push Menoka to it? And Raju, why did you make this of Raju?’

  ‘Because…’ his head rolled as he again smiled that half smile. ‘They thought that they were above their rotten lot, that they were different from the rest. And good enough for me. Why? Because they had become heroines of the bioscope? I showed them their place. Like how he, my father had done it with Ma. Ma…she would try to better him always…in everything, when they were children. He showed her her place. I would call him Mama…my mother’s brother, not ever Baba. Ma did not let me take any photographs with him ever, she was afraid that somebody would know something. She always tried to keep me away, from my own father. But how could she? He would take me to his chest. He took me hunting once, in the forests. He used to be a wonder with the rifle. He shot dead my mother’s pet parrot the night she got married to Putu’s father. She had me inside her then. He had planted his seed in her, after her match had been fixed, to punish her…held her down with those strong arms, not heeded her silly crying…he told me. And that parrot, he had plucked its feathers before he had killed it. He gave them to me…I was three then, or four. He would come and see me, here, in this house, even
after Ma told him never to come…after Putu’s father had died.’ Ambarish got up and walked to the open windows and looked out at the garden, where the servants were cutting the grass.

  ‘What happened to him, Dev Burma Saheb…your father?’ Avinash Mukherjee broke the silence.

  ‘He is alive, my father, old now, but still strong. He lives on his estate in the hills. There is a shrine, and a gurukul for little boys there, from the nearby villages. They are…in his care. Boys like how I was…when he would take me close…and tell me, about him and Ma.’

  ‘You are not well Ambarish, you never were…’ Ramola had a knot inside her stomach. Was it all make-believe? Was Ambarish only being uncouth…or…?

  ‘I am perfectly well, thank you Madam. My only regret is that I could not take this picture Pativrata to its finish. It was not just a picture, you know. It was my experiment…a test…after I saw how Menoka was getting out of hand. Flying high she was, thinking she was somebody, or something. And all because your Bharat Talkies turned her head. Sacrifice on the altar of art, that was to be her redemption…their only redemption, all of them. But first Menoka, she spoilt it all…and now, you…you come to take away this…this beshya.’ His eyes grazed Raju. ‘To again let loose this rot in our society, our samaj. This rot that thrives in our midst for the comfort of society ladies like yourself. You who think you can uplift them and change their lot…make them like one of us. You do our society a great disservice, Madam.’

  Dhonu was pulling off the long plait covering his head. His eyes on the floor, voice soft.

  ‘Rot we are, those like us…hum saala janjal log, spoilt and rotten, beshyas…and nyakas. We, we have no place anywhere. We do bioscope pictures…naachgaana with all our heart, but still, this world of bioscope pictures does not call us its own. We are lowest of the low…and we, we live on, thinking it is our fate, kismet hamara! But sometimes…we can even turn things our way. Where there is no way, we make a way. From under the very feet of such big people like you…we…those like us, beshyas and nyakas.’