‘Cat eat pig…’ she had said to him. She was a clever girl. With a little more English he could take her with him when he left…England, and Europe…nobody could tell she was a butcher’s wife. He was her teacher.
‘…I eat cat…’ He had gestured to himself and the cat between his mouthfuls, making her break into more giggles.
‘…I no make cat…no…’ She had shaken her head mischievously, motioning to the charcoal stove where she did her cooking.
He had laughed, making her blush. But her eyes had glinted. She had understood. Dear Fan, always up for a game.
She had mixed the drug in the milk, calling to it like she would the pigs. The old Tom had started to lose himself, swaying a little bit. He had pointed out the length of rope that hung by her stove. The one she would sometimes tie the chickens with, as they flapped and clucked fearfully. She had held the legs eagerly with her strong hands as he had slipped the rope gently over its neck, suddenly afraid it would wake from its stupor. It had awakened with a start, its eyes gaping, a funny shriek in its throat as he had pulled, Fan’s laugh in his ears.
She had wanted to cut it up in small pieces, throw it to the pigs. She had found it rather pleasing, ‘…pig eat cat…’ she had whispered. But he had sent her away. To be alone with it for that night. Doing it in had filled him with a delight that he had not known before. Like he was god himself. He had fondled it, wanting to dress it up in Ma’s Benarasi, like Ma had done when she was a little girl, dressing up her little kittens and marrying them to the neighbour’s cats. Like how they would dress the dead, dead women in vermillion and alta and garlands.
Rajbala had left it behind, that Benarasi. When Ramola Devi had taken her away. Like Ma she was, Ramola Devi, taking the girl away from in front of his eyes…like Ma always would take Putu from him. That was it…he blinked as the first rays of the sun stung him in the eyes. Ma had gotten hold of her, Ramola Devi! It was Ma that had gotten the girl, from him. How could he not have known it? Hadn’t he always felt it, how alike they were, that very same pride, that mocking in their eyes…like they were everything and he, nothing. He could have fed her to the dogs, Rajbala, any of the movie papers would lap up her story, how she would shed her shame for just a few annas. But she had threatened him, Ramola Devi, before she had left holding the girl.
‘And Ambarish, should you try to hurt Rajbala in any way, in the future, I will have each and every copy of those pictures you made for Bharat Talkies thrown in the fire, I promise you that Ambarish.’ He hadn’t dared go to the papers. They were masterpieces, those pictures, and they were in her hands. How would she know their worth? But she had meant what she had said, and he had not dared it.
But, it wasn’t over. No, Ramola Devi. Quite far from it. You might have got one over on me this time, but you think I didn’t know what you had going with that poker-face with the spectacles? I knew the very minute you two stepped in my library that morning! I hear you have a big hit…you got the girl back in the picture. I didn’t think you would, though. A masterpiece, they say, those rags. And now…wait for my Pativrata, Madam. My picture, it is only on hold…for just a bit…and you, you will see, and you will be sorry, for sending that nitwit Marwari my way, telling me those lies I never should have believed.
That Rajbala would have hung by her neck, if not for you, Ramola Devi. If not for your meddling. He ran his hand through his hair.
He would go away to see Baba, his real Baba, in the hills…where the shrine was. With its bells and the flag fluttering on its roof. Like when he was a little boy, and Baba had taken him alone to the shrine. Where he would take those boys from the village. Baba had always told him everything…about Ma…and that parrot…and the horse in grandfather’s stable, the one that had died of the poison…and then, those little boys that he loved with all his heart. Baba had never pushed him away, though fate had set them so far apart. He was like Baba, his father’s son…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sharmistha Gooptu is a film historian, and author of Bengali Cinema, An Other Nation (Routledge, 2010). She is Editor of the journal South Asian History and Culture and the South Asian History and Culture Books Series.
First published in India by Simon & Schuster India, 2019
A CBS company
Copyright © Sharmistha Gooptu, 2019
The right of Sharmistha Gooptu to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with
Section 57 of the Copyright Act, 1957.
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