Shining Hero (32 page)

‘Eighteen,’ said Karna.

‘So what do you want from me? For I presume this is not just a visit of filial duty.’

‘I want you to help me become a Bollywood star,’ said Karna determinedly.

Dilip gave a short laugh. ‘I might have guessed. That is the only thing they all want.’

‘Who is all?’ asked Karna.

‘These boys and girls who say they are my children. So let’s test you out. What do you know about me?’

‘Everything,’ sighed Karna. ‘I have seen every single film you acted in. I saw you in that one where you were the gangster and the zamindar’s daughter fell in love with you. Oh, and the one where you are a rickshaw wallah and the …’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ interrupted Dilip. ‘I have been all those. But these days the audiences demand lithe young men to take such parts. As you see I am not the shape any longer to leap about with maidens on the snowclad slopes of Kashmir but let us suppose you are my son, then it will be good to see you take over where I left off.’ He surveyed Karna for a long moment then asked, ‘You have a good rich talking voice. Can you sing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then,’ said Dilip Baswani, ‘Let it go.’

Karna threw back his head and let his voice soar out. He sang, in Hindi, a love song from a Dilip Baswani film, ‘My heart goes dum dum dum when I see your eyes looking at me through the smoke of the fire. The leaves of our garden crackle when they feel the intensity of our love …’

There were tears in Dilip Baswani’s eyes when Karna finished.

‘Now a last question. But important. Have you ever been in love?’

Karna was about to say ‘no’, when the door opened and a girl came into the room.

‘Ah, Poopay, meet Karna. He says he is my son,’ said Dilip.

A great burst of roaring dizziness rushed over Karna at the abrupt, unexpected appearance of Poopay Patalya and the word ‘yes’ so nearly came bursting inadvertently from his mouth that he had to squeeze his lips together to keep it in.

Poopay wore a transparent gown through which flickered the most beautiful golden limbs in the world, enhanced by the smallest bikini. Even at the Tollygunge club swimming-pool Karna had never seen a girl wear so little. He had never seen a girl with such perfect breasts, such a small tight bottom, such a tiny waist. He had never seen such a glorious mouth, such dense eyelashes, such …

After the first swift glance he could no longer look at her but turned his eyes on the opposite wall as though Poopay was blazing with a light that was too strong for him. His heart was thundering so loudly that it obscured his hearing. He could not rise because of the weakness that had overtaken his legs.

And when Poopay said in a casual tone, ‘Hi, Karna,’ he could not answer either because thrill and shock had numbed his vocal cords.

Poopay, after one swift and unseeing glance at the person sinking into the sofa, said to Dilip, ‘I’m having trouble with the lighting engineer, Papa.’ She leant over Dilip, holding out photos. ‘It makes me look fat from that angle. He won’t listen to me when I tell him that this makes my face look so shiny. What do you think? Don’t you agree?’

‘I’ll talk to him, sweetie,’ said Dilip Baswani.

She became petulant while Karna sagged, feeling faint. She thrust out her lower lip and a tiny frown crinkled her forehead for a moment.

‘You always say that, Papa, but when the moment comes …’

‘I will tell him. Don’t worry.’ He reached out and patted the most gorgeous woman in the world, the most desirable woman in the universe, patted her on the bottom as though, as though … Karna felt as if he was choking.

Poopay glanced over at the sounds of spluttering and raised her eyebrows in surprise as if momentarily reminded of Karna’s presence.

Dilip glanced at Karna too, then, as though understanding, smiled till his eyes nearly vanished into his rouged cheeks.

Poopay pulled out another photo. ‘You’ll know exactly what I mean when you see this one, Papa. Tell him it must be done the way I want. I won’t go on otherwise.’ Poopay left the room in a swoosh of some exotic perfume as Dilip was still assuring her, ‘I will do it. I will talk to him.’

After she had gone, Dilip turned to Karna with laughter in his eyes. ‘She calls me Papa so perhaps she really is my daughter.’

Breath was shocked from Karna’s lungs. His heart seemed to stop. The blood froze in his veins.

‘Do you still want to be my son?’ joked the actor. ‘What do you say, my little man?’

Karna stared at him and felt faint all over again.

‘Come on, my boy. She calls me Papa, but who knows who is my child and who is not?’

‘You mean she might not be?’ asked Karna.

‘You are looking hopeful,’ laughed the old man. ‘But consider it. Do you see a family likeness? To me this lovely girl is as unlike myself as you are. Now let us get down to business. You want to be a film star?’

Karna nodded, mute.

‘Then you must start at the bottom. That is how most of us begin. You must go and try to get work as an extra. They are looking for young men in one of the films I am making at the moment. It’s called …’ He rummaged around among some papers. Then tossing them aside said, ‘Oh, I can’t remember the name. “Hug Hug Hug” or “Kiss Kiss Kiss” or something. I know I tried to get some sort of Western title. That’s what goes down these days. But we have to keep it simple. Can’t confuse the cinemagoing public with complicated foreign words. Perhaps we decided “Kiss” was too difficult.’

Karna thought of kissing Poopay and his lips began quivering and tingling.

Dilip Baswani said briskly, ‘But anyway it doesn’t matter. We’ll probably change the name before it goes out.’ He gave Karna an address. As Karna left, he called, ‘And one day, when you are famous, you can come back and see me again. But not till then.’ He thrust a paper into Karna’s hand. ‘Show them this and they will let you in.’

The door durwan at the film studio laughed when he saw Karna’s chit, and turning told someone inside, ‘Another of Mr Baswani’s sons!’

A voice inside laughed too. ‘How many is that then? Must be the tenth this month.’

Karna was hurried into a great tattered barren hall lined round with tiers of wooden benches, as though this was an arena for watching some game. All around, packed on the benches, sat men, some wearing expressions of despair, some hope, and some asleep. Several of them seemed to be trying out smiles, or arranging their faces to look moody, vicious or sweet. Karna squeezed himself between two men who were drawing heavily on beedies and sat. He kept his own face expressionless, not knowing which expression would be required. He wished he had found out more about the film from Dilip Baswani but the old man had suddenly lost interest in him and had him hustled out.

The air was dense with cigarette smoke that mingled thickly with dust that rose from the floor as soon as anyone came in. Men were appearing all the time, their feet stirring up puffs of dirt and causing some of the sitting hopefuls to choke a little into hands and handkerchiefs.

The man next to Karna, through a small fit of coughing, said, ‘I have been here three days. I am hoping that today I will be chosen.’

‘What are the extras wanted for?’ asked Karna.

‘Dacoits,’ said the man and scrutinised Karna a little disdainfully. ‘I don’t know why they let you in. You don’t have the physique.’ Large muscles stood out on the man’s dark-skinned arms.
‘Unless you do a workout every day you never get into a film like this.’

‘Don’t you listen to him,’ joked the man on Karna’s other side. ‘If he’s so desirable why has he been waiting for three days?’

‘Some people wait for weeks before they are chosen,’ said the muscle man huffily.

After an hour, a man wearing a suit, glasses and carrying a folder came in and walked up and down the narrow path between the benches, scrutinising the faces on either side. Men who had been sagging listlessly sat up sharply. Winks and smiles and nods and scowls appeared on every side. Karna’s neighbours both adopted expressions of such ferocity that he was reminded of the dacoits of his childhood. He himself tried a small cross frown, decided it was not his style, and waited to see what would happen.

The man with the folder began to point this way and that, saying ‘You and you and you.’ Men scrambled eagerly from their benches and gathered around him as he went on choosing. He would go out, and just when hope faded all round, return and choose some more. Several times his gaze fell on Karna and lingered there thoughtfully before continuing with selecting brigands. After Karna had been waiting there for four hours and had given up hope, the man returned and suddenly pointed a finger at him and said, ‘You there. Can you dance?’

‘Me?’ Karna’s heart leapt. ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’

The man nodded. ‘I may need dancers next week. Try again then.’

‘I told you they wouldn’t take a weedy fellow like you to do a dacoit,’ said the muscle man.

‘But he noticed you. That’s the main thing,’ said the man on the other side. ‘If I was you I’d come back tomorrow all the same, just to keep your face in his memory.’

At last, after six hours, the choosing was done. The muscle man, much to his delight, got his chance but Karna’s other neighbour did not.

Karna took the advice and arrived each day, sat there quietly and
did not bother to offer fierce faces because he knew he would not be chosen as a brigand but might get a dance part if he played it right.

When, a week later, his great moment came and the finger pointed at him and summoned him down, Karna scrambled through the tiers feeling as though he was floating upwards.

Those chosen for the dancing sequence were gathered together in another shed, much like the waiting one, but without the tiers.

There were about two hundred men in a space rather too small. They milled around for what seemed like hours, people doing graceful leg stretches and wide arm movements in the hope that one of the selectors would come in and be impressed.

At last the waiting was over. Two men and a woman entered. The woman was small, middle-aged and dumpy. Her feet were bare and strapped to each ankle was a ring of dancing bells.

One of the men began to announce through a loud-hailer, ‘I want groups often. No more. The first ten come over here. The rest of you stand back.’ There was a rush and a scramble to be in the first group.

‘Everyone will get a chance to show their skills but if there is any fighting I shall throw out the whole lot of you and start all over again.’ The crowd shrank back meekly like children in the presence of a strict schoolteacher.

‘He won’t really throw us out,’ the man standing next to Karna said. ‘He says that every time but I have never known him to carry out the threat. They just don’t have the time. He’s got to have his dancers at the ready by this evening because they may have to start shooting tomorrow.’

Ten by ten the waiting men were lined up. A tape-recorder was turned on and Geeta, the little fat woman, stood before them and, her anklets ringing, demonstrated the steps. And all the while the man with the loud-hailer kept shouting threats, over the roar of Hindi pop, to the other hundred and eighty who had been crushed as far as they could go into a corner but who kept creeping out to watch the dancing.

Some of the dancers, in their desperation to be chosen, threw their bodies about so wildly that the people on either side were struck by flailing limbs and punching fists.

‘Energy, energy,’ urged the second man, who, Karna discovered, was the choreographer. And at the end of each trial one or two, or perhaps none would be chosen.

Karna was one of the lucky ones. The marvellous training that Shivarani had given him was not his only asset. He stood out with his golden eyes and flexible movements.

The departing disappointed looked enviously at the twenty chosen ones.

Loud applauses greet the challenge
and the people’s joyful cry,
But the thickening clouds of darkness
fill the earth and evening sky
.

‘I wish you could start your women’s walk from somewhere other than Hatipur,’ Gadhari complained to Shivarani. ‘It makes us all look silly.’ But all the same she came in her car to join the crowd of local people waiting to see the start of the march. All the women who could manage it were waiting to walk with Shivarani, even one or two of the married ones, though their husbands had forbidden it. Every one of the doll-maker widows was coming, among them Ravi’s poor young bride. Her husband had been shot soon after his wedding by opponent goondas during an election campaign.

Shivarani was touched to see Gadhari there, in spite of her complaints. People began to appear bringing gifts, garlands and fruit, till the women’s arms were full and they could not stop laughing. The village priest chanted prayers over the group and waved joss sticks at them and the village musicians beat drums and blew flutes as the women, their mouths full, set off for Delhi.

It took Shivarani and her followers four days to get to Calcutta and though she had tried to make arrangements for food, water and even shelter on the way, as the numbers grew, any chance of order gradually dissolved.

They reached Calcutta on the fifth day and in the afternoon passed the children’s centre. Shivarani saw Bhima standing at the gates,
knee-deep in cheering children. He smiled and waved for so long that even when she was out of sight she could tell by the laughs and smiles of those in the rear that he was still at it.

Maidservants began leaving their positions to join the gathering women, ayahs abandoned the children in their care, dhobi women dumped wet washing to follow Shivarani, brides-to-be ran away before their weddings, daughters discarded their duties to their parents, grandmothers threw away dignity and old age to join the Wives of Shiva.

At first people thought Shivarani’s march of women was amusing, or even admirable. But gradually as the numbers of the women grew, their popularity diminished. Men who had laughed at first began to be afraid. Sometimes women living in smart suburbs would shout abuse as the procession passed by or order sweepers to throw buckets of night soil at it. They considered the protesters immodest and thought it was giving the country a bad name.

As the days went by the fear of the marchers grew because they needed so much water. Even in the biggest towns there was nowhere for several thousand women to slake their thirst and in the villages, people became afraid that their wells would be drunk dry by so many women so that in the end they had to rely on rivers. They would walk in dust and heat for hours, anticipating the moment of reaching cool and copious water where they could drink deeply.

At first they did not know where the rivers were and merely kept going in the hope of finding one, until someone discovered that the scars on the face of the prostitute called Laika accurately mapped the holy rivers. After that women would cry out, ‘We are thirsty, Laika. Let us look into your face and see how long before we get our next bath and drink.’ For the first time in her life people looked at Laika’s face with pleasure instead of disgust and it began to make her prettier.

The women were almost always hungry. Their white saris turned red or grey depending on the colour of the dust they walked on. Their faces began to peel and blister in the sun. Dark women turned black, fair ones turned dark. Their hair, which could no longer be oiled, took on shades of red or developed streaks of yellow.

Sometimes a woman would fall ill, or become so tired that she
could no longer walk and then her friends would pick her up and carry her. There was hardly anyone who could be persuaded to turn back at this late stage, no matter how ill they were. Some of the women had been pregnant at the start of the walk and gave birth at the roadside, attended by their friends, then, after resting for a little while, would be helped along by others. Some women died and their bodies had to be abandoned for relatives to find and cremate. Those who had no relations to give a proper funeral – widows who had been abandoned, girls who had disgraced and been thrown out, women who were for one reason or another quite alone, were carried to be placed in a holy river.

When the women had been walking for a little over two months, and were halfway to Delhi, the Prime Minister called a meeting. ‘This “Wives of Shiva” organisation is de-stabilising the country.’

A deputation was sent to meet Shivarani. As the women came in sight, the men wondered if they were hallucinating, for, as far as the eye could see, far away to the horizon, there was nothing but women, all wearing white. It was like being in the snow of Kashmir. They halted the jeep in front of Shivarani and tried to make her stop and talk to them.

‘You must walk along with me for we don’t stop till night,’ she said, and flowed around the jeep with the rest.

‘If this continues,’ the officials said, ‘our country will be brought to its knees.’

‘That’s a good place for it to be,’ cried Shivarani in a fury. ‘On its knees and humble because of the way it has treated its women.’

The officials felt a touch of fear at being among so many aggressive-looking females but all the same persisted, ‘The Prime Minister says this march is against the law.’

‘What law? They must have invented a new one,’ scoffed Shivarani, without pausing in her stride. ‘I never heard that walking was illegal.’

The government officials returned and told the Prime Minister, ‘She will not listen at all and there are so many women that it is impossible to stop them.’

‘There are not enough jobs for the men, and if these women all
start to demand equal pay and equal work, then where will we all be? Poverty will increase because of this obstructing female, Shivarani Gupta,’ one of the ministers said.

‘And also,’ said another, ‘while no one condones the murder of female infants what would happen to our country if it was stopped? Already the population is so high that there is not enough of anything to go round. Food, medicine, jobs, housing, transport, education. Imagine a situation with thirty million more females, each giving birth to an average of four children. You do not have to be a mathematician to anticipate the disaster.’

‘These females must be returned to their homes before it is too late,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘This is top priority. We cannot have a civil war in this country with men on one side and women on the other. Soon we will be reaching the European state of affairs, with women demanding equality with men and then our country will become like those of the West, with broken families, children without fathers, young girls becoming pregnant. There will be sorrow and suffering everywhere.’

A new minister was sent to reason with Shivarani. ‘If anything happens to these women it will be your fault,’ he said. ‘If they are injured it will be because of you.’

‘This sounds like a threat,’ said Shivarani. ‘How can you injure us? Are you going to drop a bomb on us or something?’ She meant it to be a joke, but the minister did not smile and Shivarani remembered Naxalbari.

The marching women at first thought the sound was thunder and that, though it was the wrong time of year, a storm was approaching. Some of them became invigorated, anticipating rain, planning to catch the water on their tongues. They began to leap and dance as they waited for a cool drenching that would turn their saris transparent and clinging.

Only Shivarani felt afraid. Laika, walking at her side, was laughing. ‘They won’t need my face today because they are going to get
rain,’ she joked. But Shivarani kept looking into the sky and did not answer.

The sound grew louder and Shivarani, gripped with a sudden panic, began shouting, ‘Duck, get down, lie on the road.’ But the women were dancing. Laughing. Did not hear her.

The bomber burst into view very suddenly, its black bulk blotting out light, its roar blotting out any other sound. It flew so low that the tree tops were bent with its passing. It flew so low that the suddenly silenced women could see the pilot looking down at them.

Later the pilot would say that he had been on a training mission and that the dropping of the bomb had been an error. An error that was never punished. In fact later he would be promoted.

Shivarani wrapped her arms round Laika, hopelessly trying to protect her as the bomb came twirling, gleaming towards them.

The women began screaming, scattering, falling, tumbling, running.

Later, when she thought back, Shivarani felt surprised at how slowly time had seemed to pass in what really must have been only moments. She remembered wondering if there was time to put out her hands and catch the bomb before it struck the ground. Then, with a blinding light and a terrible roar the road seemed to tilt up around her. Laika’s body jerked wildly in Shivarani’s arms and seemed to split in two in a jet of blood.

Shivarani knew no more.

Gadhari died while Shivarani was away. She had been ill for a long time, but DR was shocked all the same and for days after would be seen gazing at photos of her, with his eyes full of tears.

‘She had a few faults, I know,’ he told Arjuna, ‘but which woman doesn’t? And when people have been married as long as Gadhari Aunty and me, it is very sad to be left alone.’

Arjuna longed to think of something comforting to say, but could not find the words.

‘It’s all right, my boy,’ DR Uncle said, and patted Arjuna on the
shoulder. ‘You must not feel troubled. But I am feeling lonely, so sit by me.’ Then, to change the conversation, ‘Have you given any thought to what you want to do with your life?’

‘Yes,’ said Arjuna eagerly. ‘I want to be a film star.’

DR Uncle smiled for the first time. ‘Cinema is the modern thing and we all should be up to date for the sake of our country’s future. Also it will be a great joy to me in my old age to see my nephew taking leading roles in our great Indian epics. Let me hear you quote a few verses from Rabindranath Tagore to test your skill of acting.’

Arjuna did his best to oblige.

‘It was May. The sultry noon seemed endlessly long. The dry earth gaped with thirst in the heat,

When I heard from the riverside a voice calling, ‘Come, my darling.’

I shut my book and opened the window to look out.

I saw a big buffalo with a mud stained hide standing near the river with placid, patient eyes; and a youth, knee deep in water, calling it to its bath.

I smiled amused and felt a touch of sweetness in my heart.’

DR Uncle listened, his eyes glistening but also with his lips pressed together in an expression of disapproval … When Arjuna had finished he burst out, ‘What is this bland way of talking? What is this English stiff upper lip attitude? Put more feeling into it, dear boy. Wave the arms around. Move the body. Let the features show deep depths of emotion. The eyes should fill with tears, the heart swell with feelings when such a poem is being recited. Perhaps you are not cut out to be an actor after all.’

Because Shivarani was away so long, DR Uncle took the responsibility upon himself and persuaded the Hatibari trustees to release some funds and arranged for Arjuna to become a student at the same Bombay film school that had rejected Karna.

When Shivarani returned, and DR Uncle told her he had sent Arjuna to film school, she became annoyed. ‘He should have chosen a career
in politics. The country will never thrive unless people like Arjuna, who have been well educated and have integrity, take a share of the running of it.’

But her anger vanished when she was given a message from Bhima.

‘I have a job. Come and meet me in Cal. I need to talk to you.’

In a moment every pain that she had ever had in the whole of her life began to ebb away.

Bhima was already waiting in the coffee house. His eyes were shining with joy as he leapt up to greet her. He caught her by both hands. ‘I had to tell you first, Shiv, because you are my best, best friend. Nobody else knows yet. I have got a job with the city bank and Malti has agreed to marry me.’

Shivarani’s heart did a jerk. She stared at him. ‘What?’ she said. Her lips felt abruptly numb as though she had chewed strong paan.

‘I am marrying Malti,’ he repeated. He looked puzzled.

‘What a lot of
ms
, there are in that sentence,’ she thought, as she tried to make sense of his words. ‘What a lot of
ms
.’ Perhaps she even said it aloud, for she saw his puzzlement grow. At first she felt she was watching a Bollywood film and that Bhima was acting in a story. Soon the play would be over and everything would become real again but as his meaning seeped in and pain gathered like the poison from a cobra, strange things started happening to her body. Blood began draining out of her fingers, her toes and eventually her cheeks. A roaring sound started up inside her head. Her sight became blurred and everything began to spin.

Vishnu sleeps, floating in the ocean of the Absolute and in his dream he continually invents the Cosmos. All the worlds are merely the dream of the sleeping god, who will one day wake. And then everything will cease existing and only the Absolute will remain, infinite, inert and unchanging. This is a dream, thought Shivarani. God is dreaming. I am dreaming and will soon wake up.

She sat down very slowly because her legs had started shaking and she feared she was going to fall. She became suddenly aware that her hands were still held by Bhima’s, who, after all was not going to be
her husband, but was going to marry Malti instead. Feeling ashamed to be holding the hand of someone else’s husband, she pulled her fingers away.