Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (27 page)

I get my first shock on seeing the condition of the drawing room. There are cigarette butts and traces of ash everywhere. An upturned glass lies on the centre table, together with an empty bottle of whisky. Peanuts are scattered all over the carpet. There is a strong smell of alcohol in the room.

The second shock is on seeing Neelima Kumari. She has bruises all over her face and a black eye. 'Oh my God, Madam, what happened to you?' I cry.

'Nothing, Ram. I slipped from my bed and hurt myself. Nothing to worry about.'

I know she is lying. That man I saw leaving the flat has done this to her. And in return she has given him cigarettes, whisky and also money. I feel pained and angry, and powerless to protect her.

* * *

From that day, a subtle change comes over Neelima. She becomes more introverted and

withdrawn. I think she starts drinking whisky, because I often smell it on her breath.

One morning I find her again with a black eye, and a cigarette burn on her arm. I can bear it no longer. 'Madam, I feel very sad seeing you in this condition. Who is doing this to you?' I ask her.

She could have said 'It is none of your business,' but she was in a reflective mood that morning.

'You know, Ram, someone has said that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I wonder at times if this is true. I too have loved. I don't know whether I have lost as yet, but I have received a lot of pain. There is a man in my life. Sometimes I think he loves me.

Sometimes I think he hates me. He tortures me slowly, bit by bit.'

'Then why don't you leave him?' I cry.

'It is not that simple. There is some pleasure even in pain. A sweet ecstasy. Sometimes I feel if pain can be this sweet, how exquisitely pleasurable death will be. When he tortures me with cigarette butts I don't want to scream. I want to recite those memorable lines from my film

Woman.
The death scene. "O life, how fickle you are. It is death which is my real lover, my constant companion. Come, death, take me in your arms, whisper the sweet sound of silence in my ears, and waft me away to the land of eternal love."'

'But that was just a film, Madam,' I plead with her.

'Hush! Have you forgotten what I told you once, that an actor is an actor for life? Do not forget that I will forever be known as the Tragedy Queen. And I didn't become a tragedy queen just by reciting lines given to me by a scriptwriter. I lived the life of my characters. Ghalib didn't become a great tragic poet just by writing some lines in a book. No. You have to feel pain, experience it, live it in your daily life before you can become a tragedy queen.'

'If this is the criteria, then can I become a tragedy king?' I ask with the wide-eyed innocence of a twelve year-old.

She does not answer.

* * *

Neelima is giving an interview to a journalist from
Starburst
in the drawing room. I enter with a tray of
gulab jamuns
and samosas.

'OK, Neelimaji, we have talked about the past, now let's come to the present. Why did you quit films?' I watch closely as the journalist fiddles with a tape recorder. She is quite young and rather striking looking, with fair skin and shoulder-length black hair. She is wearing smart black trousers with a printed
kurti
and high-heeled black pumps.

'Because they no longer make films like they used to. The passion, the commitment, is gone.

Today's actors are nothing but assembly-line products, each exactly like the other, mouthing their lines like parrots. There is no depth. We did one film at a time. Now I find actors rushing to three different sets in a day. It's ridiculous.' Neelima gestures with her hands.

'Well, pardon my saying so, but I heard that part of the reason you quit was because you were not being offered any roles.'

Anger flares up on her face. 'Who told you that? It is a complete lie. I was offered several roles, but I turned them down. They were not powerful enough. And the films weren't heroine-oriented.'

'What you mean is that you were not offered heroine roles any longer, but those of elder sister or aunt.'

'How dare you disparage me and my work? I must say even the journalists of today have lost their manners. Can't you see the awards and trophies lining the shelves? Do you think I got these by not acting? Do you think I earned the sobriquet of Tragedy Queen by singing around trees like today's two-bit heroines, looking like a glorified extra?'

'But . . . but we are not talking about your past caree—'

'I know exactly what you are talking about. Please leave this instant. Ram, show this lady out and do not open the door to her ever again.' She stands up and walks out of the room in a huff. I escort the bewildered journalist to the door.

I am unable to figure out whether this was a comedy, a drama, or a tragedy.

* * *

There are many framed pictures in Neelima's flat. But all of them show only her. Neelima

receiving some award, Neelima cutting a ribbon, Neelima watching a performance, Neelima

giving an award. There are no pictures of any other movie stars, except for two framed pictures in her bedroom. They are of two beautiful women, one white, the other Indian.

'Who are these women?' I ask her one day.

'The one on the left is Marilyn Monroe and the one on the right is Madhubala.'

'Who are they?' 'They were both very famous actresses who died young.'

'So why do you keep their pictures?'

'Because I also want to die young. I don't want to die looking old and haggard. Have you seen the picture of Shakeela in this week's
Film Digest?
She was a famous film star in the fifties and must be ninety now. See how old and desiccated she looks. And this is exactly how people will

remember her after her death. As old and wrinkly and haggard. But people always remember

Marilyn Monroe and Madhubala as young because they died young. The lasting image people

have of you is how you looked at the time of your death. Like Madhubala, I want to leave behind an image of unspoilt youth and beauty, of everlasting grace and charm. I don't want to die when I am ninety. How I wish at times I could stop all the clocks of this world, shatter every mirror, and freeze my youthful face in time.'

A strange sadness spreads through me when I hear this. In a way, Neelima is an orphan, like me.

But unlike me, she has a larger family – her fans, producers and directors. And she is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for their sake. So that they can remember her forever as a young woman.

For the first time, I feel lucky that I am not a film star.

* * *

A famous producer is coming to the house. Neelima is very excited. She believes he will offer her a role and she will get to face the camera once again. She spends the entire day applying make-up and trying on various outfits.

The producer comes in the evening. He is short and bald, with a bulging tummy. I am told to bring in
gulab jamuns
and samosas and sherbet.

'. . . is a great role for you, Neelimaji,' the producer is saying. 'I have always been one of your greatest fans. I saw
Woman
fifteen times. That death scene. O, my God, I could die seeing it.

That is why I've resolved to drag you out of your retirement. This film, for which I have already roped in a top-level director, is a woman-centric film. I am offering you a fantastic role.'

'Who is this director you have contracted?'

'It is Chimpu Dhawan.'

'But isn't he a comedy film director?'

'So what? Anyway, there will be some comedy in this film. For the lead roles I have already signed up Shahrukh Khan and Tabu.'

'I don't understand. You have already signed a heroine. So will you have two heroines?'

'No, not at all.'

'Then what will Tabu do?'

'She is the heroine.'

'So what role are you offering me?'

'Oh, didn't you understand? I am offering you the role of Shahrukh Khan's mother.'

She kicks him out of the house then and there.

The producer leaves, frothing at the mouth. 'Spoilt bitch, what does she think? She still fancies herself as a heroine. Has she seen herself in the mirror? She is lucky I didn't cast her as the grandmother. Huh!'

I thought this was a good comedy scene.

* * *

Her lover has visited her again. But this time things are more serious. She is in bed with a deep cut above her left eyebrow and her cheek is swollen. She has difficulty speaking.

'We must call the police, Madam, have that swine arrested,' I urge her as I apply antiseptic ointment to her bruises.

'No, Ram. I will be all right.'

'At least tell me his name.'

She laughs hoarsely. 'What good will that do? Don't worry, that man is never going to come here again. I finally broke off with him. That is why he did this to me. If he ever comes back, I will spit on him.'

'And how long will you suffer in silence? Look at what he has done to your face.'

'It is the destiny of a woman to suffer in silence. And what he has done to my face is nothing compared to what he has done to the rest of my body. Do you really want to see? Then look.' She unfastens the buttons on her blouse and snaps open her bra. I see a woman's naked breasts for the first time in my life. They are large and pendulous and hang down like udders on a cow. I recoil in shock when I see the cigarette burn marks all over her chest, looking like little black craters on the smooth white flesh. I begin to cry.

She is crying too. 'I do not want to live with a mask any more. I have had enough facelifts, taken enough beauty aids. I want to be a real woman for once in my life. Come to me, my child,' she says and draws my face into her chest.

I do not know what Neelima Kumari was thinking when she drew me to her bosom. Whether she saw me as a son or as a lover, whether she did it to forget her pain or simply to gain a cheap thrill. But as I nuzzled my face between her breasts, all consciousness of the outer world ceased in my brain and for the first time I felt as though I was not an orphan any more. That I had a real mother, one whose face I could see, one whose flesh I could touch. And the salty taste of my tears merged with the sweat and scent of her body in the most moving experience of my thirteen-year-old life. All the pain and suffering, all the insults and humiliation I had endured over the years melted away in that moment. I wanted to stop all the clocks of the world and freeze that moment for ever. For though it was all too brief, even in that short span of time it produced a sensation so genuine, no amount of acting can ever aspire to replicate it.

That is why I will not attempt to define this episode as a drama or a thriller or a tragedy. It was beyond any and all genres.

* * *

Neelima and I never speak again about that morning. And what happened then never happens

again. But both of us live with the knowledge that our lives have been altered irrevocably.

She wants to remove her mask, but does not have the mental strength to do so. And she refuses to take my help. The inevitable destiny of a tragedy queen tugs at her with renewed urgency. She becomes more depressed. Her drinking increases to such an extent that she is hardly conscious of the world around her. She dismisses her maid and cook. I am the only one left in the flat. And then she prepares for the greatest role of her life.

Neelima Kumari asks me to stack all the film magazines with her pictures in neatly in a pile. She arranges all her trophies and awards personally, putting the platinum jubilee ones in front, followed by the golden jubilees and the silver jubilees. She wears her most expensive sari and puts on her finest jewellery. She spends three hours in front of the mirror making her face look the best it has ever looked. Afterwards, she flushes all her cosmetic creams down the toilet. She goes to the medicine cabinet and throws away all her beauty aids. Then she opens a jar

containing painkillers prescribed for her mother. I don't know how many of these tablets she gulps down.

Finally, she enters her bedroom and inserts into the VCR the cassette of her film
Mumtaz Mahal.

She sits down on the bed and presses the 'Play' button on the remote. The film begins on the TV

screen. She orders me to get vegetables from the market and settles down to wait.

I find her the same evening on my return from the market, looking like a beautiful new bride sleeping on the bed. But I don't have to touch her cold skin to know that she is dead. In her hand she holds a trophy. It says, 'National Award for Best Actress. Awarded to Ms Neelima Kumari for her role in
Mumtaz Mahal,
1985.'

What I see before me can only be described as the height of drama.

* * *

I gaze at Neelima Kumari's dead body and I do not know what to do. The only thing I am certain of is that I will not go to the police. They are quite capable of pinning the blame on me and arresting me for murder. So I do the only logical thing. I run away to the chawl in Ghatkopar.

'Why have you come here?' Salim asks me. 'I have also been dismissed by Madam, just like she dismissed the maid and the cook.' 'What will we do now? How will we pay rent for this chawl?'

'Don't worry, she has already paid advance rent for the next two months. By then I am sure I will get a new job.'

* * *

Every day that I stay in the chawl I fear that a jeep with a flashing red light will come to take me away, but nothing happens. There is also no news in the papers about Neelima Kumari's death.

Meanwhile, I get a job in a foundry.

They discover her body after a month, and only then because one of the neighbours complains about the smell. So they break open the door and enter. They find nothing in the drawing room or the first four bedrooms. Then they discover a rotting corpse in the master bedroom. The sari looks new, the jewellery sparkles, but the face and body have decomposed beyond recognition.

They cart away the body with white masks on their faces and dump the trophy in the dustbin.

They confirm her identity only from her dental records. And when they discover who she was, they publish the picture of her rotting body on the front page of all the newspapers. 'Neelima Kumari, famous Tragedy Queen of yesteryear, has committed suicide. She was forty-four. Her badly decomposed body was discovered in her flat only after a month.'