Show Business (24 page)

Another performance by Mehnaz: this time Abha is in the auditorium, defiantly by her husband's side. Pranay stands in the wings and glowers alternately at his star and her lover. As Mehnaz,
payals
jingling, describes her feelings with fluid, circular motions of her arms, she trills:

So we have loved, why be afraid?
We have loved, we haven't robbed a bank.
For our love, we've just ourselves to thank.
It's ours, not for others to trade.
So we have loved, why be afraid?

So we have loved, where lies the shame?
We have loved, we haven't hit and run.
Our love's as natural as the sun.
Just the two of us need breathe its name.
So we have loved, where lies the shame?

Abha, stony-faced, nestles closer to Ashok in her seat. Mehnaz addresses the song directly to him. Pranay takes time off from gritting his teeth to take generous swigs from a bottle of Vat 69 in the wings.

After the show the inevitable occurs. (This is, after all, a Hindi film.) Overruling Abha, Ashok goes to greet Mehnaz. Pranay, his speech slurred, accosts him. Ashok tells him to sleep off his drunkenness. Pranay lashes out. There is a fistfight, the only one in the film. Ashok shows his stuff, and Pranay is left considerably the worse for wear. “Next time,” he whispers as the blood dribbles down his chin, “next time I will use a gun.”

The following day: Abha goes to Mehnaz, who admits her in courteous surprise. “I am his
dharampatni,
” Abha says, his eternal wife. They have a child, Ashok has a future in his father's business. The lives of so many are at stake, above all the happiness of an innocent infant. She earnestly pleads with Mehnaz to relinquish her husband.

Mehnaz is moved. “I have been selfish in seeking to extract a small bit of happiness for myself and Ashok. But I now see that it is at your expense, and that of your child. Never fear, Abha. As a woman I know what love means. I will do the right thing.” (If there are still any dry eyes in the house, the strains of violins on the sound track should be enough to produce tears in them.)

The climactic scene: Ashok and Mehnaz are on stage, performing together. Our hero sits on a dhurrie, singing, while Mehnaz dances around him. The song is familiar, but the lyrics have changed:

ASHOK:

Where are you, my love?
Of you I can't have enough.
You have taken my heart
And kept it with you,
Now no one can start
To part me from you.
Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

MEHNAZ:

Where are you, my love?
You float away like the clouds above.
You have taken my heart
And made my life new,
But now we must part
For Í must give you your due.
Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

Ashok looks troubled by this departure from the script, but Abha, in the audience, understands the sacrifice Mehnaz will make, and her eyes fill with tears.

But it's not yet over. As the song goes on, Pranay appears in the wings, his eyes bloodshot, his feet unsteady. He is carrying a gun.

The audience of extras cannot see him; the movie audience can. Ashok, his back to the wings, cannot see him either; nor at first can Mehnaz. But as she turns in her dance, she realizes to her horror that Pranay has raised his weapon and is aiming it directly at Ashok. She throws herself directly on her lover as Pranay fires—once, twice, the bark of the revolver punctuating the music and bringing the sound track to a screeching halt.

There are screams, Abha's the loudest. She rushes up onto the stage. Mehnaz lies in Ashok's arms, blood oozing from her wounds. Pranay breaks down, crying, “Oh, Mehnaz, what have I done?” He is promptly handcuffed by two culturally inclined policemen. Ashok cradles our heroine's head in his hands. Abha kneels by her side. “Call a doctor!” Ashok shouts. But Mehnaz smiles poignantly and shakes her head.

“It's too late,” she says faintly. “I don't have much longer. Give me your hand.” Abha obliges. With difficulty, Mehnaz moves Abha's hand toward Ashok's and joins them. Close-up: husband and wife's hands linked forever, smeared by the blood of the Other Woman.

“Mehnaz,” Ashok pleads, “don't leave me.” She smiles sadly. “I would have left you anyway,” she breathes. “Be good to Abha.”

Then the light dies in her eyes, and a drop of red blood drips onto the medallion of the dancing goddess at her wrist. Ashok and Abha look at each other.

“She was,” Abha says, “a truly noble woman.”

Closing shot: Ashok stands with his arm around Abha, a child by their side, as the flames from Mehnaz's funeral pyre lick up to a bloodred sky. The long notes of “Where are you, my love?” fill the sound track and on the flames appear the words

THE END.

 

Interval

EXTRACTS FROM “CHEETAH'S CHATTER,'
SHOWBIZ
MAGAZINE

DARLINGS, nothing can really shock your worldly Cheetah, but shouldn't we draw the line at bigamy? Rumors have reached our scalded ears that one of our more irrepressible shooting stars, who used to be called up-and-
commg
for more reasons than one, has been going around whispering about a secret marriage to a megastar! The libel laws don't allow Cheetah the dubious pleasure of purring their names, sweethearts, but the hitch is, the hero in question is already hitched!! Of course, if you want to give his ladylove the benefit of the doubt, he
could
have converted to Islam for the purpose, since that considerate faith allows a legal escape from the monotony of monogamy, but Cheetah has seen no evidence of that — and believe me, wicked ones, Cheetah knows where to look! Grrowl…

MORE, DARLINGS, on the mysterious marital goings-on around Bollywood. Remember Cheetah told you last week about the star who'd allegedly put his light into eclipse by “marrying” one of his satellites? To be honest, little cubs, your Cheetah didn't take it all too seriously, because the uninhibited source of the story isn't exactly famous for needing a wedding ring before making the bedding sing. Why would anyone, let alone the straying superstar in question, need to marry her? Or so Cheetah thought, and that was fair enough, wouldn't you say, darlings? Well, the lady (and we may as well call her that, until the mystery man says, “that's no lady, that's my wife!”) is deeply offended by Cheetah's suggestion that she has been playing fast and loose with (among other things) the truth. The newly respectable Mrs. says she can even name the temple where the ceremony actually occurred! Can you believe it, darlings, a temple! After all, God only knows what goes on in Bollywood, eh? Grrrowl…

PARDON MY BREATHLESSNESS, darlings, but things are really hotting up in Bollywood's Bigamous Boudoirs! Remember the trail your Cheetah has relentlessly sniffed out over the last few weeks? Well, it certainly seems that there's some fire beneath the smoke, after all. The jungle tom-toms tell Cheetah that a garland was indeed draped around one of the screen's more swanlike necks, though it's other portions of her anatomy that usually need draping! The
suhaag
story is only marred by the fact that the man is already married. And that his original
dharampatni
is far from amused. Bollywood's know-it-alls speak in hushed whispers of her righteous fury when the Other Woman's name is even mentioned. Which is more than slightly awkward, since the three of them are actually doing a movie together! What a set of tangled vines for Cheetah's little cubs to figure out, eh? Just put two and two together and you'll come up with a ménage à trois! Grrrrowl…

TO MOVE to more mundane matters, darlings, what is arch-villain Pranay doing making so many trips to the land of Araby? Cheetah's invariably well-informed sources speak of many a flying visit to the modern souks of Dubai, which of course is better spelled “Do-buy.” So villainy must be paying! It seems the man with the evil mustache is much seen in the company of an expatriate desi businessman, Nadeem Elahi, who is reported to be in “import-export.” Now there's a phrase that conceals a multitude of sins, eh, darlings? But it wouldn't be fair of Cheetah to point out that the principal export of Dubai, at least until oil came along, was gold to our own ill-protected shores, would it? No, Cheetah much prefers some more innocent explanation. Really, with our filmi smuggler's thinning hair, it would be
too
too boring if life imitated art so
baldly!
Grrrowl…

REALLY, DARLINGS, what
is
happening on the sets of
Dil Ek Qila,
Jagannath Choubey's much-touted multistarrer that's supposed to mark the comeback of ex-national sweetheart Maya Kumari? Bollywood is rife with stories of flashing tempers and stormy walkouts, script changes and sullen sulks — and that's all offscreen! It's no secret, of course, to Cheetah's well-read little cubs (especially those who read well between the lines!) that the film's two female stars don't exactly see eye-to-contact lens with each other. And neither has to look very far for the cause of their mutual dislike — not much beyond their bedrooms, if Cheetah makes herself clear! Indeed, some of the problems on the set are not entirely unrelated to other matters we've chattered about in recent weeks, but sorry, darlings, the libel lawyers won't let me say more. Meanwhile, producer Jagannath Choubey's bills are mounting every day and director Mohanlal has been seen popping tranquilizers as if they were
golgappas.
Question of the week, darlings: will
Dil Ek Qila
ever get completed, and if it does, will anyone recognize it as the film Choubeyji's enthusiastic PR-wallahs were telling us about months ago? As the costume man said to the actress, I have my doubts on both points! Grrrowl…

DARLINGS, whoever heard of a
good
villain? Well, it seems our nasty old Pranay, he of the
paan
-stained mouth and the evil leer, has a heart of gold, and that
isn't
a snide reference to his visits to Dubai, I swear! It seems the man every woman loves to hate has actually set up a fund for Junior Artistes, the long-suffering small-fry we can't bring ourselves to call “extras,”
and
he puts in a percentage of his take from every movie he does, as well. Now
there's
an example for some of our
heroes
to follow, eh? Grrowl…

NOW ALL YOU faithful little cubs know that Cheetah doesn't waste time on soulful gush, don't you? We only chatter about the sinful and the salacious. But Cheetah heard something soulful today that's too-too interesting to pass up. Remember the unnameable bigamist you've heard all those whispers about? Well, he was in a confiding mood the other day, over a glass of Cheetah's favourite libation, but — alas! — strictly off the record. Which means it's OK to quote him as long as we don't mention his name (or height), eh? So gather round, little cubs, and Cheetah will tell you a slightly longer story than usual!

Well, we asked our friend, why the first marriage, and why the second? He looked intensely into the amber pool in his glass and breathed, almost to himself: “You marry someone. Because she seems right, because everyone else loves her, because you want your father's approval. Even if you've never admitted to yourself, let alone to him, that you want your father's approval. And at first it feels great. Everyone admires her, envies you. Wonderful. Then, after a while, the magic fades. You lose interest in her. Not all of a sudden, but gradually, inevitably. You can't do anything about it. But you don't want to lose her either. It's not as if you dislike her or anything, or are desperate to get rid of her. In any case, it's too late for that: there's the fear of scandal, there are the kids, there's the guilt, and there's the fear of, once more, letting yourself down in your father's eyes. So you go on. You tell yourself it doesn't matter: you'll find your own escapes.”

And doesn't
she
notice? “Perhaps. I don't know. Of course she has her own frustrations. But it's different for women.” (You can imagine how much self-restraint it took for Cheetah to let
that
pass, darlings.) “Anyway, you're always conscious of your own escapes, your own betrayals, so when you're with her you try to be considerate. You give in to whatever she wants. You avoid quarrels, resentments, anything that'll bring your own duplicity up and into the open. You do and say what's necessary, no more. Out of guilt, yes, and because there's no point in fighting. It's the least you can do for her. It's
all
you can do for her. What you want for yourself you get elsewhere.”

And, I can hear you asking, little cubs, what about the Other Woman? “Well, you have no illusions about why you're with
her,
what you want out of her. She's your escape, your pleasure, no more, no less. Problem is, you think you've made that all clear to her, but it's never clear enough. She expects things, things you can't give her, never intended to give her. Attention. Engagement. Commitment. She wants to feel special, too, and however special you make her feel by being with her, there's one thing your wife has that she doesn't: your ring. Your name. A connection to you in the eyes of society and the eyes of God. You keep dismissing it, but in the end the pressure keeps mounting. You've either got to give in or give up — give her up.

“So of course you try to find some sort of compromise. You can't give her any of the public acknowledgment she wants, of course — you can't make her yours in the eyes of the world. So in a moment of weakness, after a sleepless night in her arms and bombed out of your mind anyway, you give her the next best thing — you tell her you'll make her your wife in the eyes of God. Before you quite know what you're doing you get her to pull on her sari and you trot bleary-eyed at dawn to a temple on the rocks with a garland you've bought on the beach, and drop it over her head in front of the idol. No witnesses, not even a priest. Of course you tell her God has blessed your nuptials and that's far better than the blessings of society. But no sooner have you done it than you've got to stagger home and look at yourself in the mirror and confront the enormity of what you've done. And then you find you can't face her again. You can't deal with her on this new footing you've placed yourself on. You did it to preserve the relationship, but in fact you've made the relationship impossible.”