Socialite Evenings Page 29

  Yet was I not also one of them? I’d remember my ex-husband sneering, “You are so afraid of your middle-classness aren’t you.You were born into the wrong bracket.You think like a memsaab, try and behave like one, but scratch the surface—and your true colors show. Why don’t you chuck away old shoes? Why do you spend so much on getting clothes darned? Why do you dig into lipsticks even after they are finished? Why can’t you throw away things you don’t need any longer? Why should you be so familiar with the servants? They aren’t one of us, you know.They must be kept in place.” In my tolerant moments I’d laugh with him and agree that it was impossible for me to discard old stingy, thrifty habits. Given the choice, I would have saved the tops of milk bottles, plastic grocery bags, strings, gift-wrapping papers, even the ugly straw baskets that the florist delivered flowers in. (“We can grow money plants in them.”)

  The other side of me violently rejected all this—I even hated my own self for indulging in these little saving exercises. And sitting in that train I really couldn’t stand those women. I needed to make some real money soon.

  Anjali understood my predicament perfectly. “Of course you can’t stand it, darling. It’s easy to get accustomed to the good things in life. Luxury is like a narcotic—you can’t get enough of it. Today it’s an air-conditioned bathroom, tomorrow it’s a Jacuzzi. You have tasted the forbidden fruit and liked it. How can you now go back to eating raw vegetables? We must do something about this, darling. I offered you a chance to make money, but you were far too hoity-toity to take it up. Never mind, let’s see what else we can do. I’ll ask K to speak to his ad agency contacts. Or his film friends. Everybody is into television these days. You have already done some work in it. Why don’t you go all the way? There are plenty of assignments to be had. Interesting people too. Let’s work on it.”

  Work started coming my way gradually. But I wasn’t tough enough to push for money. I discovered the insecure world of freelancers; living from one uncertain check to the next, one payment to another. The three witches at home had lost all interest after they discovered that there were going to be no more exciting visitors or phone-calls (of the Krish sort). It was only the sight of Anjali’s fire-engine-red Standard 2000 that would perk them up. “That rich friend of yours had come while you were away, dear. Nice lady, very cultured.” Which in their vocabulary meant only one thing—moneyed . . .

  The only thing I really looked forward to in this phase of my life was theater. I’d rush to Prithvi at the end of each busy day to rehearse for the small role I had in the Hindi version of Desire Under the Elms. The director was a hysterical Delhi woman looking to make good in Bombay. She had come up with her own interpretation of the play as a result of which there were usually loud arguments, tantrums and tears at each rehearsal. I kept out of these squabbles, but they added a lot of excitement to the monotony of waiting in the wings for my lines. Our director, Swapna, was certain this play was going to cause a stir. She would tell us confidently, “Give of your best—this is the opportunity to prove your worth. All the big names from the industry are coming to the preview. We all have a lot at stake.” What she didn’t say was that of all the people in the play she had the biggest stake in its success. Prithvi attracted the nearby film and TV crowd and talent scouts congregated there nightly to check out the shows. If she succeeded here she would be in clover. She’d managed her pre-publicity pretty efficiently and journalists drifted in and out of rehearsals. And there was enough anticipation in theater circles to ensure a full house for at least a week. Because of all this we were all quite tense.

  The opening night was a complete disaster. Just about everything went wrong—the lights, sets and lines. I fluffed a few myself. During intermission Swapna addressed the cast backstage, “I want those claps at the end of the show. I’ve worked hard for them. I’m used to applause. I’m not going to allow a bunch of bumbling Bombay amateurs to ruin my reputation at one stroke. Are you all trying to sabotage my career or something? Did you see who was in the audience? I saw him—I was sure he’d walk out after the first fifteen minutes. But he stayed. He’s still there. It means he has liked the play.”

  “Who are you talking about?” I asked timidly.

  “You mean you have to ask? Couldn’t you recognize Girish—Girish Sridhar? He was there! I saw him—and he saw me too. He was staring.” We heard the third bell and got ready to perform. The second half went off a little more smoothly and more than half the people had stayed on, much to our surprise, including the great art filmmaker, Mr. Sridhar. I was removing my makeup when a shy, young boy came up to me and said, “Excuse me. Miss. I have a message for you.”

  I was surprised, but Swapna was even more surprised. She nudged me and said, “Silly—that’s Girish’s son. What does he want with you? Must be some mistake.”

  She asked the boy sweetly, “Is the message from your father? Then it must be for me—I am Swapna, the director. I’m dying to meet your dad.”

  “No ma’am. The message is for this lady. My father pointed her out to me during the play.”

  “Well, what does he want?” Swapna demanded aggressively.

  “He wants to have a word with her if she’s free.”

  Swapna turned to me. “Imagine that! A word with you! There must be some mistake. I’ll go with you—come on.”

  “Hold it, Swapna. I’m still in costume. I can’t go out with all this gook on my face.”

  “Don’t be crazy.You think he has all the time in the world to wait for us? He’ll go away. I’m sure he is used to seeing women with stage makeup on. Come along, don’t make such a ruddy fuss. I’ll go.”

  “Go ahead then. I’ll take a while to change.”

  Swapna rushed out with the young boy. It took me about ten minutes to wash my face and get into my sari. When I came out of the green room, I saw them in the café. Swapna was doing her heavy number on a bored-looking bearded man and his son who had carried the message to us. She signaled to me energetically. “Hi there. Come on over. I’ve just been telling Girishji all about our play.”

  I was exhausted and hungry. I was wondering whether I’d make it to the last bus home. Reluctantly I went to join them.

  Mr. Beard got up and made a namaste. His son stood up too and made a place for me.

  “Irish coffee?” asked Swapna with a friendliness I’d never experienced before.

  “No, thanks. I’ll have some chai.”

  “I’ve just been telling Girishji how hard all of you worked for this production. Of course, we had a few goof-ups in the beginning but the second half was fine—wasn’t it, Girishji? It’s just that Bombay and all you people are so new to me. I’m used to my own crew, my own setup in Delhi. There one can control everything perfectly. Anyway, as I told Girishji, you people did a good job, even though we didn’t have much time to rehearse together.”

  Girishji just sat there staring glumly into his glass. I was getting restless. There was an awkward pause, my chai was on the table. I said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll just gulp down my tea and run along or else I’ll miss the bus.”

  “Wait,” the bearded one said and put a restraining hand on my wrist. “I want to talk to you.”

  Then looking at Swapna, he added, “Please excuse us.” I thought she’d fling her coffee at me. She recovered fast enough, smiled sweetly and said, “Oh, I beg your pardon. Well, the night is young. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about. Enjoy yourselves.”

  Bitch! I hated the insinuation behind those remarks. Embarrassed and mad I started to chip away at my nail polish.

  “Don’t do that. It looks ugly,” the Beard said, and I promptly hid my hands like an errant schoolgirl caught stealing someone’s pencil.

  “You were good, you know. Very good. I don’t say that to everybody. Small role, badly directed—yet you came through. How much experience do you have?”

  “Hardly any. Actually this isn’t my line at all. It started as a time-pass hobby a couple of years ago—and I just do the odd ro
le from time to time. Not seriously—just for fun.”

  “Have you thought of acting seriously at all—say, in a movie?”

  “Movie? No, never! In fact, I don’t feel comfortable on the stage or in front of a camera. I prefer to direct, or write.”

  “Really? That’s interesting. Have you any experience in that?”

  “Nothing much. Just a couple of small-time assignments—you know, a TV episode here and there, that sort of thing.”

  “What’s your background? Do you work somewhere?”

  “I’m a freelance odd-job woman these days. I take on any assignment I can handle.”

  Just then I realized how late it was and jumped up. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll miss the bus . . . besides I don’t have my latch-key with me.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Just down the road.”

  “Come on, I’ll drop you.”

  “No, really. I mean, you needn’t bother. It’s OK. I’ll find my way home—it’s only a few minutes ride.”

  “Please, I’d like to. My son and I are going home as well—and it’s in the same direction.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I checked with Swapna.”

  We got into his jeep and I tore my sari as I tried to clamber in. “Shit!” I exclaimed instinctively. Mr. Beard laughed. “My, my! We do use strong language, don’t we? Somehow, I can’t associate that word with you.You belong to the classical mold.You should be conversing in Sanskrit.”

  “Are you suggesting I am Kalidasa material?”

  “Yes, I am. How did you figure that one out? That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. I’m working on a modern-day adaptation of Shakuntala—I saw you in the title role the minute you walked on stage. Interested?”

  “No, I’m too old to run around in a blouseless sari with garlands around my neck. Neither can I see myself conversing with deer and singing with birds.”

  “You don’t listen, do you? I said a modern-day adaptation. There are no deer and no birdies in this version. It’s set in contemporary times and I’d like you to at least audition for it. You have the right expression—and like I told you earlier you fit into its classical framework.”

  “Thanks, but no, thanks. I’m flattered but frankly I know I’m not cut out for this. I’m sure you will come up with something fascinating but I’m not ready for it. I’d love to work on the script with you though. But I guess you aren’t looking for someone in that department.”

  We arrived on the Mehtases’ shabby doorstep. “Is this where you live?” he asked.

  “Yes—at least for the time being.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life in this hole.”

  “Are you . . . I mean . . . do you . . .”

  “Am I single, and do I live alone?The answer is yes to both.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose we can sit and talk for a bit in the jeep. Cigarette?”

  “No, thanks. I really must go. I have an early morning call tomorrow.”

  “What kind of call?”

  “Nothing major. I help out with modeling assignments sometimes. I have to go to Chor Bazaar to look for some props.”

  “Perhaps we can meet up later in the day—lunch?”

  “I don’t really know. I’m going to be on the other side of town. I doubt that I’ll be back before late evening.”

  “Dinner, then?”

  “May I keep it open? My timings are pretty uncertain. Tell you what. I’ll call you if I get back at a respectable hour.”

  “Great. Any hour is OK by me. I won’t eat till I hear from you.”

  “Please don’t do that. I’ll feel tense all day thinking of you sitting there starving,” I said, thinking he was being quite forward.

  “That makes it all the more worthwhile then,” he said and laughed. The laugh transformed him. I could finally see something beyond the beard. And his voice. I liked that as well. As I changed for bed I realized the best thing about him was the obviously genuine loving relationship he had with his son, Kunal. They were easy with each other and their mutual fondness was touching.

  I didn’t know too much about Girish. I knew he had lost his wife a few years earlier in a tragic car accident on a family trip to Pune. Apart from that, even though he was pretty high profile in the movie world, he was said to be a loner, someone who kept to himself, had few friends and concentrated on his passion—films. I’d read the odd interview and honestly most of what he said went right over my head. He was counted amongst the “angrier” filmmakers who made powerful statements through his films. I’d seen some of his work and liked the first two award-winners immensely. He seemed particularly adept at dealing with women’s subjects. It was said that nobody could extract such sensitive performances from heroines. (The central figures of all his films were strong women fighting the system.) I was definitely interested and flattered by his offer, though not in a superficial sense. As I dropped off to sleep, I didn’t know whether it was Shakuntala that intrigued me or Girish.

  I was woken up in the morning by a phone call from Swapna.

  “Well?” she demanded in her usual aggressive way.

  “Well, what?” I asked, though I knew perfectly well what she was after.

  “Well, you know—what happened last night?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean nothing? You were talking to him. He must have dropped you back. What did he say? Did he like the play?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t discuss it.”

  “Then what did you discuss?”

  “Other things.”

  “Stop being so pricey. Tell me—I’m dying to know. Did he comment on your performance?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Why are you playing so hard to get? What did he say—has he offered you a small role in his next film? I know he’s planning something big—really, really, big. All the heroines are dying to get the main role. Did he tell you anything—I believe Anjana is really working on him. They’ve been the big item in the gossip columns. She said she’d do anything to get the role—anything at all. Isn’t that something? He must’ve mentioned his new film, did he talk about Anjana?”

  “No, Swapna. I don’t think he waited for half an hour to meet me because he wanted to discuss Anjana.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t really feel up to discussing it right now, if you don’t mind. I haven’t even brushed my teeth.”

  “You are just lagaoing bhav—it’s OK. If you want to be so secretive about it I won’t ask. But Girishji was definitely interested in the play, you know. He told me so.”

  “Then maybe he’ll get in touch with you.”

  “I’m sure he will. I was only wondering whether he’d said something definite to you, because I have a few other commitments. I was planning to go to Delhi after this play but, of course, if Girishji has something in mind for me, I’ll stay on. I think I’ll phone him directly and ask. Maybe I’ll invite him to dinner after the show tonight—let him tell me in person.”

  “Do that Swapna—and good luck.”

  Our second performance went off better than the first show. I didn’t see Girish in the tiny auditorium. I hadn’t expected to either. Swapna had been very cold when I rushed in a little late, about half an hour before we were to go on. I hadn’t been near a phone all day, so there was no question of calling Girish. And it was with some regret that I got ready, for maybe I’d let go of something interesting if not important, by not getting back in touch with him. Swapna’s hostile vibes didn’t help my mind, and I felt too intimidated to ask her whether she’d made contact with him and fixed herself up for dinner.

  When I came out of Prithvi and into the narrow lane outside I saw Kunal standing at the corner of the road with a huge smile on his face. “Baba is waiting for you at home—we haven’t had our dinner yet.” The relief! I got into the jeep and we drove off.

  CHAPTER 18

  GIRISH�
��S HOUSE FITTED HIS PERSONALITY PERFECTLY. OR MAYBE IT was the other way around. It was artistic but not oppressively so. It was traditional without resembling Cottage Industries. There were old-fashioned brass lamps (“my wife used to collect these”) and embroidered wall-hangings (“these are mine”), Shekhavati furniture, and antique dhurries. It wasn’t chaotic, but it wasn’t very organized either. There were books and posters everywhere. And lots of “colonial” tables. I liked the warmth of the place, its informality and its vibrant colors. Orissa applique blended with Andhra Kalamkari, but gently. There was nothing contrived about the ambience. There was clutter all right, but a clutter that was the sum total of the lives of the occupants. It was a home, not a showroom. And Girish obviously loved it. Bhimsen Joshi was singing, as Kunal and I walked in. “Welcome,” said Girish. “So glad you could make it. Since you didn’t phone, I wasn’t sure you’d come—but we were both hoping . . .” Kunal looked at me and smiled. I felt right at home, as I settled down on a low divan and hugged a cushion to myself.