Socialite Evenings Page 31

  “Shut up, yaar. Stop showing off.”

  He introduced us and Varun winked at his old buddy. “Yeh to achchi cheez hai, yaar. Not like the other filmi chidiya.” I didn’t have a hanky on me and was busy blowing my nose into my sari pallav as discreetly as I could.

  “Chhodo, yaar,” Girish said. “She’s not from the industry—at least, not yet.”

  Kunal reached over and silently offered me his handkerchief.

  “But why is the lady weeping?” Varun asked.

  I managed to gasp, “I am not weeping—just gagging to death on the smoke in the room.”

  “Terribly sorry,” he said though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “So,” he said turning to Girish again, “what’s your new project—besides her, that is.”

  I was beginning to feel like a “chaalu cheez” by now—someone picked up from the sets and brought along for the party to add color to it. Except that I was wearing a drab sari. I left the two men and moved off, with Kunal at my elbow. “Don’t feel bad. Varun uncle always talks like that—he doesn’t really mean it. And you know how people behave with film persons. They feel they have to make remarks like that. Baba isn’t that type of a man. He never brings casual girls to parties. Please don’t feel bad about all this. I’m sure Baba is angry too, but he can’t say anything to Varun uncle.”

  “Why not? Because they’re old friends?”

  “That and something happened a few years ago—but don’t tell Baba I told you. It was when Ma died, and Baba was in a terrible state. He had a major film release at that time, a lot of money was locked up. Baba had borrowed quite a bit—the film had gone over budget. He had an argument with Varun uncle over something, it’s a long story, and they stopped talking.We were not invited to any of his parties and it was difficult for us to face mutual friends. But when Baba’s film was released, Varun uncle really showed what power he had. Outlook did a cover story on the film and hacked it to pieces. It interviewed the people Baba had borrowed money from and had them say things like they’d kissed their money goodbye. Bekaar film, things like that. Baba was finished! Varun uncle also has a lot of influence with other press people. He got bad reviews planted in several papers and magazines. Baba was written off by the industry—totally shunned. Nobody wanted to work with him—not even technicians. We didn’t have money to pay our bills. Baba pawned Ma’s jewelry. He tried to pay back his creditors. Fortunately, the film wasn’t really such a flop. After the initial adverse publicity, it picked up and, eventually, we came out of the crisis. But everybody advised Baba to make up with Varun uncle before thinking of launching his next film. That’s why he’s here today—to make peace. He has a lot at stake with Shakuntala and he needs Varun uncle’s support right from now, he also runs a trade paper called Hits and Flops, which is required reading for the industry. A positive mention in its columns makes all the difference. If Hits and Flops backs a film, financiers part with their money readily. Baba hopes to get Varun uncle to give him a write-up. That will make all the difference.” As Kunal came to the end of his monologue we looked around for Girish. He was at the far corner of the room talking to some people but I noticed uneasily that Varun was following him with his eyes. Just then he switched focus and our eyes met. Varun waved his fat cigar and gave me a thumbs up signal. I didn’t know how to respond—I smiled weakly in return.

  I was introduced briefly to Varun’s wife—a pretty, little thing in black—before she drifted on. Vivacious, energetic and fresh-faced, she looked no older than one of the teenage starlets hanging around. Kunal explained, “She looks and behaves like a kid, but she isn’t all that young. Her dad’s the one with the money. He set up Varun uncle—bought him the press, introduced him to important people. Of course, Varun uncle is now someone in his own right, but when he married he was just a bright, ambitious man looking for a break. My Baba had already established himself by then, he was a known man. In fact, he tried to introduce Varun uncle to all his contacts in the film industry. We had so many parties at our home for him. Things changed once Varun uncle made it.You know how powerful press people are these days. We used to hear stories about how Hits and Flops used to extort money from people, or how it would blackmail producers, but initially Baba always defended Varun uncle and said that he was not such a man. He felt that Varun uncle’s reporters were probably doing all these things behind his back. So one day he decided to tell him about what the industry was saying. Varun uncle got furious. He told Baba to stay out of his business and that’s when they fell out. Actually we were all stunned by his reaction. Ma was alive then. She told Baba not to interfere but by then the damage was done.”

  “After your Baba made up has there been any trouble?”

  “Not really. The odd gossip item linking him with this and that woman. This used to upset Ma when she was still alive. She’d tell Baba to leave this line and take up something else. But Baba really loves films. They are his life. How can he change to something else? He doesn’t know any other way of making a living.”

  “Do you also want to join him in his company?”

  “I don’t really know. He sent me to California to do some courses in filmmaking—you know, to pick up the latest techniques. When I came back, I checked out the scene. But, I didn’t think I really fit into the local film industry. My temperament is different. I can’t play all these games.The atmosphere is so unprofessional and uncouth here. People work erratically, depending on whether there’s money or not. We are at the mercy of the stars. If they don’t show up, there’s nothing we can do. We have to dismantle the set, lakhs are wasted just waiting for stars to report. I find all this very frustrating. Baba is used to it by now and he can control his temper. I feel upset and go into a depression.”

  “Maybe you should have a go at ad films. There’s a big boom on at present because of television. Good filmmakers are so much in demand.You, with your fancy US training, could easily make it big. And, you know, you could work with me. I can write the script and handle the creative part and you look after the production. Organize a camera crew, fix schedules, that sort of thing. I think we’d have a lot of fun together. But before that let’s get the green signal from your father. I don’t want to sabotage his plans for you.”

  “I’d really appreciate that. By the way—Baba really likes you. Don’t pay attention to Varun uncle’s cheap comments. In fact, you are the first lady Baba has brought to our home after Ma’s death—so, please don’t misunderstand him. And don’t believe a word of what you read about him in film magazines. It’s not true at all. Baba is a fine man—a gentleman.”

  “Well, all I can say is that he has produced a very loyal son! Thank you Kunal. Your father doesn’t require a character certificate, but I really appreciate your staunch defense of him. And yes—I will do my best to swing the ad thing. That’s a promise.”

  On the way back from the party, Girish was very moody and quiet as was Kunal.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked as he dropped me in the driveway.

  “I’ll call,” I answered.

  “When am I going to meet the original Shakuntala?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call.”

  We left it at that.

  We couldn’t meet for nearly a week for a variety of reasons. I got busy with a new film and he went to Pune for three days. Kunal called a couple of times and I enjoyed talking to him. The new film I was working on was interesting. It was supposedly “new wave,” like the music video clips from LA with plenty of computerized graphics and special effects. The script was to be catchy and hip. We spent hours looking at some of the American commercials waiting for inspiration to strike. (The agency’s brief was to filch the best elements from the lot and splice them together after adding the obligatory Indian touch.) My eyeballs were rolling in their sockets after two days of nonstop viewing but I’d finally seen everything I wanted to. All I needed to do was write the script.

  The first thing I did when I reached home was climb into my
favorite nightie, oil my hair, put cucumber juice on my eyes to relax them and sit down to work. The doorbell rang. Mother went to answer it. Ex-husband was standing there looking stupid.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  “Seeing that you are here—why not?” I said to help out my embarrassed mother.

  There goes my script, I thought. But his visit turned out to be a blessing for even as he talked, the script came to me in a flash. I rather enjoyed the reason he’d come but the moment he left I began writing furiously.

  The script has little to do with this story but the ex-husband’s visit is worth recording. What it all came down to was this: Winnie was a bitch. Winnie was a slut. Winnie was out to screw him. Winnie was a gold-digger.Winnie had no class.Winnie was after his money.Winnie insulted his mother. Winnie had sacked his favorite servant. Winnie couldn’t cook.Winnie smoked too much.Winnie ran up fantastic bills. Winnie had no taste. Winnie was so obvious. Winnie was rude to his relatives.Winnie wore dirty bras.Winnie served bum whisky in Scotch bottles.Winnie was a cheapskate.Winnie didn’t do her underarms.

  What else? The whine went on and on. I sat there pretending to listen. My parents made out like he wasn’t in the room and did not look away from the TV. Girish phoned. Anjali phoned.The ad agency phoned. He just sat there. I didn’t know what to do with the guy.

  Finally, I said, gently enough, “But why are you telling me all this?”

  “I thought you’d understand.”

  “Sure, I do. But I still don’t see the point.”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me what to do.”

  “What to do about what?”

  “About Winnie.”

  “Good heavens! How should I know? I mean, don’t you think it’s rather funny that you should be asking for my advice?”

  “What’s wrong with that? We were married once.You do know me better than anyone else. Can’t I come to you as an old friend?”

  “Look, I think that’s a bit much. I don’t believe in this kind of friendship.What friendship? Why don’t you go and ask your mother for her opinion, as you used to in the past?”

  “Things have changed.”

  “In what way?”

  “I can’t talk as freely to her as I used to.”

  “How come?”

  “Something happened after Winnie came on the scene. We stopped communicating. Mother and I.”

  “That’s too bad, isn’t it. But she’s still your mother and I’m only an ex-wife.”

  “But it’s easier to talk to you. How do I get rid of Winnie?”

  “This is ridiculous. I can’t possibly answer that. But I’d think it should be simple enough—you do have experience in that department, after all.”

  “Don’t talk like that and make me feel like a heel. That’s behind us now. I want to discuss our future, not the past.”

  “Did I hear ‘our’ future?”

  “That’s right. My eyes have finally opened. I’ve been such an ass. How could I have been taken in by someone like Winnie? Nobody ever warned me about her, not even that bastard Krish.”

  “You are not a kid, you know. And she isn’t a witch who cast an evil spell on innocent you.”

  “That’s it—she is a witch. My mother thinks she practices black-magic. Even the servants were saying something like that. She is a very strange and powerful woman. I feel ashamed to admit this, but I’m scared of her. I can’t do anything because I know she will destroy me. She has that power.”

  “Then you’d better just sit back and suffer. Or call in your own voodoo men to outspook her—what else can I say?”

  “Why can’t you talk to her?”

  “Me? Talk to her?? What about???”

  “Explain the whole situation. Tell her that you want to come back. That might make her leave—we aren’t married as yet.”

  “You are mad—totally mad.You really have some nerve intruding into my life like this and suggesting what you just did. Give me one good reason why I should help you.”

  “Because I was once your husband.You nearly had our child. And because you are basically a good person.”

  “I don’t believe this—and you are disgusting. How can you even make a reference to the child? Now, it suits you to convert it into ‘our’ child. I thought the reason we split was because you were convinced it was Krish’s.” I was so angry I’d totally forgotten my parents’ presence. But they might have been blind and deaf for all the notice they took of the nasty revelations tumbling out like a river in spate. Thinking about it now I can only surmise they loved me very much for they never brought it up.

  “I have to confess something to you. I really feel very small saying this—but I discovered it couldn’t possibly have been his,” the husband continued.

  “How are you so sure?”

  “Because he had himself tied up years ago. Soon after he and Rini got married. It was a part of the deal. He told me so himself.”

  “And you waited all this while to tell me. Just get the hell out of my house and life. I don’t ever want to see you again. I let you in this time—but never again. I’ll call the cops if you try and invade my home in future. You are even more of a worm than I thought. You deserve Winnie—I hope she’s got a wax doll of yours. I’ll send her some extra pins to stick into it. Now take your frigging pipe and OUT!!” My parents didn’t take their eyes off the screen.

  The ad worked wonderfully. It was a complicated shoot but things fell into place for a change and the coordination was perfect. I was very pleased with myself and so was the agency. They came up with an offer they thought I couldn’t possibly refuse. But that’s exactly what I did. I didn’t want to get stuck with just one agency, no matter how creative. I was enjoying my freelance status despite its pitfalls. The money was beginning to come in regularly and I no longer felt coy about thumping a few tables and demanding it. Surprisingly enough, nobody objected. I bought an air-conditioner for my parents’ bedroom. They nearly froze to death for a week, but dared not tell me that it didn’t really suit them. It was only when I found my Mother shivering under two blankets that I realized I’d made a boo boo. I shifted it to the extra room—mine, for the moment—and decided to get them something more useful—like a VCR. It changed their lives completely—my parents became video nuts.

  When Girish returned I started to help with the rewrites of the Shakuntala draft. It was still a problem coordinating our schedules, but we managed particularly on weekends. I suppose we were beginning to be noticed as an item but I didn’t pay this much heed until Anjana, a second rung star, lashed out at Girish in a “no-holds-barred” interview in a film magazine. I still have the clipping and it deserves to be quoted from.

  “He took me for a ride,” screamed the headline. Below it was bombshell Anjana clad à la Shakuntala of the classics, in a thin white sari.The interview began with Anjana claiming that Girish had strung her along for two years by dangling this role in front of her.

  “I did whatever I could to please him. I even took Sanskrit lessons. He wanted me to change my lifestyle. He asked me to give up smoking and boozing. I promised to change my image. I started wearing saris. I even broke up with my steady boyfriend—and, then, he ditched me without a warning.”

  This was the cue for the reporter to ask, “Who did he ditch you for? Can you name the other woman?”

  Anjana purred. “Yes, of course I can—but I’d rather not. Why should I give her so much bhav? Who is she? Nobody and nothing. If I reveal her name she will become a somebody. A celebrity. I will not do her the favor. But why don’t you ask Girishji? Or his son Kunal? Or any of his unit people? They’ll tell you. I hear she’s there in his bedroom all the time.”

  “Did she snatch the role away from you?” the reporter asked.

  “I don’t know whether Girishji will give her the role—how will he get distributors for his film if he casts a middle-aged divorcée? He will be mad to do it. But it is because of her that he broke up with me.”

  “What do
es she have that you don’t?” the reporter continued.

  “If you ask me—nothing. She is a big zero. No looks. No figure. No talent. Just some chhota mota roles in theater—bas. But if he wants to risk his career for her sake, who am I to say anything? If he takes her, Shakuntala will be his biggest flop.”

  “What do your fans say about all this?”

  “They are naturally very angry. I have received hajaar letters from them saying they’ll boycott his film. Serves him right. Let this be a warning to other girls. Anyway, I’m not sitting back and crying. My brother Babu has told me that he will launch his own Shakuntala. We will show Girishji what we are capable of. It will be my way of saying, “I don’t need you. Mein bhi kuch kam nahi hoon, Mr. Sridhar.”

  “Will there be any nude scenes in your film?”

  “Look Baba. Don’t ask me such questions. But simply I have read Amar Chitra Katha. In fact, Shakuntala is shown in the forest with animals. Now you tell me, where can a woman get clothes in a forest? She is natural, no? She can wear leaves and animal skins, but she can’t get silks and chiffons. Our nudity will be very dignified and classy. I am ready to strip if the role demands it. In this case I am convinced it’s in keeping with the character of Shakuntala. I have already started going to the health club to work out for those important scenes. Like the one in the river, when she loses the ring given to her by that king—what’s his name?” The reporter didn’t know.

  “Never mind—that’s a very important scene. It has to be well presented, but it must also look sexy. We will shoot it from the back—no frontal shots—chee chee but it will look ekdum gorgeous, yaar. My brother calls it the paisa vasool scene in the film.”

  Girish took the piece in his stride. “It has happened before,” he sighed, “and will happen again—you’d better get ready to face the onslaught.” I was shattered. How could any woman, even a brazen film star, talk about her private life and settle scores through the printed pages of a rag?