The silhouette of a man loomed in the shadows. The masked figure dropped silently into the room through the window. In the darkness of the night, he crept towards the bed. For a minute, he stood at the foot of the bed looking down at the sleeping girl. The blade of a knife gleamed in the moonlight as the intruder raised it in the air, aiming for her heart. Just then, the girl’s eyes flew open and her terror-filled scream rang through the night.
‘Cut!’ The director’s voice was tinged with fatigue. It had been a long day. They had begun shooting at the crack of dawn to catch the rising sun and had continued ever since. ‘A short break of five minutes and then we will have a retake,’ said Sen, snapping his fingers. He was directing the eleventh movie of his glorious career.
‘The shot seemed perfect. Why another retake?’ grumbled Abhay Kumar, walking toward the make-up man for a retouch. ‘I have to be at the airport in a few hours.’ The actor was flying to Belgium that night to shoot another movie.
Subroto Sen ignored the actor’s protests and lit another cigarette. A seasoned director, he was accustomed to starry tantrums. The extravagant sets had cost an obscene amount of money so he had no option but to complete the shooting. A dull headache made him irritable. Rubbing his temple, he called for a cup of tea, his ninth cup that day.
‘Sir, there is a call for you,’ Lahiri, his second assistant director, called out. A meek and efficient man, Lahiri held out the phone to him.
‘Not now,’ Sen snapped. ‘Can’t you see I am busy?’
‘The woman has called about eight times since morning.’
‘Ask her what she wants.’
‘I did, but she said it was a private matter.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Someone called Lola, she said it was important.’
The name struck a chord but there was no time for further thought as Abhay Kumar stood waiting for the camera to roll.
‘Tell her I’ll call her back after the shooting,’ Sen instructed, taking position behind the camera. ‘Gentlemen, let us get a perfect shot and then we can pack up.’
It was past midnight when they wound up for the day. Exhausted, Sen hit the sack as soon as he returned home, with the soothing strains of Mozart’s ‘Dove Sono’ playing in his ears. His wife had left for work when he woke up at noon and there were a series of missed calls on his cell phone.
A ghost from the past, he inferred, had returned to haunt him. Two years ago, when she disappeared from Mumbai, he assumed that the Ramola chapter of his life had been wiped clean forever. Why was she calling him? Where had she been all this time? No, he shook his head, I won’t get drawn into a quagmire. Never again. Curiosity could take a running jump. Shuffling groggily towards the dining table, he called out to the cook for a cup of black coffee.
Lighting up the first cigarette of the day, he walked to the balcony and stood gazing at the traffic snarl down below. From his fifteenth-floor apartment the cars seemed to crawl like an army of undisciplined ants. Despite his resolution, Sen couldn’t get her out of his mind.
‘Drat that woman,’ he imprecated. ‘What does she want?’ The phone rang just as he settled down with his coffee. Without glancing at the caller’s identity, he knew it was her.
‘Hello,’ he barked. It was Ramola.
‘Hi Suby,’ the husky voice floated from the distance. It reminded him of Lauren Bacall and Scarlett Johansson. ‘I have been trying to reach you since yesterday.’
‘I was told so.’
‘And were you too busy to take the call?’ the honeyed tones chided gently.
The director was surprised to find his resolution falter. It had been a long time since he had spoken to the woman. ‘Hey, Lola,’ he was the only person who called her that, ‘You know how it is with the shootings and the deadlines. I had to wrap up the last shot before Abhay took off on his Europe tour. Tell me, how has the world been treating you?’
‘Not too bad! I am enjoying fresh air and leisure.’
‘Where did you disappear to?’ he could no longer contain his curiosity. He was fairly certain she wasn’t in Mumbai and hadn’t been here for the past two years. Someone would surely have spotted her in the city. She was a famous person. ‘Mumbai is missing you, Lola.’
‘It’s good to know that. I am not returning anytime soon though. Not unless you offer me a meaty role in your next movie,’ she teased, her laughter tinkling pleasantly in his ears.
It was difficult to remain detached. Two years ago, when Ramola had vanished mysteriously from Mumbai, the gossip vines had buzzed with conjecture. She is pregnant. She has had a heart break. She is in a rehabilitation centre. Theories and speculations were rife for a while and then the curiosity had petered out.
‘Sure, I would love to work with you again,’ he said, ‘but …’
‘There is always a but or an if, right?’ she laughed.
Several years ago, Sen had begun his career by directing the run-of-the-mill kind of movies. He was good at his job and most of the movies made the mark. The spate of masala movies brought him money and fame. It was Sen who gave Ramola her first big role in a movie by casting her opposite Vikram Ahuja, the top star of the time. It was a dream opportunity for the girl. Until then, she had been a bit star, acting in C-grade films.
The director’s gamble paid off when the film became one of the top grossers of the year and Ramola went on to rule Bollywood for the next decade and a half. Sen, however, switched to directing meaningful movies, soon after. He was now counted among the top five movie directors in the country. Critics spoke reverently of him. It was fashionable for the elite to discuss his movies at parties and film stars to chase him for roles.
She has still not stated the purpose of the call. He took a sip of the now tepid coffee and made a face before putting the cup away. What did she want? It was not like her to make a courtesy call.
‘Let me come to the point. Suby, I want you to come here for my birthday.’
‘But Lola …’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t even know where you are inviting me.’
‘Didn’t I tell you that I am at Ramsar?’
‘You never did. Where the hell is Ramsar?’
‘It is a beautiful town near Almora. I will send you all the details by email.’
The woman must be mad to think, that he, Subroto Sen, would go all the way to Ramsar to attend her birthday party. Their relationship had ended a long time ago. Besides, he had moved on.
‘No, don’t make excuses. I know you have finished shooting and you can easily take a couple of days off.’
‘A film doesn’t end with the shooting. You should know better …’
‘Darling Suby, you have to make time for fun and play, no matter who you are.’
‘You know I make time for fun and play after the release of a movie.’
‘Can’t you sacrifice one weekend for me? Besides, I have an important announcement to make and I won’t take a “no” from you.’ Her voice was insistent.
‘Sorry, Lola, I’ll have to take a rain check on your invitation.’
‘I am sure you can squeeze a weekend out of your busy schedule. You can bring Sups along.’
‘I can’t promise anything but I will try.’
He had no interest in attending the party. Not now. Not ever. As for his wife, she was too supercilious to party with film folks.
Five years ago he had married the svelte, smart and successful Suparna Basu, a television journalist and an arrogant woman, who had scant respect for Bollywood stars and wore the pants in the marriage. Sen knew that his wife would not agree to attend Ramola’s birthday bash. Although he had turned down Ramola’s invitation, the director was curious about her announcement.
What could it be?