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“Come, let’s go for a drive,” said Raj.
Nisha nodded. She had been through a lot in the past few weeks.
Raj was angry at the oncologist. Angry—that the doctor said she will not live for long. Angry—that the stupid specialist thought that nothing much could be done about it. Angry—that the oncologist said that they could use chemotherapy to just buy her some time. Angry—that when he sought a second opinion, the other specialist also said the same thing—the same damn thing.
Raj parked his car near the Gateway of India. He then walked to the other side and helped Nisha get out. It was evening. He looked at the Gateway which looked impressive as usual with its spectacular colonial arches and minarets. The Gateway changed its colour with the day. The setting sun gave it a shiny golden look.
From a distance he could see the towering buildings forming a ring. This tropical island, now a bustling mega polis was—Mumbai. A city where dreams were made and unmade every minute. The Maximum City. The city that never sleeps. Mumbai attracted everyone from everywhere.
People came to this city looking for jobs. The less educated became taxi drivers. The graduates joined the corporate houses. Artists became famous painters, actors, musicians and singers. And so many entrepreneurs had their own tales of getting from rags to riches.
Everyone had their dreams fulfilled in one way or the other. It wasn’t only Amitabh Bachchan and Shahrukh Khan—whose dreams were realised here. It was here where just some time ago Raj’s dreams were also fulfilled. Somewhat.
Raj loved Mumbai for what it had to offer. He came to the city some five years ago hoping to become an actor. His parents were surprised with his decision. He didn’t follow the traditional path of finding a white collar job. Parents, relatives and his friends said a lot of things:
“You are insane.”
“So you really think you have the looks of becoming a leading actor.”
“You won’t stand a chance.”
“Stop living your childish fantasies.”
“Artists starve in this country.”
He heard everyone and ignored them. Yet he had no success. He went from one audition to other but kept getting rejected. The process went on, for what it looked like, interminably.
Raj was on the verge of giving up. Maybe his friends and family were right. He was—probably on a wild goose chase. And then he met Nisha Kaul, during one of those networking events.
Raj found Nisha charming. She had kept her brown hair open. Her smile was radiant and she exuded immense confidence. She was wearing a shiny black dress. Okay, black is not the colour of choice for funerals in India—if that’s what you were thinking. But you got to be very, very confident to pull it off in a party, Raj thought. In her love for black, Nisha reminded him strangely, of all people—Angelina Jolie.
Except that Nisha was not a film star but a singer. And a very successful one at that. Her voice was extremely sweet. She could handle any tune—Western, Indian, West Asian—with aplomb. She had won many awards—the Filmfare Award for best singer (2009), the Stardust Award for best singer (2009), The Zee Cine Awards for best singer (2010), Filmfare Award for best singer (2010), the Stardust Award for best singer (2010), The Zee Cine Awards for best singer (2011), and so on and on, year after year. You got the idea...
Nisha had also been a judge in many singing competitions in the country. And everyone, from fellow musicians to music directors to ad film makers just adored her.
But what really attracted Raj was her simplicity. The first time he met her, he was thoroughly charmed by her unpretentiousness. She had no star-like airs about her. There were no bodyguards barring access to ordinary guys like Raj.
And when you finally reached Nisha, she could immediately put you at ease with her conversational style that sounded so genuine. Her smile—was so pure.
Raj kept on bumping into Nisha in many such “filmy” parties. Over time, they became good friends and soon Nisha became a mentor. She knew and understood Bollywood very well. She knew first-hand how the movie industry and the music industry are linked in India. Songs are compulsory to any Indian movie and quite often songs turn an ordinary film into a blockbuster.
Raj remembered how he was once told by a rather snooty agent—that he wasn’t good looking enough to be a leading man in any Hindi movie. Raj was devastated. He remembered that evening very clearly. When he was standing with Nisha in front of the Gateway of India—the very same spot where he was standing today. When Raj broke the news to her, she’d said,
“Fire your agent.”
“Fire anyone who told you that you could never make it,” Nisha had reiterated. He saw a steely determination in her eyes. The wind blew her dark brown hair which looked almost golden in the light of the setting sun. Raj was touched that Nisha believed in him more than he believed in himself.
And with that belief, something happened that day. Raj realised that the power—to change his life—was within him. He promised himself that from now onwards he would blame no one for his failures or shortcomings.
Within a few months, Raj got his first movie deal from a well-known director. The movie exploited Raj’s martial art training and dancing skills well and went on to break quite a few records at the box office. Raj was now the latest sensation. He was the debutant of the year. There was no looking back after that.
But something else had happened that day. Nisha’s magic words made him fall in love with her. She was now the secret source of his strength. His very anchor in life.
They got married soon thereafter. A successful singer marrying a struggling actor—it was a fairy tale love story. But it still happened. And that is how Nisha Kaul became Nisha Sharma.
Like everyone else, Nisha too had a secret hidden from Raj. It surprised him, because it was his secret as well...
That both wore contact lenses.
He remembered—now he’d laughed out loudly when he discovered the so called secret. So now they both had the “power,” the power of rimmed glasses! These made you look so different in an instant. These now saved both of them from public gaze. Wearing these, they could roam around like an ordinary couple, on beaches and in malls, without drawing any attention.
Raj felt truly blessed. Here he was, in his favourite city Mumbai, making a living by doing something he loved doing. And now he had such a loving wife. Everything seemed so perfect.
If anyone criticised Mumbai—it made him angry. He hated the movie “Slumdog Millionnaire” which gave the impression as if most Indians lived in poverty, drenched in their own faeces! Yes, poverty existed—he didn’t deny that—but it existed everywhere.
New York wasn’t any different—in Raj’s opinion. They too had their Harlems and Brooklyns. But why was New York always equated with Times Square and Mumbai with the slums of Dharavi. What film makers didn’t know or cared was that so many small businesses were thriving in those very slums. From stitching leather jackets to selling cookies, thousands of people were making an honest living based in Dharavi—or to be precise—in the slums of Dharavi. Mumbai didn’t discriminate against anybody, if you were hard-working.
Raj looked at Nisha. She wasn’t smiling. Wearing her black rimmed glasses, she looked so angelic. He took her hand and both walked to the parapets and sat down. They silently watched the sea, the splashing and the crashing of waves and the noise of the sea gulls. They smelled the freshness of the breeze. And they heard the honking of the ships, coming back from Elephanta Caves, approaching the harbour. Raj noticed that many couples were watching the sea—just like them. Others too were holding hands. Mumbai was certainly a place for romantics.
He looked at the setting sun which had turned from orange to red. In a few moments, it would disappear as if it was never there. He wondered whether his love story too was setting like the sun.
Raj turned towards Nisha and looked straight into her eyes. He realised that she was not her usual cheerful self. He came closer and kissed her.
“I am dying Raj,” she cried.
It hurt. It hurt him deeply.
Raj kissed her again and hugged her tightly. He felt that Nisha’s waist had become thinner. She’d lost a lot of weight. It had all started a few months ago.
Nisha had a persistent cough which didn’t get better. She constantly complained of pain in her shoulders and back. Raj had insisted that she visited a doctor but she never listened. She was so scared of them.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine,” she kept saying and kept on treating herself with cough syrups and lozenges. And a cocktail of pain killers.
Matters only became worse. Nisha’s voice was becoming more and more hoarse. She started missing her recordings. She grew weaker and weaker day by day. It was only when she started coughing blood he knew something was seriously wrong. Raj had to literally force her to visit a doctor.
“Never say die. I won’t let that happen,” said Raj holding his tears back.
“I won’t let that happen.”
“Do you hear me? I won’t let that happen,” Raj repeated. His tone rising sharply.
“You are going to live a happy life. With me. Together we’ll grow old. Together we’ll roam all over the world experiencing the finest of cuisines. We’ll have children. Grand-children. Together we’ll experience all the little joys and sorrows of life. Together we’ll overcome any challenge no matter how daunting. And we’ll be together when we die,” he was unstoppable.
Raj felt a surge of anger within him. He wanted to shoot dead all those people who said she will not live long. Nisha was barely thirty. She was too young to die. And with what—lung cancer? When she had NOT touched a cigarette all her life?
Raj was angry at God. How dare he take away her voice—her sweet voice and her ability to sing? People called Him by many names but what they didn’t call God was—cruel, sadist, almost malevolent.
Raj had believed in God since his childhood. His belief was only shaken during his college days when he was majoring in philosophy. He had then studied many arguments supporting the existence of God. What those arguments truly were—logical. And emotionless. Nothing else. They didn’t prove the existence of God.
“Do you believe that there is order in this world? Do you believe that the world could have only been created by an intelligent superior being? And that being had to be called God? Utter nonsense,” Raj muttered under his breath.
He remembered that his philosophy professor had once said that chaos was more natural than order. So true. What did God do to protect hapless people from earthquakes, tsunamis and hurricanes?
It was we mortals who created tsunami detectors and satellites so we could predict natural disasters accurately and save thousands of lives.
If God’s will is to destroy people, why should humans try to find ways to undo God’s will? What is God’s role in planning or negating any such event?
Shiva went under meditation for what—thousands of years? Doesn’t that imply that he was indifferent to human suffering during all that time?
“God” or “Gods” in other religions were no different.
For some time, Raj bought the argument that prayers, meditation and in general—a belief in a higher being made you happy. But today even that was questioned. His gaze fell towards the famous Taj Hotel. It looked magnificent and so royal with its black brickwork, its colonial arches, and round domes coloured in red.
Then something flashed. A vision of flames erupting from those very red domes some eight years ago. India remembered that day as 26/11. So this is what God did or allowed to be done in his name. Some people—who called themselves “the soldiers of God” or “Jihadis”—had stormed this hotel killing hundreds of people and setting this majestic building on fire.
Raj realised that if God was so cruel, it stood to reason that He was not going to save Nisha. So who could save her? The answer was staring at him. But Raj didn’t like it.
The answer was—he himself. His love that could conquer anything. Raj didn’t like the answer because it sounded so narcissistic. He wasn’t some magician after all. But he did have that one power—of love. This he didn’t doubt.
In that moment Raj took a vow. That he would love his wife more than any man ever loved his wife. That he’d love her so much that no illness could ever harm her. That he will ensure that even death will shy away from touching her.
He’d love her so much that even if Lord Yama, the god of death, took her away from him, he will be forced to bring her back.
Because love by its very nature is—life.
