TRAGEDY QUEEN
A family drama with doses of comedy and action, ending eventually in tragedy. In film parlance, this is how I would describe the time I spent with Neelima Kumari. She was an actress. And I worked for three years in her flat in Juhu Vile Parle.
It all began on that same night that Salim and I escaped from the clutches of Maman and his gang. We took the local train and landed in Juhu. We walked up to Neelima Kumari’s flat, pressed the doorbell and waited.
After a lengthy interval the door is opened. ‘Yes?’ A lady stands before us. Radhey, the lame boy, was right. She is tall and beautiful, just like a heroine, only older. Salim falls at her feet. ‘Arrey.’ She hurriedly steps back. ‘Who are you two? What are you doing here at this hour of night?’
‘We are friends of Radhey,’ I reply with folded hands. ‘He told us you are in need of a servant. We have come to offer our services. We know you are a very kind lady. We are in desperate need of food and shelter and promise to do anything you ask us.’
‘Yes, I do need a servant, but I cannot keep someone so young.’
‘Madam, we are young only in looks. We can do the work of four men. I can also speak English. Do try us.’
‘But I don’t need two servants. I have space only for one.’
Salim and I look at each other. ‘Then at least pick one of us,’ I say.
‘What is your name?’ she asks Salim.
‘Salim.’
‘Oh, you are Muslim, aren’t you?’
Salim nods.
‘Look, I am sorry, but my aged mother who lives with me cannot eat anything touched by a Muslim. I personally don’t believe in all this polluting-contact nonsense, but what am I to do?’ She shrugs her shoulders. Salim looks crestfallen.
Then she turns to me. ‘And what about you? What is your name?’
‘Ram,’ I tell her.
So I got the job, and only then did I discover that life with a movie star is not as glamorous as it appears from the outside. When you get to see them without make-up you find that they are exactly like you and me, with the same anxieties and insecurities. The only difference is that we are mainly concerned with money, or lack of it, and they are mainly concerned with fame. Or lack of it.
They live in a fish bowl. First they hate it, then, as adulation grows, they start loving it. And when people no longer shower attention on them, they just shrivel up and die.
Neelima Kumari’s flat is spacious and contemporary, tastefully furnished with expensive wall-to-wall carpets and paintings. It has five bedrooms. The large master bedroom with attached bathroom is Neelima’s, and her mother has the next-largest. As far as I know, Neelima has no other relatives.
Neelima’s bedroom is the best room in the flat. It has a huge bed in the middle with a velvet bedspread. The walls have tiles made of glass so you see your image reflected in a thousand tiny pieces. There is a dresser full of perfumes and bottles. Next to the dresser is a twenty-nine-inch Sony TV, a VCR and the latest VCD player. An expensive chandelier hangs from the ceiling. A soundless air conditioner keeps the room delightfully cool. Glass shelves line the walls, loaded with trophies and awards of all kinds. There is another glass case full of old film magazines. All of them have Neelima Kumari on the cover. Looking at all this, I feel privileged to be working in her house. In her time, she must have been the most famous actress in India.
Neelima’s mother is a real pain in the neck. Though she is nearly eighty, she has the energy of a forty-year-old and is always after me. I am the only full-time servant in the house. There is a Maharashtrian brahmin lady who comes to cook in the evening and also does the dishes, and a part-time maid who does the washing. I do everything else. I do the dusting and the cleaning, I iron the clothes and make evening tea, I do errands outside the house, buy the milk and pay all the utility bills. But Neelima’s mother is never satisfied, even though I address her very respectfully as ‘Maaji’. ‘Ram, you have not brought my milk,’ she will say. ‘Ram, you have not ironed my bed sheet . . . Ram, you have not dusted this room properly . . . Ram you are again wasting time . . . Ram you have not heated my tea.’ Sometimes I get so irritated at her constant nitpicking, I want to tape her mouth.
Neelima, though quirky at times, is not so demanding. She wants me to become a live-in servant. There are plenty of empty bedrooms in the flat where I could stay, but her mother refuses to allow a ‘male’ to live in the house. So I am banished to a chawl in Ghatkopar, from where I commute every day to her flat. She pays rent for the room in the chawl. In a way it suits me, because Salim can also stay with me in the same room.
I am out shopping with Neelima. She doesn’t own a car, so we take a taxi. I don’t enjoy going out with her. She only buys cosmetics or clothes and I have to carry her heavy bags. She never goes to a McDonald’s or a Pizza Hut. And she never, ever, buys me anything.
Today, we are in Cuff Parade, in a very expensive shop which sells saris. She looks at hundreds of them for over two hours, then she buys three for fifty thousand rupees, which is almost equal to my salary for two years. As we are stepping out of the air-conditioned showroom, a group of girls dressed in school uniform approaches her. They look very excited.
‘Excuse me, are you Neelima Kumari, the actress?’ asks one of them.
‘Yes,’ says Neelima, looking quite pleased.
‘See,’ the girl screams to her friends. ‘I told you she is Neelima.’ Then she turns to us again. ‘Neelimaji, we are great fans of yours. Seeing you is like a dream come true. We are not carrying autograph books, but will you please sign our exercise books?’
‘Of course, with pleasure,’ says Neelima and takes a pen from her handbag. One by one the girls hold out their exercise books, thrilled to bits. Neelima asks each one her name and then records in her sprawling handwriting, ‘To Ritu with love, Neelima.’ ‘To Indu with love, Neelima.’ ‘To Malti with love, Neelima.’ ‘To Roshni with love, Neelima.’ The girls read their inscriptions and squeal with delight.
Neelima is positively glowing from all this adulation. This is the first time I have seen anyone recognize her and I marvel at the impact it has on her. Suddenly she looks at me with concern, sweating in the heat, holding a heavy shopping bag. ‘Ram, you must be feeling quite hungry by now. Come, let’s have an ice cream,’ she says. I squeal with delight.
From time to time, Neelima teaches me about the art of film-making. She tells me about the various technicians involved in the making of a film. ‘People think that a film is made only by the actors and the director. They don’t know about the thousands of people behind the scenes, without whose efforts the film would never be made. It is only after these technicians have done their work that a director can snap his fingers and tell his actors, “Lights, camera, action!”’ She tells me about sets and props and lighting and make-up and stunt men and spot boys.
Then she teaches me about genres. ‘I hate the movies they make these days, in which they try to cram everything – tragedy, comedy, action and melodrama. No. A good film has to respect its genre. I always used to choose my films carefully, after fully understanding what the story meant and what it involved for me. You will never catch me singing and dancing in one scene and dying two reels later. No, Ram. A character has to be consistent. Just as a great painter is identified by his unique signature style, an actor is known for his unique niche. A genre of his own. A great artist is not one who merely fits into a genre, but one who defines the genre. Did you see the review of that new film Relationship of the Heart in the Times of India? The reviewer wrote that Pooja, the actress, made a complete hash of the death scene. “How I wish Neelima Kumari had been in this film to do justice to the character. The young actresses of today should learn their craft from legends like her.” It really gladdened my heart to read this. To be held out as an example, as the epitome of a genre, is the ultimate compliment an actor can receive. I am getting the review framed.’
‘So what was your unique style?’
She smiles. ‘I know you are too young to know that Neelima Kumari is called the Tragedy Queen of India. Come, let me show you something.’
She takes me to her bedroom and opens a metal almirah. My eyes almost pop out because the almirah is crammed with video cassettes. ‘Do you know that all these cassettes are of films in which I have actually played a part?’
‘Really? So how many cassettes are here?’
‘One hundred and fourteen. That is the number of films I worked in over a career spanning twenty years.’ She points out the first row. ‘These are among my earliest films. Most of them are slapstick comedies. I am sure you know what comedy films are, right?’
I nod my head vigorously. ‘Yes. Like the ones Govinda acts in.’
Neelima indicates the next two rows. ‘These are films from my middle period. Mostly family dramas. But I also did the famous thriller Name the Murderer and the classic horror film Thirty Years Later.’
Finally she points out the remaining four rows. ‘And all these are tragedies. You see the hundreds of awards and trophies I have received over the years? Almost all of them are for films in this section. My favourite is this one.’ She taps a cassette. I read the label. It says Mumtaz Mahal. ‘This is the film in which I played the role of a lifetime, that of Emperor Shahjahan’s wife Mumtaz Mahal. I even received the National Award for my performance. See that trophy in the centre? I received it from the hands of the President of India.’
‘So, Madam, was that the greatest role you ever played?’
She sighs. ‘It was a good role, no doubt, with a lot of potential for emotion, but I feel that I have yet to play the greatest role of my life.’
Neelima’s mother is no longer keeping well. She coughs and groans a lot. Her carping is becoming unbearable. She is always complaining about her medical condition and doesn’t even spare Neelima, reminding her constantly of her obligation towards the person who brought her into this world. I think Neelima is beginning to chafe a little. Apart from my other errands, I now have to spend half a day buying medicines for Maaji and then ensuring that she takes the tablets, capsules and drops on time.
There is excitement in the flat. Doordarshan, the national TV channel, is going to show a film of Neelima’s called The Last Wife this evening. It is one of her famous tragedies and she wants all of us to watch it with her in the drawing room. Come eight pm, we are all gathered in front of the TV. There is the cook, the maid and me sitting on the carpet and Maaji reclining on the sofa next to Neelima. The film starts. It is not really my cup of tea. It is about a poor middle-class family coping with a whole heap of problems. There is a lot of crying and wailing in it. And a lot of groaning in the background from Maaji. The film shows life too realistically. I think it is ridiculous to make such movies. What is the point of watching a film if you can see the real thing in your neighbour’s house just across the street? Neelima, though, looks very young and beautiful in the film and acts really well. It is a strange sensation to watch a film and have its heroine sitting behind you. I wonder what she feels when she watches herself on the TV screen. Does she remember the spot boys and make-up artists, the lighting technicians and sound recordists who worked behind the scenes?
Neelima dies in the film after delivering an emotionally charged speech. The film ends as soon as she dies. We stand up to stretch our legs. Then I notice that Neelima is crying. ‘Madam,’ I ask with concern, ‘what happened? Why are you crying?’
‘Nothing, Ram. I just felt a sense of kinship with my character on screen. See, I am smiling now.’
‘How can you actors laugh one minute and cry the next?’
‘That is the hallmark of a great actor. Do you know why they call me Tragedy Queen?’
‘Why, Madam?’
‘Because I never used glycerine to weep in any of my films. I could summon tears to my eyes at will.’
‘What is so great about that? I also never need glycerine to bring tears to my eyes,’ I tell the maid when Neelima is out of earshot.
The more I see of Neelima, the more I begin to understand why she is called the Tragedy Queen. There is a core of melancholy which surrounds her. Even in her smile I detect a hint of sadness. I wonder about her past life, why she never married. She seems to have no real friends. But she goes out of the house from time to time and returns late in the evening. I wonder whom she meets. I doubt that it is a boyfriend or a lover, because she never returns looking radiant. She comes back looking haggard and depressed and goes straight to her bedroom. This is one mystery I would love to get to the bottom of.
I also wonder about her obsession with beauty. Physical beauty. She is good looking, yet she spends hours doing her make-up and preening before the mirror. Her dressing table is full of creams. I try to read the labels one day. There are anti-wrinkle creams, anti-cellulite creams and anti-ageing lotions. There are deep radiance boosters and hydrating age-defence creams, revitalizing night creams and skin-firming gels. Her bathroom is full of strange-smelling soaps and scrubs and face-masks which are supposed to make you look youthful. Her medicine cabinet has as many medicines for her as for Maaji. There are human-growth hormones and breast-firming creams, pharmacy-grade melatonin and antioxidants.
I finally say to her one day, ‘Madam, if you don’t mind my asking, why do you need all this make-up? You no longer act now.’
She looks me in the eye. ‘We people who work in films become very vain. We get so used to seeing ourselves in make-up that we no longer have the courage to look in the mirror and see our real faces. Remember, an actor is an actor for life. Films may end, but the show must go on.’
I wonder whether she said this from her heart, or just recited some lines from a film.
Something truly wonderful has happened today. Maaji has died in her sleep. Aged eighty-one.
Neelima weeps a little, then gets down to the practical business of making funeral arrangements. It seems as though almost the entire film industry comes to her flat to offer condolences. She sits stoically on a sofa in the drawing room, wearing a white sari and light make-up. I recognize many of the people who come. There are actors and actresses and directors and producers and singers and songwriters. The drawing room is overflowing with visitors. I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the famous stars whose pictures I have seen in Starburst and whose films I have seen on screen. I wish Salim could be here with me. But he would be disappointed. Because the visitors don’t look like the glamorous stars we see on screen. They are not wearing make-up and flashy clothes. They are all clad spotlessly in white and look grim and sombre. Even those who are famous for comedies.
I don’t know how Neelima took her mother’s death. But to me Maaji’s departure from this world felt like welcome relief after a depressing film.
Within a month of Maaji’s demise, Neelima asks me to become a live-in servant. She knows that Salim is staying with me in the chawl, so she continues to pay rent for Salim’s room. I shift to her flat. But I am not put in any of the four empty bedrooms. I am given the tiny ironing room.
I notice that after Maaji’s death, Neelima begins to go out more frequently, at times not even bothering to return at night. I am convinced she is seeing someone. Perhaps there will soon be a marriage.
I am wakened by a scraping noise coming from the direction of the drawing room. The sound is quite faint, but sufficient to disturb my sleep. I rub my eyes and look at the alarm clock by my side. It says two-thirty am. I wonder what Neelima is doing pottering about the flat at this hour. Suddenly I realize that her lover might have come to visit her and I get all excited. I tiptoe out of my room and move towards the drawing room.
The room is in darkness but there is a man there. He doesn’t look like a lover. He wears a black mask over his head with slits only for the eyes. In his left hand he holds a black sack. In his right hand is a flashlight which is pointed at the VCR. He quickly disconnects the cables, picks the VCR up and inserts it in his black sack. I know now that he is no lover. He is a thief. And I scream. It is a piercing scream which shatters the silence of the night like a bullet. It wakes up Neelima Kumari, who comes running to the drawing room. It completely unsettles the thief, who drops the sack and the flashlight and covers both his ears with his hands. And it shatters a glass figurine which was poised delicately on top of the television cabinet.
‘What is the matter?’ Neelima asks breathlessly. She switches on the drawing-room light. Then she sees the thief and lets out a scream too. The thief has almost gone deaf by now. He falls down on his knees and begins pleading with us. ‘Please, Madam, I am not a thief. I have just come to look at your house.’
‘Ram, bring me the phone. I will call the police immediately,’ Neelima tells me. I bring her the cordless phone with alacrity.
The thief tears off his mask. He is a youngish man with a goatee. ‘Please, madam, please don’t call the police, I beg you. I am no thief. I am a final-year student at St Xavier’s. I am one of your greatest fans. I have come to your house only to see how you live.’
I notice that Neelima softens visibly on hearing the fan part. ‘Don’t listen to him, Madam,’ I warn her. ‘This fellow is a thief. If he is a fan, why has he stolen our VCR?’
‘I’ll tell you why, Neelimaji. I have purchased cassettes of each and every film you have acted in. All 114 of them. I watch at least one of your movies every day. Due to heavy use, my VCR has become defective. I am having it repaired. But I cannot bear to pass a day without watching one of your films. So I thought I would take one of your VCRs. Just the fact that I am watching a movie on your VCR will make the experience so much more memorable. I was going to return your VCR when my own comes back from repairs. Please believe me, Madam. I swear on my dead father I am not lying.’
‘This is all a lie, Madam,’ I cry. ‘You’d better call the police.’
‘No, Ram,’ says Neelima. ‘Let me first test whether this man is indeed telling the truth. If he has seen all 114 of my films then he can answer a few questions. OK, Mister, tell me in which film I played the role of a village girl called Chandni?’
‘Oh, how can I forget that, Neelimaji? It is one of my favourite films. It is Back to the Village, right?’
‘Right. But that one was too easy. Tell me, for which film did I get the Filmfare Award in 1982?’
‘That’s even easier. For The Dark Night, surely.’
‘My God, you are right. OK, tell me in which film did I act with Manoj Kumar?’
‘It was that patriotic film, The Nation Calls.’
‘Oh, you even saw that one?’
‘I told you, Neelimaji, I am your greatest living fan. Tell me, why did you agree to do that two-bit role in Everlasting Love? I always thought the director underutilized you.’
‘It’s amazing you ask me about Everlasting Love. I too feel that I shouldn’t have done that role. All the credit for the film’s success went to Sharmila, and I got a raw deal.’
‘But you were fantastic in It’s Raining over Bombay. I think the monologue that you deliver in the temple after your father’s death is the most memorable scene in the whole film. You really should have got the Filmfare Award for it, but they gave it to you for Woman instead.’
‘Yes. If I were to choose between Woman and It’s Raining over Bombay, I would probably also choose the latter. I must say, you know a lot about my films. What is your name?’
‘My name is Ranjeet Mistry. I am twenty-four years old. I have always wanted to ask you about Mumtaz Mahal, which I consider to be the greatest film ever made. That childbirth scene, when you are dying and Dileep Sahib, who plays the Emperor, is sitting by your bedside, you ask him to make a promise, and then you take off your gold bangle – but you never give it to him. Why did you do that?’
‘This is amazing. You have gone into the minute details of that film. I will tell you the answer. But why are you sitting on the ground? Come, sit here on the sofa. And Ram, what are you doing standing with a phone in your hand? Can’t you see we have a guest in the house? Go, get two cups of tea and some biscuits. So as I was telling you, when Mumtaz Mahal was being conceptualized . . .’
By the time I return with two cups of tea, Neelima and the thief are laughing and sharing jokes like two long-lost friends. I shake my head in disbelief. This man had come to rob her and just because he has seen a few of her films she feeds him biscuits and tea.
What started as a thriller has turned out to be a family drama.
She calls me one evening. ‘Ram, I want you to shift to the chawl tomorrow. Just for a day. I need privacy in the house.’
‘But why, Madam?’
‘Don’t ask questions,’ she says in an irritated voice. ‘Just do as I tell you.’
These instructions are given to me three times in the next three months. I know that when I am away she will entertain her lover in the house, and does not want me to know about it. So the next time she tells me to stay in Ghatkopar and return the next day, I do not follow her instructions fully. I go back to Ghatkopar for the night, but instead of returning at seven am the next morning, I come back at five and hang around outside the flat. Sure enough, at six am the door opens and a man steps out. He is tall, with a decent face, but his bloodshot eyes and scruffy hair spoil the look. He is clad in blue jeans and a white shirt. He holds a sheaf of currency notes and a lighted cigarette in his left hand and twirls some car keys in his fingers. He seems vaguely familiar, but I cannot place him. He doesn’t even glance at me before he walks down the stairs to the ground floor. I enter the house only at seven am.
I get my first shock on seeing the condition of the drawing room. There are cigarette butts and traces of ash everywhere. An upturned glass lies on the centre table, together with an empty bottle of whisky. Peanuts are scattered all over the carpet. There is a strong smell of alcohol in the room.
The second shock is on seeing Neelima Kumari. She has bruises all over her face and a black eye. ‘Oh my God, Madam, what happened to you?’ I cry.
‘Nothing, Ram. I slipped from my bed and hurt myself. Nothing to worry about.’
I know she is lying. That man I saw leaving the flat has done this to her. And in return she has given him cigarettes, whisky and also money. I feel pained and angry, and powerless to protect her.
From that day, a subtle change comes over Neelima. She becomes more introverted and withdrawn. I think she starts drinking whisky, because I often smell it on her breath.
One morning I find her again with a black eye, and a cigarette burn on her arm. I can bear it no longer. ‘Madam, I feel very sad seeing you in this condition. Who is doing this to you?’ I ask her.
She could have said ‘It is none of your business,’ but she was in a reflective mood that morning. ‘You know, Ram, someone has said that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I wonder at times if this is true. I too have loved. I don’t know whether I have lost as yet, but I have received a lot of pain. There is a man in my life. Sometimes I think he loves me. Sometimes I think he hates me. He tortures me slowly, bit by bit.’
‘Then why don’t you leave him?’ I cry.
‘It is not that simple. There is some pleasure even in pain. A sweet ecstasy. Sometimes I feel if pain can be this sweet, how exquisitely pleasurable death will be. When he tortures me with cigarette butts I don’t want to scream. I want to recite those memorable lines from my film Woman. The death scene. “O life, how fickle you are. It is death which is my real lover, my constant companion. Come, death, take me in your arms, whisper the sweet sound of silence in my ears, and waft me away to the land of eternal love.”’
‘But that was just a film, Madam,’ I plead with her.
‘Hush! Have you forgotten what I told you once, that an actor is an actor for life? Do not forget that I will forever be known as the Tragedy Queen. And I didn’t become a tragedy queen just by reciting lines given to me by a scriptwriter. I lived the life of my characters. Ghalib didn’t become a great tragic poet just by writing some lines in a book. No. You have to feel pain, experience it, live it in your daily life before you can become a tragedy queen.’
‘If this is the criteria, then can I become a tragedy king?’ I ask with the wide-eyed innocence of a twelve-year-old.
She does not answer.
Neelima is giving an interview to a journalist from Starburst in the drawing room. I enter with a tray of gulab jamuns and samosas.
‘OK, Neelimaji, we have talked about the past, now let’s come to the present. Why did you quit films?’ I watch closely as the journalist fiddles with a tape recorder. She is quite young and rather striking looking, with fair skin and shoulder-length black hair. She is wearing smart black trousers with a printed kurti and high-heeled black pumps.
‘Because they no longer make films like they used to. The passion, the commitment, is gone. Today’s actors are nothing but assembly-line products, each exactly like the other, mouthing their lines like parrots. There is no depth. We did one film at a time. Now I find actors rushing to three different sets in a day. It’s ridiculous.’ Neelima gestures with her hands.
‘Well, pardon my saying so, but I heard that part of the reason you quit was because you were not being offered any roles.’
Anger flares up on her face. ‘Who told you that? It is a complete lie. I was offered several roles, but I turned them down. They were not powerful enough. And the films weren’t heroine-oriented.’
‘What you mean is that you were not offered heroine roles any longer, but those of elder sister or aunt.’
‘How dare you disparage me and my work? I must say even the journalists of today have lost their manners. Can’t you see the awards and trophies lining the shelves? Do you think I got these by not acting? Do you think I earned the sobriquet of Tragedy Queen by singing around trees like today’s two-bit heroines, looking like a glorified extra?’
‘But . . . but we are not talking about your past caree—’
‘I know exactly what you are talking about. Please leave this instant. Ram, show this lady out and do not open the door to her ever again.’ She stands up and walks out of the room in a huff. I escort the bewildered journalist to the door.
I am unable to figure out whether this was a comedy, a drama, or a tragedy.
There are many framed pictures in Neelima’s flat. But all of them show only her. Neelima receiving some award, Neelima cutting a ribbon, Neelima watching a performance, Neelima giving an award. There are no pictures of any other movie stars, except for two framed pictures in her bedroom. They are of two beautiful women, one white, the other Indian.
‘Who are these women?’ I ask her one day.
‘The one on the left is Marilyn Monroe and the one on the right is Madhubala.’
‘Who are they?’
‘They were both very famous actresses who died young.’
‘So why do you keep their pictures?’
‘Because I also want to die young. I don’t want to die looking old and haggard. Have you seen the picture of Shakeela in this week’s Film Digest? She was a famous film star in the fifties and must be ninety now. See how old and desiccated she looks. And this is exactly how people will remember her after her death. As old and wrinkly and haggard. But people always remember Marilyn Monroe and Madhubala as young because they died young. The lasting image people have of you is how you looked at the time of your death. Like Madhubala, I want to leave behind an image of unspoilt youth and beauty, of everlasting grace and charm. I don’t want to die when I am ninety. How I wish at times I could stop all the clocks of this world, shatter every mirror, and freeze my youthful face in time.’
A strange sadness spreads through me when I hear this. In a way, Neelima is an orphan, like me. But unlike me, she has a larger family – her fans, producers and directors. And she is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for their sake. So that they can remember her forever as a young woman.
For the first time, I feel lucky that I am not a film star.
A famous producer is coming to the house. Neelima is very excited. She believes he will offer her a role and she will get to face the camera once again. She spends the entire day applying make-up and trying on various outfits.
The producer comes in the evening. He is short and bald, with a bulging tummy. I am told to bring in gulab jamuns and samosas and sherbet.
‘. . . is a great role for you, Neelimaji,’ the producer is saying. ‘I have always been one of your greatest fans. I saw Woman fifteen times. That death scene. O, my God, I could die seeing it. That is why I’ve resolved to drag you out of your retirement. This film, for which I have already roped in a top-level director, is a woman-centric film. I am offering you a fantastic role.’
‘Who is this director you have contracted?’
‘It is Chimpu Dhawan.’
‘But isn’t he a comedy film director?’
‘So what? Anyway, there will be some comedy in this film. For the lead roles I have already signed up Shahrukh Khan and Tabu.’
‘I don’t understand. You have already signed a heroine. So will you have two heroines?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Then what will Tabu do?’
‘She is the heroine.’
‘So what role are you offering me?’
‘Oh, didn’t you understand? I am offering you the role of Shahrukh Khan’s mother.’
She kicks him out of the house then and there.
The producer leaves, frothing at the mouth. ‘Spoilt bitch, what does she think? She still fancies herself as a heroine. Has she seen herself in the mirror? She is lucky I didn’t cast her as the grandmother. Huh!’
I thought this was a good comedy scene.
Her lover has visited her again. But this time things are more serious. She is in bed with a deep cut above her left eyebrow and her cheek is swollen. She has difficulty speaking.
‘We must call the police, Madam, have that swine arrested,’ I urge her as I apply antiseptic ointment to her bruises.
‘No, Ram. I will be all right.’
‘At least tell me his name.’
She laughs hoarsely. ‘What good will that do? Don’t worry, that man is never going to come here again. I finally broke off with him. That is why he did this to me. If he ever comes back, I will spit on him.’
‘And how long will you suffer in silence? Look at what he has done to your face.’
‘It is the destiny of a woman to suffer in silence. And what he has done to my face is nothing compared to what he has done to the rest of my body. Do you really want to see? Then look.’ She unfastens the buttons on her blouse and snaps open her bra. I see a woman’s naked breasts for the first time in my life. They are large and pendulous and hang down like udders on a cow. I recoil in shock when I see the cigarette burn marks all over her chest, looking like little black craters on the smooth white flesh. I begin to cry.
She is crying too. ‘I do not want to live with a mask any more. I have had enough facelifts, taken enough beauty aids. I want to be a real woman for once in my life. Come to me, my child,’ she says and draws my face into her chest.
I do not know what Neelima Kumari was thinking when she drew me to her bosom. Whether she saw me as a son or as a lover, whether she did it to forget her pain or simply to gain a cheap thrill. But as I nuzzled my face between her breasts, all consciousness of the outer world ceased in my brain and for the first time I felt as though I was not an orphan any more. That I had a real mother, one whose face I could see, one whose flesh I could touch. And the salty taste of my tears merged with the sweat and scent of her body in the most moving experience of my thirteen-year-old life. All the pain and suffering, all the insults and humiliation I had endured over the years melted away in that moment. I wanted to stop all the clocks of the world and freeze that moment for ever. For though it was all too brief, even in that short span of time it produced a sensation so genuine, no amount of acting can ever aspire to replicate it.
That is why I will not attempt to define this episode as a drama or a thriller or a tragedy. It was beyond any and all genres.
Neelima and I never speak again about that morning. And what happened then never happens again. But both of us live with the knowledge that our lives have been altered irrevocably.
She wants to remove her mask, but does not have the mental strength to do so. And she refuses to take my help. The inevitable destiny of a tragedy queen tugs at her with renewed urgency. She becomes more depressed. Her drinking increases to such an extent that she is hardly conscious of the world around her. She dismisses her maid and cook. I am the only one left in the flat. And then she prepares for the greatest role of her life.
Neelima Kumari asks me to stack all the film magazines with her pictures in neatly in a pile. She arranges all her trophies and awards personally, putting the platinum jubilee ones in front, followed by the golden jubilees and the silver jubilees. She wears her most expensive sari and puts on her finest jewellery. She spends three hours in front of the mirror making her face look the best it has ever looked. Afterwards, she flushes all her cosmetic creams down the toilet. She goes to the medicine cabinet and throws away all her beauty aids. Then she opens a jar containing painkillers prescribed for her mother. I don’t know how many of these tablets she gulps down.
Finally, she enters her bedroom and inserts into the VCR the cassette of her film Mumtaz Mahal. She sits down on the bed and presses the ‘Play’ button on the remote. The film begins on the TV screen. She orders me to get vegetables from the market and settles down to wait.
I find her the same evening on my return from the market, looking like a beautiful new bride sleeping on the bed. But I don’t have to touch her cold skin to know that she is dead. In her hand she holds a trophy. It says, ‘National Award for Best Actress. Awarded to Ms Neelima Kumari for her role in Mumtaz Mahal, 1985.’
What I see before me can only be described as the height of drama.
I gaze at Neelima Kumari’s dead body and I do not know what to do. The only thing I am certain of is that I will not go to the police. They are quite capable of pinning the blame on me and arresting me for murder. So I do the only logical thing. I run away to the chawl in Ghatkopar.
‘Why have you come here?’ Salim asks me.
‘I have also been dismissed by Madam, just like she dismissed the maid and the cook.’
‘What will we do now? How will we pay rent for this chawl?’
‘Don’t worry, she has already paid advance rent for the next two months. By then I am sure I will get a new job.’
Every day that I stay in the chawl I fear that a jeep with a flashing red light will come to take me away, but nothing happens. There is also no news in the papers about Neelima Kumari’s death. Meanwhile, I get a job in a foundry.
They discover her body after a month, and only then because one of the neighbours complains about the smell. So they break open the door and enter. They find nothing in the drawing room or the first four bedrooms. Then they discover a rotting corpse in the master bedroom. The sari looks new, the jewellery sparkles, but the face and body have decomposed beyond recognition. They cart away the body with white masks on their faces and dump the trophy in the dustbin. They confirm her identity only from her dental records. And when they discover who she was, they publish the picture of her rotting body on the front page of all the newspapers. ‘Neelima Kumari, famous Tragedy Queen of yesteryear, has committed suicide. She was forty-four. Her badly decomposed body was discovered in her flat only after a month.’
Now this I call a real tragedy.
Smita lets out a long breath. ‘No wonder film stars are neurotic! You know, I have seen Mumtaz Mahal and I too have always wanted to know the mystery behind that gold bangle. I wonder what Neelima Kumari told that thief.’
‘Unfortunately, that will remain a mystery. Now are we just going to talk about Neelima Kumari, or shall I tell you what happened next on the quiz show?’
With a reluctant expression, Smita presses ‘Play’.
There is a flurry of activity inside the studio. We are in the middle of a long break. The producer of the show, a tall man with long hair like a woman — or a rock star – is busy conferring with Prem Kumar in a corner. After he leaves, Prem Kumar gestures me to join him.
‘Look, Mr Thomas,’ Prem Kumar tells me, ‘you have done fantastically well on the show. You are sitting pretty with a million rupees in your kitty. Tell me, what do you intend to do now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean are you going to just walk away or will you play for the billion-rupee prize? Remember it is Play or Pay now.’
‘Well then, I’m going to walk away. I have been lucky up till now, but my luck might just be running out.’
‘Now that would be a real pity, Mr Thomas. We think that if you go on to win this quiz you can become the biggest role model for the youth of our country. So we in W3B have decided to make it easier for you to win. You remember how I helped you on the second question? If I had not changed the question for you then, you would have been out with not even a rupee in your pocket. I want to do the same for you on the next three questions. I promise you, if you agree to go into Play or Pay we will help you win, because we want you to win. It will be the best thing that ever happened to our show.’
‘What kind of questions did you have in mind?’
‘It doesn’t really matter, because we will secretly tell you the answers beforehand. If you could trust me on question number two, I am sure you can trust me on questions ten, eleven and twelve. So do we have a deal?’
‘Well, if you are guaranteeing my victory, I can hardly say no. So tell me, what is the next question?’
‘Excellent.’ Prem Kumar claps his hands. ‘Billy,’ he tells the producer, ‘Mr Thomas has agreed to go into the Play or Pay rounds.’ He turns back to me and whispers, ‘OK, let me tell you about the next question. I am going to ask you, “What is the length of the Palk Strait between India and Sri Lanka? The choices are going to be a) 64 km, b) 94 km, c) 137 km, and d) 209 km. The correct answer will be c) 137 km. Have you understood?’
‘Yes. But how can I be certain that it is the correct answer?’
‘Oh, don’t you trust us, Mr Thomas? Well, I don’t blame you. After all, we are talking about a billion rupees here. So I will prove it to you. Here, look in this book. I am sure you can read numbers.’ He pulls out a diary which has page upon page of questions and answers, like a quiz book. He jabs at a question. It is the same question that he has asked me. And it has the same answer: 137 km.
‘Are you satisfied now that I am not going to pull a fast one over you?’
I nod my head.
‘OK. You’d better return to your seat, and I will join you in a second.’
The signature tune comes on and the studio sign says ‘Applause’. Prem Kumar addresses the audience. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are at a historic crossroads in our show. We have with us a contestant who has reached the magic figure of one million rupees. Now he has to decide whether he goes on to compete for the top prize or retires from the game. The moment of truth has arrived, Mr Thomas. What is your decision? Will you play to win or will you run? Do remember, though, that if you play, you risk losing all that you have won till now. So what do you say?’ He smiles at me reassuringly.
‘I will play,’ I say softly.
‘Excuse me?’ says Prem Kumar. ‘Could you say that a bit louder, please?’
‘I will play,’ I say loudly and confidently.
There are gasps from the audience. Someone says, ‘Oh, my God!’ Another says, ‘What an idiot!’
‘Is this your final, irrevocable decision?’ says Prem Kumar. He smiles at me again.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Then we have made history, ladies and gentlemen,’ Prem Kumar exults. ‘We have with us a contestant who is prepared to risk it all. We had one other contestant before who risked it all – and lost. We will see today whether Mr Thomas can create history by becoming the winner of the biggest prize in history. OK, so we are ready for the final three questions in Play or Pay. Please give him a big round of applause.’
There is a crescendo of drums. ‘Play or Pay’ flashes on the screen. The audience stand up in their seats and clap enthusiastically.
After the music dies down, Prem Kumar turns to me.
‘OK, Mr Thomas, you have won one million rupees and you are in the sudden-death round which we call Play or Pay. You will either win a billion or you will lose everything you have earned till now. So question number ten for ten million, yes, ten million rupees is coming up. Here it is. Neelima Kumari, the Tragedy Queen, won the National Award—?”
‘But this is not the ques—’
‘Please, Mr Thomas, don’t interrupt me in the middle of the question. Let me complete,’ he says sternly. ‘So as I was saying, the question is, Neelima Kumari, the Tragedy Queen, won the National Award in which year? Was it a) 1984, b) 1988, c) 1986 or d) 1985?’
I glare at Prem Kumar. He smirks. I understand him now. What he told me in the break was a trick to lure me into this round. But he has not reckoned with my luck. It is still holding.
‘I know the answer. It is d) 1985.’
‘What?’ Prem Kumar is thunderstruck. He is so surprised that he even forgets to ask me whether I am a hundred per cent sure. He presses his button mechanically and the correct answer flashes. It is D.
Prem Kumar looks as though he has seen a ghost. ‘Mr . . . Mr Thomas . . . has . . . just won t-ten million rupees,’ he stammers, completely flustered.
The audience goes wild. Everyone stands up and cheers. Some people start dancing in the aisles.
Prem Kumar wipes the sweat from his forehead and takes a big swig of lemonade.
What should have been a tragedy has become a farce.
