DREAM QUEEN
Bhupen Khakhar
Mohanlal sits on the sofa and picks up the latest issue of Filmfare lying on the table before him. Idly turning the pages, he relishes the odour of the new paper, the feel of the crisp, smooth pages, and the vividly coloured pictures. This week’s Filmfare, he discovers, has a special attraction for him: four photographs of Sundari. It is difficult to explain what this beautiful actress means to him; one can only say that Sundari is enshrined in his heart. It really would be no exaggeration to say this …
It had all started four years ago. Having descended the stairs from his office, Mohanlal was on his way home. A cinema poster on the wall next to the ground floor caught his attention. There was a laughing actor in a white shirt on the right, his slick hair combed back. On the left were some dancing women, but Mohanlal’s eyes were held by the last dancer. Such beauty! For several seconds he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He had made it a point to see the film later. She was just beginning to attract public attention; in the next four years she was to become a star, famous all over India. That’s how things were with the lovely Sundari.
Mohanlal is now looking carefully at the four photographs in the film magazine.
First photograph: She is attired as a village belle. As she lies back sensually on the green grass, Sundari’s image is presented squarely from the front, her white body just discernible through the light, transparent clothes. He notices the kohl in her eyes, the red flush of blooming roses on her lips, the smile which dimples her cheeks.
Second photograph: A tree divides this photograph into two. The actor, Ram Kumar, stands on the right against the trunk. Sundari leans her head against his chest, while her lithe body entwines itself round the tree trunk like a creeper. Ram Kumar wears an almond-coloured checked coat and Sundari is in a bright red Punjabi dress. The end of her long dupatta flutters over Ram Kumar’s mouth. Looking at this picture, Mohanlal feels as if his breathing will stop.
Mohanlal had tried to figure out why Sundari had such an intense appeal for him. What was it about her that seemed to permeate to the very root of the smallest hair in his body and make him helpless with love?
He had concluded her fascination lay in:
- The innocence at the corners of her ravishing lips, overshadowed here and there by a hint of cruelty;
- Her long, black, curly hair, shining like polished granite, which curled round her neck like a hooded cobra;
- The dimples on her cheeks when she smiled.
Third photograph: The barest glimmer of a smile flits across Mohanlal’s face as he beholds Sundari in male apparel, dancing in a nightclub. He mentally salutes the experts who excel in the art of enhancing the appeal of those who are already beautiful.
In spite of her disguise, he has spotted Sundari at once. There she is, bathed in neon light. She has a stick in her hand a white cap on her head, she’s in a black bush shirt and white pants and is dancing with a foreign woman. Mohanlal reads the caption.
‘Mina (Sundari) trapped in a Paris nightclub. She has disguised herself as a man to deceive the people there. Later she escapes and resumes her search for her lover. See all this in Akash Productions’ new film, Confluence of Rivers.’
Mohanlal was just turning to the fourth photograph when he was interrupted by his wife, Snehlata, who entered the drawing room with a cup of tea. At her approach, Mohanlal shut his eyes and became obstinately silent. ‘Are you unwell?’ she asked, as she placed the cup on the table. Mohanlal answered, ‘I’m OK.’ As she returned to the kitchen, she said, ‘The tea will get cold.’
Mohanlal rose from the sofa and went towards the table. Taking out his writing pad and pen from the drawer, he returned to the sofa. He looked at his letterhead with satisfaction:
SHRI MOHANLAL SHAH
Income Tax Practitioner. 44 Kalbadevi Road, Bombay 2.
Then he started to write:
My Dream Queen,
I have seen you in so many films. From the very first moment when I saw you in ‘Slave Girl’, you have reigned supreme over my heart. Since the day that I spotted you in the group of dancers, swaying to the rhythm of drums, my heart has hypnotically swayed with you. From that moment I have been in love with you.
I have seen every photograph taken of you, been enchanted by your inexhaustible beauty. In my pursuit of you, my own life is as nothing. If, in return for this sacrifice, I should expect one letter—nay, just one line—from you, I sincerely hope you will not consider it too great a demand.
From one destined to be ever yours,
Sd/-
Mohanlal Shah
Income tax practitioner
Mohanlal fell into a reverie … At ten in the morning by the very first post, this letter would reach her. She would have been late returning home shooting the night before.
Rising at 9 a.m. and on completing her toilet, she would have donned fresh lounging clothes and be sitting sipping tea. The servant would bring his letter in a silver tray. Sundari would be flattered to learn that among her many admirers, she has one even in a by-lane of Bombay’s Kalabadevi …
Languidly, with her henna-decorated hands, she slits open the thin edge of the envelope and proceeds to remove the letter between two fingers.
If the letter does not slip out easily, she will blow her warm breath into the envelope, ballooning it and dexterously drawing out the letter into the palm of her other hand. Opening the letter, she will read the first line: ‘My Dream Queen …’ A tremor of a smile will appear on her lips; her rosy cheeks will begin to dimple. Leaning her head on the high chair back, her eyes shut, she will lose herself in love’s intoxication.
Ram Kumar is the false lover of the celluloid world. Mohanlal, income tax practitioner, practical, of the world, in spite of having his forty-five-year-old wife, Snehlata, is playing a gamble with life for the sake of love. He is prepared to give up over thing for her, Sundari. That’s what you call true love!
In an outburst of love, Sundari will sing, ‘Mohanlal, my dearest income tax practitioner, I, too am mad about you. I too am ready to lay my life at your feet …’
Mohanlal wonders: Will Sundari read his letter after tea or before? Or will she be in the act of pouring out the tea when the letter is presented to her on a tray by the servant? The servant … Mohanlal tries to picture him. Yes, he would be a dark-skinned, dried-up fellow with a cunning that floats like oil to the surface of his tiny eyes. How will he do it? Present the silver tray and stand respectfully before her? Or will he leave the tray on the table and move away? Mohanlal prefers the image of the immobile, respectful servant presenting the letter on a tray. The tea ritual will be abandoned halfway through, as she picks up the letter. Reading the first line of address, she will allow her head to fall back on her chair and will murmur a soft song—
Oh Mohan
Won’t you come quickly to me?
Oh Krishna
Won’t you come quickly to me …
Her cup of morning tea will turn cold.
Raising her voice, she will call her servant and ask for pen and paper. No, that’s not quite right: it implies laziness. It is more appropriate that she should rise and get the pen and paper herself …
Sundari will rise herself, get pen and paper and begin to write:
My Mohan, My Beloved Flute-player,
I can’t bear this any longer. Don’t waste a moment coming to me.
Your
Dream Queen
Having done that she will write on the envelope in letters formed like pearls:
Mohanlal Shah
Income Tax Practitioner
404 Kalbadevi
Bombay 2
She will send her own servant to carry the note to his office …
At the entrance of the office building halts a white Impala. Quickly completing his work, Mohanlal walks briskly down the stairs.
The driver salutes smartly. The cycle-shop owner, Vrajlal, catches a glimpse of him entering the Impala …
But no … The servant continues to bother Mohanlal. In the servant’s cunning eyes there is no acceptance of the reality of Mohanlal’s and his mistress’s love. Perhaps he does not consider Mohanlal worthy of Sundari. So Mohanlal goes over the whole scene once again, starting with the letter …
Her hand holding Mohanlal’s letter is thrown back on the chair. She heaves a long sigh.
Her breakfast and the now cold tea do not interest her. She yearns to meet Mohanlal. Then noticing the telephone number on Mohanlal’s letterhead, she calls the servant and asks him to bring the telephone. A red telephone is placed by the tea tray. Her delicate fingers with their painted nails pared to just the right length, dial the number—three-nine-five-six-eight-seven.
She asks: ‘Is Mohanlal there?’
The opposite party: ‘I am putting him through …’
(Mohanlal is given the phone.)
Mohanlal: ‘Allo, who’s that?’
Sundari: ‘It’s me, Sundari.’
For a few moments Mohanlal is struck dumb with astonishment.
Then, reviving, he says: ‘Have you received my letter?’
Sundari: ‘Look, my morning tea has been left untouched. I am sending my car to your office … [A pause]. Come soon.’
Mohanlal replies, ‘Certainly,’ and puts the phone down. He leaves word at the office that he has to go out for the day on important work and will not meet clients.
The driver arrives. As Vrajlal from the cycle-shop watches him getting into the white Impala, Mohanlal waves to him with a smile a shade more intimate than usual …
Their first meeting. Mohanlal tries to imagine what it will be like. All manner of fine points become a matter for mental debate. For instance, should he arrive briefcase in hand? Then again, on getting out of the car, should he hand it over to the driver to carry? No, he rather felt Sundari would be more impressed if he had his briefcase in hand.
- The white Impala zooms through the gate and sweeps into the porch. Sundari, who, perched on the first floor window sill, has been on the lookout, rushes down to meet him.
- This long awaited tryst, heavy with the pining of separated beings, is too much for Sundari. She is unable to move though the car has arrived.
- The moment the car enters the porch, Sundari throws open the front door. Since the driver is present she can say only with her eyes just how much she has awaited this moment— straight into the bedroom.
- The car swings into the porch. The servant, who opens the door at once, shows Mohanlal into the sitting room and withdraws into the kitchen. Sundari is at the piano in a corner of the sitting room. Her agile fingers float over the keyboard, playing a light tune. The silence is broken only by the soft music she is playing. For a few moments, they gaze at each other over the piano and the shoot of love burgeons from this meeting of eyes. Mohanlal advances silently and stands leaning over the piano. It is not fitting that speech should intrude at a moment of such overwhelming emotion.
Mohanlal likes the last sequence best: ‘Sundari.’ He places his hands on her shoulder. Sundari is lost, helpless with love; her fingers become limp. Mohanlal touches her hair. Dropping their eyes, they declare together: ‘My Love’.
Mohanlal puts the letter in his pocket, takes a gulp of tea from the cup on the table and looks around the room to make sure he is alone. Picking up the copy of Filmfare he proceeds, finally, to be lost in the fourth and last photograph:
In the hall of an opulent mansion stands Mohanlal in a blue suit, holding a briefcase. In the porch, visible beyond the door, stands a white car. Near the door on the right, in a yellow sari finely embroidered with creepers, stands Sundari of the Dimpled Laugh, her eyes reflecting joy at Mohanlal’s arrival. She supports herself against the wall with her right hand. Her left hand, fingers delicately apart, is slightly raised in a gesture of mild surprise and happiness. The tiny watch on her wrist can be seen through the sari pallav draped over her arm.
Mohanlal, carefully scrutinizing the photography, feels that compared to Sundari’s radiant attire, his own suit looks somewhat faded and creased. All the same, he notes the depth of feeling his smile expresses in the picture. Fulfilled and happy, he lays aside the copy of Filmfare.
Translated from the original Gujarati by Toni Patel.