Shining Hero (34 page)

To Karna, Poopay was a whole continent. Her veins spread through his consciousness like rivers through the land, watering and flooding
and receding so that he could almost smell them, fish and water, mud and the oldness of stone that has been stroked for ten thousand years. Her tendons and her ligaments, the beating of her heart, the rise and fall of her pristine lungs, the marrow of her bones were infinite spaces in which his senses roamed. His years on the street had sharpened his senses till he was as acute as a wild animal and was on the edge of seeing through things. His nostrils quivered like a dog’s from a nose that was narrow as a pencil. He could sniff out fear or opportunity in a moment. He could tell the mood of a person before they knew themselves what they were feeling. But the hugeness of Poopay Patalya, who seemed to Karna to fill the Cosmos, made it impossible for him to take her in smaller parts. He could not sip her, but could only swallow her whole like a greedy god guzzling up the river of infinity. It was as though she was spread as widely as the Ganges when it flooded. He could only see the map of the universe and was unable to focus on any single constellation. Her words left him dazzled as though through her he could experience Himalayan snow and the icy caves of Shiva. Her moods took him to areas beyond the range of human breathing. Her feelings left him experiencing the density of the deepest part of holy rivers. He was dazed with the glory of her. She was the goddess. She was Kali, black, fierce and terrible, who dances with a necklace of skulls and her tongue hanging out. She was Uma too, who is mild and beautiful. Karna, with his nose sharp like the sniffing of a jackal, knew that all these were Poopay Patalya.

Towering high or lowly bending,
on the turf or on his car
With his bow and glistening arrows
Arjun waged a mimic war
.
Targets on the high arena,
mighty tough or wondrous small
With his arrows still unfailing
Arjun pierced them, one and all
.

‘Bhima and I have been forbidden to meet till the day of the ceremonies,’ laughed Malti. ‘So I want you to act as a go-between, Shivarani.’ Then, when Shivarani did not answer, she asked, ‘What’s the matter? You looked suddenly sad.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Shivarani and tried to make her lips smile. ‘And I am really happy for you.’

In the days that followed, trying to keep her voice steady, Shivarani would tell Bhima, ‘Malti says, she can’t bear to wait so long till she sees you again.’ Then go to Malti with the message, ‘He loves you.’

Shivarani wondered if she could endure any more. She did not like going to Calcutta these days and spent more and more time at the Hatibari.

One evening Parvathi suddenly began to scream with excitement. ‘He’s on the TV. Come and look, Memsahib.’ Shivarani came reluctantly and for a moment, as she glanced at the screen, she did indeed think that it was Arjuna, hurling Poopay Patalya and at
the same time chewing-gum. It was another moment more before Shivarani realised that the actor was really Karna.

‘I always knew Karna would become famous one day,’ chortled Parvathi. ‘And Poopay Patalya beats him in the fight. Who would imagine that someone would one day beat Karna, let alone a woman.’

‘It’s only a story, Parvathi. Don’t be so silly,’ Shivarani chided.

Parvathi was very pregnant with her second child when Karna returned to the Hatibari. Her hand shook as she offered him the dishes of aloo sag and mangsho jhol. Because she had seen him on the screen she was so awestruck that she nearly dropped the dishes. ‘To think that I should be in the same room with a famous actor,’ she sighed.

‘It was only an advert for chewing-gum,’ snapped Shivarani. ‘And look what you are doing. The juice is running all over the floor.’ Parvathi hastily straightened the dish and gazed upon Karna with one hand across her eyes as though the sight of him dazzled her.

‘Bring more chupatties. Why are you standing there?’ snapped Shivarani.

Parvathi hesitated, seemed about to speak, then waddled off reluctantly. She thought that if she made some mention of the value of keeping silent, Memsahib would allow her to stay and listen to the conversation. She had become good at getting what she wanted out of Memsahib these days. She had asked Memsahib to invest in a pension for Basu. ‘For when he retires or when he gets ill or something. Like he would get if he was working in a company.’ She had heard that company drivers were given such things. ‘Now he’s got family and everything so I thought you might like to put something aside for us, you know, just to thank me for keeping my mouth shut.’

‘That is called blackmail, Parvathi,’ Shivarani said grimly. But all the same she told Basu the next day that as he had worked for her so long and loyally she was setting up a little trust for him in case
anything should happen to him. And that when he retired he would receive a pension from it.

‘Thank you, Memsahib,’ said Basu and going down on his knees, touched his kind employer’s feet in a gust of thankfulness. He could never understand why his wife seemed so unmoved by the new and marvellous generosity of a once slightly parsimonious employer. ‘Is there something I don’t know?’ he asked Parvathi later.

Parvathi smiled, kissed the top of his head, and said, ‘Lots and lots, my love,’ as though it was a joke.

However this time Parvathi decided to say nothing. Her power over Memsahib must not be wasted on trifles, she decided. There would surely come the day when she, her husband or her children needed something big – dowries, college fees, even a little car of their own. She would keep her threats for then.

Arjuna was shocked when he saw the chewing-gum advert. How could such a thing have happened? How could his hideous and common brother get such an opportunity while here was he, Arjuna, still studying and with the chance of getting a part years away? Perhaps he would never get one, for it seemed to him that since he had been in Bombay, every second person was in competition with him. Then, just when Arjuna was feeling something very near to despair combined with huge jealousy, a producer came to Arjuna’s film school. ‘Your brother, Karna, says you know how to ride a horse.’

A breakthrough, thought Arjuna with excitement. A pity that it had to come through Karna, but anyway, a start. ‘I have ridden for years and I’m pretty good.’

‘Oh, you don’t need to be good,’ laughed the man. ‘All you need to be able to do is stay sitting on your horse. I need some more mounted soldiers for a battle scene. It’s an advert for Amul butter.’

‘I will do it,’ said Arjuna. ‘Is Karna in it too?’

The producer laughed. ‘He was okay in the chewing-gum advert so we are having him in this one also.’

‘What part is he playing?’ asked Arjuna, starting to feel glum.

‘The king of the opposing army,’ said the man.

‘And I will be one of the soldiers,’ said Arjuna in a gloomy voice.

The director did not hear the gloom. ‘That’s right. I expect it will be fun for you taking part in a film with your brother.’

‘Actually I am a far better rider than Karna,’ said Arjuna. ‘He only started learning to ride a few years ago. I have ridden all my life.’

‘He’s good enough for the part,’ said the producer.

‘Him the king and me the soldier,’ sighed Arjuna morosely. ‘Him with the main part and me an extra.’ But all the same he told the man, with what smile he could muster, ‘Okay. I’ll do it and tell Karna, “thanks”.’ As the man left Arjuna was already vowing to make a fantastic success of his pathetic role and become recognised.

In the advert, Karna was to eat a slice of bread and butter, then say, ‘There is nothing like Amul after a hard day’s fighting.’

‘We are trying to get Poopay Patalya to take the part of the princess who hands it to him, but she is so busy these days appearing in three or four films at once, that she may not be available.’

The advert was to be shot on the Maidan of Calcutta. This was an area on which had once stood the village of Govindpur but in 1758 the British threw out the residents, destroyed their houses, built a massive and impregnable new fort costing two million pounds and cut down the dense surrounding jungle to give their cannons a clear line of fire. It was now a public expanse, three kilometres long and one wide, bounded by the racecourse and important streets on two sides, the river on a third and a stream called Tolly’s Nullah forming its southern boundary.

It was a very popular place and the makers of the advert had a difficult time finding space to film. All day and all night Calcutta’s residents used the Maidan – performing yoga exercises, walking their dogs, flying kites, playing cricket. On the day of the Amul Butter battle a large crowd of onlookers mingled with the dancing bears, performing monkeys, jugglers, fire-eaters, puppet shows and contortionists, to see the filming. Film extras jostled with stilt walkers, magicians and children being given pony rides. There were
grown-ups practising tent-pegging and in the distance, an elephant. Actors in tin and cardboard armour hung around stalls drinking sugarcane juice or eating samosas while people pushed through the throng of brightly bridled cinema horses to get their fortune told by parrots or to buy paper dragons.

Shivarani told Basu to park the car and stay with it. ‘In a crowd like this there will be nothing left if it is unattended for a second.’

She knew it was her duty to support her nephews but the whole thing depressed her. She could not imagine what Koonty’s reaction would have been to the sight of her two sons taking part in a trashy advert. It must be her fault, she thought. Because she had no children, she had not known how to set Karna and Arjuna on the right path. By now, she thought, any other boys would be following proper careers as lawyers, accountants or politicians.

Although there were a thousand other thrilling things to see, the appearance of Shivarani always attracted a little crowd. A group of children followed her, doing a mocking Shivarani walk and whispering, goddess Kali, goddess Kali. She would swing round on them suddenly, at the same time pretending to look furious and spreading her hands as though trying to catch them. And then she would watch and laugh as they fled with frightened giggles.

Karna arrived in his car and almost before he was out the dresser was pulling a glittering cloak, baggy jodhpur trousers and a chain breastplate made of nylon rope over his tracksuit. The whole thing had to be done very fast because there were more than a hundred people to dress and only ten minutes to do it in.

‘What about make-up?’ asked Karna.

‘No time for anything like that,’ the man said. ‘No one will see your face anyway. Here’s your horse. Get on quick. Shooting should have already started.’ They put a crown on Karna’s head. A narrow white horse with the inward-turning ears of a Katiawari was led up and Karna was legged into the gold-tasselled saddle. Karna’s horse had flared nostrils, an arched neck and prancing feet. It constantly
whisked its tail and snapped on its foam-covered bit while Karna sat back in his saddle, looking haughty, holding a scarlet leather rein with a casual hand, as though he had been brought up riding fiery stallions instead of a pony mare called Poopay.

Then Karna saw Arjuna gazing at him with an expression that was almost awe and certainly envy. Sitting tall and straight as though he was a real king and with his heart singing, Karna inclined his head slightly in Arjuna’s lowly direction. This moment, Karna felt sure, made up for all the humiliations and sadnesses of his life. Looking down, he announced to those around, in his new, irritating, grand voice. ‘Meet my younger brother who is following in my footsteps though why he has to compete with me in everything I do, I have no idea.’

There came a gust of sympathetic laughter at the comment.

Arjuna flinched.

All the while film people rushed around shouting orders, arranging cameras and dashing at the watching crowd, threatening them with dreadful punishments if they did not stand back.

The producer began shouting instructions, ‘Common soldiers to your places!’ and the rest of the riders began mounting and flowing into the field.

Karna, who was not one of the common soldiers but their king, restrained his mount which started stretching out its neck and fiddling with its bit. As he waited, he saw someone rush up to Arjuna and ask, ‘Are you a rider extra?’ and heard Arjuna answer glumly, ‘Yes.’

‘What the hell are you standing there for then?’ shouted the man, tossing Arjuna a cloak. ‘Here, fling this over your clothes. You’ll be at the back so it hardly matters what you wear.’

Karna felt gratified to hear Arjuna mutter, ‘Sorry’ as he wrapped himself in the tinsel nylon.

‘And get on that horse there,’ ordered the man.

Karna watched anxiously and breathed a sigh of relief to see that Arjuna’s small brown horse had ears that hung like a depressed rabbit’s.

Shirvani, who had seen the whole encounter, felt dispirited and wondered where it was all going to lead. There seemed no place on earth these two boys could be, and not make a fight out of it.

As Karna went riding by, she called out, ‘Good luck.’

He waved and grinned. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.

‘I wouldn’t have missed it, darling,’ she told him. She thought she saw a little flush leap into his cheeks because she had called him, ‘Darling’.

Shivarani watched him go and wished that her relationship with him was as relaxed as with the local children.

The commander of Arjuna’s army sat on a large, thickset black horse and was wearing the golden turban and floating robes of a Sikh warrior. His expression was haughty and his posture grand. In his hand was a curved and bejewelled sword which winked in the bright sunlight.

As Arjuna trotted up on his dull gelding, the Sikh shouted, ‘You are too tall. Go right to the back where you don’t show up. And be sure to keep your T-shirt covered with that cloak at all times just in case the camera catches you.’

Arjuna shrank to the rear of the battlefield and for the first time properly understood true disgrace.

For a while Arjuna, T-shirt and jeans concealed by six yards of ladies’ tinsel and handloom, hoped to restore his dignity by perking up his horse. He pressed his heels into its side, took a firmer hold of the bit, rearranged his weight, even shouted encouragingly at it. But nothing worked. The horse seemed to hardly notice, and did not even bother to prick its ears. Arjuna’s humiliation was complete.

At last the two armies were in place, facing each other across the plain, with the producer moving between the two on a motor scooter and shouting out orders through a megaphone, the gawping crowd being forcibly restrained by bamboo whackings. The only creature to be spared a beating was a huge Himalayan fighting bear that stood
with his owner, towering so alarmingly over those around him that when the crowd controllers reached him, they edged away. He was known to be harmless but all the same it was best to be on the safe side when dealing with a creature that weighed as much as three grown men and had claws as long and sharp as plough spikes.