Shining Hero (35 page)

The crowd was a constant problem and the producer already regretted having chosen the cheaper option of filming his battle scene in this public place. A balloon seller had been paid not to sell during filming but unfortunately several adults and children who had already purchased released their strings. The sky was now dotted with bright colours, making it hard for the cameramen to get the shots they needed without the inclusion of twentieth-century gas-filled plastic.

The bear lived with his owner in a small hut in the bustee. They slept side by side on charpoys, the bear’s being reinforced with iron bars that the owner had pilfered from the railway line when the wood frame had started cracking. The bear had a large appetite for arrak though a rather weak head and it adored stuffed paratha so the pair ate and drank together like friends. The bear’s function was to put on a performance of fighting and attacking his owner. The more ferocious the attack the bigger the crowd and the greater the revenue. Unfortunately the bear found it almost intolerable to show aggression to someone he loved so much. For a while he would prance around rattling his claws, wrinkling up his snout, letting out murderous growling sounds, giving his beloved little pretend shoves with his paws. But suddenly, often just when the crowd was starting to gasp with horror, fearing the man was about to be mauled to death in the midst of the most furious clinch the bear would be seized with emotion. Flinging his arms round his owner, the bear would kiss and kiss his cheeks with enormous lickings.

Human activities interested the bear because he thought he was one and now he was finding the activities on the plain before him absolutely fascinating. He was very sensitive to his owner’s moods and because the man was so excited by the throng of horses and riders, the bear felt excited too and could not take his eyes off the ranks of glittering soldiers.

There came a shout from the director. The gold-turbaned commander waved a hand to say he was ready. The cameras began turning and the horses ahead of Arjuna went galloping off in a cloud of yellow dust, a bounce of whisking tails and quarters, a clatter of armour, a roar of yelling and a burst of thrown clods.

But Arjuna’s horse stood still. ‘Go on, get going, you idiot,’ shouted Arjuna, digging in his heels. Still the horse did not budge. In fact Arjuna wondered if it had gone to sleep for its head was hanging low and its ears still drooped. ‘Get moving,’ yelled Arjuna, kicking hard. He was going to miss the battle altogether in a moment. He craned longingly after the rest of the army and dug his heels even harder into the side of his reluctant mount till at last the horse raised its head a little and set off at a shuffling trot. Arjuna kicked again and the pace increased slightly but they were rapidly dwindling back. Soon Arjuna would be left behind for the gap between him and the rest of the army was widening every moment. The air was now filled with shouts, clashes of metal, of people beating dekchi lids, and the thudding of hooves. Two of the horses had been trained to fall and the cameramen dashed alongside, filming them both from every angle for the many shots to be inserted later, giving the impression of a dozen terrible tumbles.

Arjuna began to feel desperate at his horse’s unenthusiastic gait. Looping his reins he whacked the side of the horse’s neck with them, at the same time shouting exhortations, implorings and furious threats. The horse speeded up a little and he heard liquid sloshing in its stomach as though it had recently drunk a lot of water. Arjuna slapped, shouted and drummed his heels into the animal’s side and the horse toiled into a slow canter.

There came a roar, followed by screams. Then three of the horses ahead of Arjuna turned in mid-charge and began rushing back towards him and towering over them he saw the vast dark figure of a Himalayan bear.

Arjuna’s horse changed its character in a moment. Suddenly its ears
pricked up and its body seemed to bunch together under Arjuna’s in a spasm of terrified muscle. More riders were now flying towards them, their turbans unwinding, their faces filled with horror, as they leant back in their saddles and pulled desperately on the open mouths of their terrified mounts.

Ahead of Arjuna, horses tumbled, reared, threw their riders, crashed to the ground. Some were going one way, some another, but the bulk of the army had become trapped in the melee. And in their midst was the great bear rearing to his fullest height, letting out frightful roars and growls and raking at the air with his six-inch claws. He had always been aware that his master was disappointed with his feeble shows of violence so now, in this crowd where there was no loving master to kiss he seized the chance to put on the best performance of his life.

He snapped his teeth with frightful snarls, and warriors, frantic to escape, began getting tangled up in each other’s stirrups and were pulled to the ground. He raked the air with his claws and nearby horses went lunging backwards, crashing into each other, falling on top of others already fallen. Several more horses burst out of the fray and came rushing towards Arjuna, then past him.

Arjuna, keeping the firmest grip possible on his horse’s mouth, making full use of its mindless, terrified bolting, rode straight towards the turmoil, and in the way that horses rush back into burning stables, the gelding charged in panic towards the very thing that panicked it. Arjuna held its head steady and would not let it turn. This crazy horse was giving him a chance not only to catch up with the army, but to go ahead of it. If only he managed to keep this horse moving on a straight course, he might be the only soldier left to charge the enemy. The dingy cloak that had been thrown over him to hide his twentieth-century clothes began slipping off and eventually fell to the ground to vanish under milling horses’ legs and fallen warriors. It was a relief to no longer have it tangling up in his hands and getting wrapped round his face.

He did not give the bear a thought. He had come here to fight a battle and bears had not entered into it. All his attention and his
only aim was to get to the front line and defeat the enemy. And if there was a bear in the way he hardly noticed.

As they plunged through the crowd Arjuna had a glimpse of the great bear, claws extended, teeth bared, then they were past it. He nearly fell when they were brought up sharply short by the heap of writhing struggling fallen men and horses but regained his balance instantly. Then as though he was in the Hatibari and was faced with one of Piara Singh’s little bushes, he leant back, gathered up his mount, and with a thrust of his heels, urged it over the squirm of fallen soldiers. The horse leapt with a snort and a surge of muscle, and Arjuna saw, as they flew through the air, the Sikh warrior king lying below. His face was creased with agony, his golden turban had fallen off. Behind Arjuna he could hear, over the human screams, the roaring of the bear. Through the megaphone came the increasingly furious voice of the producer yelling, ‘Stop the action, stop the action.’ And ‘Will the owner of the bloody bear remove it at once before any more damage is done.’

Arjuna drove his horse onwards, thrusting through the mob till they burst through what had once been the front line of his army. There the horse stopped as suddenly as it had started, nearly tilting Arjuna over its head. As it stood staring dazedly around, its syce rushed up, took it by the bit, and began lovingly and consolingly to stroke the white foam from its trembling withers.

Across the plain, the enemy king, Karna, still waited on his white horse, surrounded by his soldiers who were milling around as though they did not know what they were supposed to be doing.

At the appearance of Arjuna, Karna stood up in his stirrups, waved his arms and began yelling, ‘Get to the back, Arjuna. Your T-shirt is showing.’

The bear’s owner had been running round the fringe of the dishevelled army ever since the animal had first gone diving into the battle. But till now excitement had been roaring so loudly in the bear’s ears and the clamour around him had been so great that he had not heard. Suddenly his master’s voice reached him and there was displeasure in the beloved’s tone instead of admiration. All the
bluster left the animal in a moment. He dropped back on all fours and began to waddle toward the voice. He emerged from the crowd, cringing, to be greeted by his master’s fury.

People were already running into the crowd, catching horses, helping riders up, getting warriors back into their saddles.

A motor scooter appeared out of the dust and the producer leapt off and began dashing up and down yelling orders, instructing everyone to take up their places again. The sikh commander’s black horse was led out, but there was no sign of its rider.

There came shouts. ‘Come here. The leading man is badly injured.’ The producer dived into the crowd and moments later Arjuna heard him shout at someone among the fallen soldiers, ‘Get up at once. What are you doing lying there? We have to complete the filming before sundown,’ and the Sikh commander chokingly reply, ‘I can’t even stand, so how do you expect me to get on a horse? I need medical treatment.’ His voice was very weak.

‘Where am I going to find a man of your shape to play your part?’

‘I don’t care,’ moaned the Sikh. ‘I am probably dying and all you can think about is your filming.’

The producer let out a snort of furious aggravation and emerged, his face scarlet with frustration. ‘Bring a stretcher,’ he shouted. Then, seeing Arjuna out at the front on his gasping bay he said, ‘You’ll do.’ He got back onto his motor scooter and beckoning Arjuna to follow, began to slowly chunter back to where the director sat. As Arjuna followed the motor scooter on his exhausted horse, he passed the bear creeping humbly behind its angry owner, back to its place in the crowd.

First-aid people went by with the stretcher on which lay the Sikh commander, his face grimacing, his head bare. He was letting out high-pitched moans of pain.

Ten minutes later someone was handing Arjuna a heap of glittering garments. The producer said, ‘Put these on and don’t waste time. I’ve
only got forty minutes left to finish the shoot and then it will start getting dark. We can do the close-ups in the studio tomorrow if the real actor is up to it.’ Baggy silk jodhpurs were pulled over Arjuna’s jeans and his head was hastily wrapped in a golden turban.

Arjuna had been transformed from an invisible too-tall warrior at the rear of the army into its commander. Thrills raced through his body like electric tinglings. The Sikh commander’s great black horse was led up. It pawed the ground impatiently with wide hooves and let out a snort like the blowing of a trumpet that sent flies shooting like arrows from its vibrating nostrils. This horse had not been panicked by the bear. This was a king’s horse, a war horse, a regal horse. Arjuna mounted it, thrilled because he was no longer a hidden hijra in a woman’s dress, but a king, a maharaja, a leader of armies.

‘I don’t want any heroic stuff,’ said the producer to Arjuna. ‘Your function is to do nothing and look decorative. Do you understand me? Now this horse is a different matter altogether to the donkey you’ve just been riding, so keep a good hold on its mouth. You know how to do that, don’t you?’

Arjuna nodded, mute with joy.

It took fifteen more minutes for the whole enemy army to be rearranged and by that time the producer was scarlet with fury and frustration. However in the end most of the horses were up and most of the riders managed to mount again.

‘Let those who are bleeding or who think they may have broken something keep out of line of the cameras till after the battle. Then they can moan and wince as much as they like. The more the better in fact,’ shouted the producer. ‘Real injuries will make the scene all the more authentic.’

Arjuna rode to the front of his army and sat waiting for the producer’s instruction for him to give the command to charge. The horse chomped on its bit and pawed at the ground, sending up a little flurry of dust.

Across the field Karna sat calmly on his tall white horse, a bright streak among the bays and browns of his army. Arjuna leant back too, in a kingly posture, to looked haughtily down his nose and languidly
swung his jewelled sword. When Karna raised a mailed hand, Arjuna raised his too.

‘No need for all that,’ the producer shouted to Arjuna. ‘Just keep that creature under control. This will only be a short shot and Karna will be the one in view. Just do as I say and let’s bloody get on with it.’

At Arjuna’s back his army murmured with the suppressed moans of the injured and the gasping of recently panicked horses.

Then the order came. Arjuna raised his sword, yelled, ‘Forwards, my men. Into the battle. Charge,’ and loosing his grip on the reins, dug his heels into the horse’s sides and cantered towards Karna, the enemy.

Karna came charging at Arjuna, his billowing cloak making it seem as though he filled the whole horizon.

‘Kill, kill kill,’ yelled Arjuna and he pulled out his sword and brandished it. ‘Death to you, you varlot,’ he roared.

Karna pulled his own sword out. ‘Say your prayer for your last moment is here, Arjuna,’ he shouted.

The cameras whirred. It looked as though the two commanders were going to be involved in a head-on collision. Their plastic swords seemed about to run each other through. This was going to be the best bit of the film.

As the horses met, Arjuna flung away his sword and reaching out, grabbed at Karna’s throat. Karna flung away his sword too and grasping Arjuna’s hands tried to pull them away, while the two mounts skidded and reared. Alongside, the cameras worked furiously, cameramen ducking and dodging for every angle.

The horses heaved and swayed as the two heroes, groaning and grunting with the effort, hauled and thrust at each other’s bodies, each trying to throw the other from his horse, while all around them the two armies clashed swords, clanged shields, and shouted war cries.