Show Business (25 page)

So he stops seeing her! Just like that — can you imagine? And what about the fact that the starry-eyed paramour is going around smearing red on her forehead and coyly referring to an anonymous “husband”?

“That's her problem, not mine. I'd tell her to stop it but I can't even bring myself to speak to her.”

Sad, stirring stuff, isn't it, darlings? Cheetah was so moved she promptly gave him another drink — by emptying the glass on top of his head! GRRROWL … !

DARLINGS, Cheetah was at a Bollywood party with a difference the other day. Seems our villain with a social conscience, Pranay, has political commitments too! The man best known for flogging celluloid peasants and ripping bodices off vamps played host to a Delhi VIP last week while producers and distributors tried to look knowledgeable about national issues. The party was to introduce the well-heeled and high-heeled of filmland to Dr. Sourav Gangoolie, national treasurer of the ruling party and behind-the-scenes confidante of the Prime Minister, no less! Despite some notable absentees (including Bollywood's only ministerial offspring, Ashok “completely-uninterested-in-politics” Banjara), Pranay's bash has to be counted as a success for the
paan
-stained veteran. The dapper Dr. Gangoolie, who is not much seen in the public eye but has a reputation for shrewdness and getting things done, was able to meet an assortment of Bollywood luminaries. He spoke affably to all and sundry, but there was a determined glint in his bespectacled eyes as he squeezed the pudgier hands. After all, there's an election around the corner and Dr. G. is supposed to be the party's principal fund-raiser. And funds are one commodity Bollywood isn't exactly short of, especially of the undeclared variety (but of course Cheetah's just being naughty, little cubs, and the libel lawyers can relax)!! Who'd have thought our Pranay had a top politico up his sleeve, darlings? Mark my words — the best villains always have more to them than meets the eye. Which in Pranay's case is just as well, eh? Grrowl…

STOP THE PRESS! Remember the soulful confessions of the straying superstar in these pages a couple of weeks ago? Well, the Wronged Woman (or is she simply the Wrong Woman?) has been pouring her heart out to your Cheetah, darlings, and it's all sizzling stuff! Unfortunately, these lawyers are
such
a bore, my cubs, they just won't let me print it all. Anyway, the burden of her song is that marriage was all
his
idea in the first place — (sorry,
His
idea, she insists I write it with a capital
H)
— and that it's merely set the seal of divine sanction on their holy union. Can you believe such a thing, darlings? But what amazed Cheetah even more was how she went on about Him and what a great influence He is on her life and how she wouldn't let anyone speak a word against Him because He is her Force, her be-all and end-all. Now Cheetah knows this is usually how actresses sound when their ends no longer justify their jeans and the time comes to discover religion, but the lady in question is in her prime and her hero's no one's idea of an idol. Wonders will never cease! Stay tuned, darlings — the lady's nothing if not “revealing,” and there may be more revelations to come! Grrowl…

TUT, TUT, DARLINGS, all is not well between Bollywood's hottest screen twosome, at least not after the spectacular fiasco of their
Dil Ek Qila,
which is finding it difficult to survive its initial week in most theaters! When Ashok Banjara walked into producer Jagannath Choubey's glittering Diwali bash the other evening (and what a bash it was, my little cubs, more sparkle than a mineful of diamonds, and fireworks to put Venice to shame) guess who should make a beeline for him, slinky in a silvery
salwar-kameez,
but his recent costar Mehnaz Elahi! And guess who walked past without a greeting, as if he could see right through her!! The poor little itch girl stood helplessly in the middle of the room, her seductive smile turning into a strained simper. Of course this was for all of six seconds, before she was surrounded by her usual sea of admirers and swept away to another shore, but six seconds is long enough for your Cheetah to notice, my cubs! It was not long before the room was abuzz with speculation, much of it asking what Bollywood was coming to if one flop, even such a
maha
flop, could do this to relations between two friends and colleagues. Some people were already renaming the film
Dil Ek Killer!
Cheetah, as always, knew more than she was prepared to say — but as The Banjara knows so well, some things are better done than said, eh? Think about that, my little cubs! Grrrrowl…

END OF INTERVAL BACK
TO MAIN FEATURE

 

Exterior: Night

DIL EK QILA
(The Heart Is a Fortress)

THE SECOND TREATMENT: THE REVISED VERSION

A hillside in Kashmir. The camera pans across azure sky, verdant slopes, technicolor flowers. Maya runs laughing across the screen to the strains of a dozen violins as Ashok Banjara pursues her, singing:

You are my sunlight
You brighten my life
You are my sunlight
Come be my wife.

He finally catches up with her and hugs her from behind: she continues trying to flee and they roll down the hill, locked in an embrace. Close-up: their laughing lips are about to meet when the camera swings skyward and the opening credits fill the screen.

Domestic scene: Maya with her parents, Godambo and Abha, in their luxurious, indeed palatial, home. Early moments of dialogue establish father's strength (deep, gravelly voice), wealth (expensive rings on fingers), and traditionalism (caste mark on forehead). Maya gets to the point: “Father, I would like to get married.” “Excellent,” says Godambo: he has been thinking along the same lines. It is time Maya settled down. It would be good for her and, provided a suitable son-in-law was found, good for the business also.

Maya looks uncomfortable. “Father, there is already a man whom I wish to marry.”

“What!” Outrage on Godambo's face, consternation in his bulging eyes. Abha rolls her own pupils heavenward and mutters a brief invocation. “And who can this be?” asks the paterfamilias.

“Its someone I met at the music class,” Maya says nervously. “He's a very fine person and a wonderful singer. Let me bring him home to meet you. I'm sure you'd like him.”

“Wait!” Godambo is a man of procedure. “Before you bring any such person to our house, let me make some inquiries. Tell me everything you know about him. Who is the man? What is his name? Is he of good family? Who are his parents? Do we know them, and if not, why not? Where does he live? What is his profession?” And Abha adds, “Is he tall?”

“Yes, he is,” Maya answers her mother, but one useful response does not get her off the hook. Godambo is not to be diverted. Squirming under his relentless probing, Maya has to admit that her beau is neither rich nor well connected. “But he is a great musician,” she says with deep-pupiled intensity. “And I love him.”

“Love?” Godambo barks. “What is love?”

“Love,” Abha explains maternally,” is something that comes after marriage, Maya. I love you, I love your father. How can you love a stranger?”

“He's not a stranger, Mother,” Maya begins, then realizes it is hopeless. “Look, if only you both would meet him, you would see immediately what I mean.” But her father is reluctant to take matters so far as to welcome this impecunious interloper into his own living room. Then Maya has an idea. “Come and see him at the Cultural Evening tonight,” she pleads.

Godambo is not interested, but Abha, ever the obliging mother, persuades him on behalf of her daughter.

Scene: an auditorium, every seat full. Maya and her parents are escorted to a front row. The curtain parts to reveal a stage with the painted backdrop of twin snow-covered mountain peaks. The symbolism is made even more obvious as Mehnaz enters in a cascade of anklets, covered head to foot in kathak costume of billowing blue skirt, peak-hugging blue blouse, blue head scarf, and blue leggings, all spangled with silver. Godambo grunts appreciatively. Ashok, seated on a dhurrie on the stage, bursts into song:

My heart beats for you,
I'd perform feats for you,
You are the landlord of my soul;
My eyes light for you,
I'd gladly fight for you,
Without you I don't feel whole.

As he sings and Mehnaz dances, all arched hip and elegant fingertips, Ashok manages to exchange meaningful glances with Maya in the audience, making it clear every word of the playback applies to her. Meanwhile, Godambo, oblivious to this byplay, appears to enjoy himself hugely. When the song is over the audience bursts into well-rehearsed applause, and Godambo rises to his feet to clap vigorously.

At the end of the show, Godambo, in mellow spirits, looks around the hall. “So shall we meet your young man now?” he asks.

“Oh, yes, thank you, Papa!” Maya exclaims, bright-eyed. “Did you like him?”

“That boy,” Godambo's eyes bulge with pleasure, “has the making of a very great singer indeed.”

Backstage Mehnaz is cooing to Ashok. “Wasn't that wonderful, darling?” she asks, placing her hands on Ashok's shoulder. “You and I,” she adds huskily, “can make beautiful music together.”

Ashok disengages himself. “Excuse me, Mehnaz,” he says. “I have an important appointment.”

Mehnaz tosses her hair in displeasure and flounces out of the dressing room.

Ashok emerges from the auditorium, looking handsome and poised. After he deferentially greets Maya's parents, they get into Godambo's chauffeur-driven Impala.

When Mehnaz, now freshly changed into a slinky
salwar-kameez,
emerges from the auditorium, she sees Ashok — a look of eager expectation on his face — shutting the car door behind him. Mehnaz is left staring crestfallen and resentful into the camera as the Impala drives away into the future with an optimistic squeal of its white-walled tires.

Next scene: Ashok with his parents, in their lower-middle-class home. The decor is conventional: pale-green walls, peeling ceiling, plastic-covered sofa, garish calendars of androgynous deities. His father, Ramkumar, is poor but dignified, and anxious about his son's choice. Marriage, he points out, has to do with more than mere attraction. Could Ashok cope with the stresses of being married to the daughter of Seth Godambo, of having a wife wealthier and more important than himself? And what about them? Marriage is not just a relationship between individuals, but an arrangement between families. Ashok would not just be marrying one woman, he would be acquiring another family. Could he see his own simple father and sari-swathed mother socializing in Seth Godambo s living room? Ashok has to admit he cannot.

Yet when his parents finally meet Maya, they are charmed by her sweetness and simplicity, her modesty and manners. “But she's wonderful!” Ramkumar beams. “She'sjust the kind of girl we would have wanted to arrange for you to marry,” he adds. “Despite your obsession with music, you must still have something of me in you if you look for the same qualities in a wife that we would in a daughter-in-law.”

Maya blushes modestly, her smile dimpling her slim cheeks.

It is later, at dusk; Ashok and Maya are running through a palm grove near the beach. Maya wears a sari and a joyous expression. The flow of the tide caresses the shore, sending up froth that seems to gurgle happily in celebration of our heroine's love. The sun's rays bathe her beauty in a golden radiance as she runs through the grove, and Ashok, losing sight of her among the trees, sings with feeling:

Where are you, my love?
I wait for light from the sun above.
You have taken my heart
And hid it from view,
Now the trees will not part
To bring me to you.
Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

And Maya's answer comes echoing through the palm fronds: “I-I-I'm he-e-re.” Ashok grins in delight and resumes the chase.

Five verses later, he has caught her. They embrace, and her last answer is a lilting whisper: “I-I-I'm here.” Ashok's head moves toward hers, and the camera caresses the waves as they wash the shore… .

Afterward, Maya and Ashok walk by the sea, now calm in amatory contentment. Ashok buys a small garland of white flowers for Maya to wear in her hair. Impulsively, she slips off her necklace and gives it to Ashok. “Keep this,” she says, “as a memento of my love.” It is a thin chain, strung through a medallion of a dancing goddess. Ashok kisses the medallion, then gives it back to her. “How can I wear a necklace?” he asks with a laugh. “Wear it on your wrist,” Maya suggests, “like a bracelet.” Ashok loops the chain three times around his wrist, the medallion resting on it like a watch. “Don't try and tell the time with it,” Maya giggles. “Any time is a good time,” Ashok responds, “to think of how much I love you.”

Scene: Godambo with Mehnaz Elahi. “I enjoyed your performance at the Cultural Evening last night,” he says gutturally. “I would like to engage you for a very special occasion.”

Mehnaz is shrewdly obliging.

“You see, my daughter is getting married,” Godambo goes on. “And we are celebrating it in a big way, as befits an alliance involving one of the city's biggest families. I would like to have an entertainment show worthy of the occasion. And I would like you to dance at the wedding. Especially since the bridegroom is an associate of yours.”

“An associate?” Mehnaz clearly hasn't heard about Ashok's plans.

“Ashok Banjara,” Godambo says with pride. “Why, hasn't he told you?”

“There is a lot,” Mehnaz replies with a set expression, “that Ashok doesn't tell me.”

“Well,” Godambo says, looking uncomfortable, “will you perform at the occasion anyway?”

“Of course.” Mehnaz's tone is dull.

“Good. So you will come for the event? Three weeks from now. I hope you are free.”

“Oh — three weeks from today.” Mehnaz is quick to make the most of a bad job. “I am afraid I cannot accept your invitation, Sethji. You see, I have a prior commitment in Bombay. Of course, I could try to change it….”