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 na
me 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.