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.
