'But that was just a film, Madam,' I plead with her.
'Hush! Have you forgotten what I told you once, that an actor is an actor for life? Do not forget that I will forever be known as the Tragedy Queen. And I didn't become a tragedy queen just by reciting lines given to me by a scriptwriter. I lived the life of my characters. Ghalib didn't become a great tragic poet just by writing some lines in a book. No. You have to feel pain, experience it, live it in your daily life before you can become a tragedy queen.'
'If this is the criteria, then can I become a tragedy king?' I ask with the wide-eyed innocence of a twelve year-old.
She does not answer.
* * *
Neelima is giving an interview to a journalist from Starburst in the drawing room. I enter with a tray of gulab jamuns and samosas.
'OK, Neelimaji, we have talked about the past, now let's come to the present. Why did you quit films?' I watch closely as the journalist fiddles with a tape recorder. She is quite young and rather striking looking, with fair skin and shoulder-length black hair. She is wearing smart black trousers with a printed kurti and high-heeled black pumps.
'Because they no longer make films like they used to. The passion, the commitment, is gone.
Today's actors are nothing but assembly-line products, each exactly like the other, mouthing their lines like parrots. There is no depth. We did one film at a time. Now I find actors rushing to three different sets in a day. It's ridiculous.' Neelima gestures with her hands.
'Well, pardon my saying so, but I heard that part of the reason you quit was because you were not being offered any roles.'
Anger flares up on her face. 'Who told you that? It is a complete lie. I was offered several roles, but I turned them down. They were not powerful enough. And the films weren't heroine-oriented.'
'What you mean is that you were not offered heroine roles any longer, but those of elder sister or aunt.'
'How dare you disparage me and my work? I must say even the journalists of today have lost their manners. Can't you see the awards and trophies lining the shelves? Do you think I got these by not acting? Do you think I earned the sobriquet of Tragedy Queen by singing around trees like today's two-bit heroines, looking like a glorified extra?'
'But . . . but we are not talking about your past caree—'
'I know exactly what you are talking about. Please leave this instant. Ram, show this lady out and do not open the door to her ever again.' She stands up and walks out of the room in a huff. I escort the bewildered journalist to the door.
I am unable to figure out whether this was a comedy, a drama, or a tragedy.
* * *
There are many framed pictures in Neelima's flat. But all of them show only her. Neelima receiving some award, Neelima cutting a ribbon, Neelima watching a performance, Neelima giving an award. There are no pictures of any other movie stars, except for two framed pictures in her bedroom. They are of two beautiful women, one white, the other Indian.
'Who are these women?' I ask her one day.
'The one on the left is Marilyn Monroe and the one on the right is Madhubala.'
'Who are they?' 'They were both very famous actresses who died young.'
'So why do you keep their pictures?'
'Because I also want to die young. I don't want to die looking old and haggard. Have you seen the picture of Shakeela in this week's Film Digest? She was a famous film star in the fifties and must be ninety now. See how old and desiccated she looks. And this is exactly how people will remember her after her death. As old and wrinkly and haggard. But people always remember Marilyn Monroe and Madhubala as young because they died young. The lasting image people have of you is how you looked at the time of your death. Like Madhubala, I want to leave behind an image of unspoilt youth and beauty, of everlasting grace and charm. I don't want to die when I am ninety. How I wish at times I could stop all the clocks of this world, shatter every mirror, and freeze my youthful face in time.'
A strange sadness spreads through me when I hear this. In a way, Neelima is an orphan, like me.
But unlike me, she has a larger family – her fans, producers and directors. And she is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for their sake. So that they can remember her forever as a young woman.
For the first time, I feel lucky that I am not a film star.
* * *
A famous producer is coming to the house. Neelima is very excited. She believes he will offer her a role and she will get to face the camera once again. She spends the entire day applying make-up and trying on various outfits.
The producer comes in the evening. He is short and bald, with a bulging tummy. I am told to bring in gulab jamuns and samosas and sherbet.
'. . . is a great role for you, Neelimaji,' the producer is saying. 'I have always been one of your greatest fans. I saw Woman fifteen times. That death scene. O, my God, I could die seeing it.
