That is why I've resolved to drag you out of your retirement. This film, for which I have already roped in a top-level director, is a woman-centric film. I am offering you a fantastic role.'
'Who is this director you have contracted?'
'It is Chimpu Dhawan.'
'But isn't he a comedy film director?'
'So what? Anyway, there will be some comedy in this film. For the lead roles I have already signed up Shahrukh Khan and Tabu.'
'I don't understand. You have already signed a heroine. So will you have two heroines?'
'No, not at all.'
'Then what will Tabu do?'
'She is the heroine.'
'So what role are you offering me?'
'Oh, didn't you understand? I am offering you the role of Shahrukh Khan's mother.'
She kicks him out of the house then and there.
The producer leaves, frothing at the mouth. 'Spoilt bitch, what does she think? She still fancies herself as a heroine. Has she seen herself in the mirror? She is lucky I didn't cast her as the grandmother. Huh!'
I thought this was a good comedy scene.
* * *
Her lover has visited her again. But this time things are more serious. She is in bed with a deep cut above her left eyebrow and her cheek is swollen. She has difficulty speaking.
'We must call the police, Madam, have that swine arrested,' I urge her as I apply antiseptic ointment to her bruises.
'No, Ram. I will be all right.'
'At least tell me his name.'
She laughs hoarsely. 'What good will that do? Don't worry, that man is never going to come here again. I finally broke off with him. That is why he did this to me. If he ever comes back, I will spit on him.'
'And how long will you suffer in silence? Look at what he has done to your face.'
'It is the destiny of a woman to suffer in silence. And what he has done to my face is nothing compared to what he has done to the rest of my body. Do you really want to see? Then look.' She unfastens the buttons on her blouse and snaps open her bra. I see a woman's naked breasts for the first time in my life. They are large and pendulous and hang down like udders on a cow. I recoil in shock when I see the cigarette burn marks all over her chest, looking like little black craters on the smooth white flesh. I begin to cry.
She is crying too. 'I do not want to live with a mask any more. I have had enough facelifts, taken enough beauty aids. I want to be a real woman for once in my life. Come to me, my child,' she says and draws my face into her chest.
I do not know what Neelima Kumari was thinking when she drew me to her bosom. Whether she saw me as a son or as a lover, whether she did it to forget her pain or simply to gain a cheap thrill. But as I nuzzled my face between her breasts, all consciousness of the outer world ceased in my brain and for the first time I felt as though I was not an orphan any more. That I had a real mother, one whose face I could see, one whose flesh I could touch. And the salty taste of my tears merged with the sweat and scent of her body in the most moving experience of my thirteen-year-old life. All the pain and suffering, all the insults and humiliation I had endured over the years melted away in that moment. I wanted to stop all the clocks of the world and freeze that moment for ever. For though it was all too brief, even in that short span of time it produced a sensation so genuine, no amount of acting can ever aspire to replicate it.
That is why I will not attempt to define this episode as a drama or a thriller or a tragedy. It was beyond any and all genres.
* * *
Neelima and I never speak again about that morning. And what happened then never happens again. But both of us live with the knowledge that our lives have been altered irrevocably.
She wants to remove her mask, but does not have the mental strength to do so. And she refuses to take my help. The inevitable destiny of a tragedy queen tugs at her with renewed urgency. She becomes more depressed. Her drinking increases to such an extent that she is hardly conscious of the world around her. She dismisses her maid and cook. I am the only one left in the flat. And then she prepares for the greatest role of her life.
Neelima Kumari asks me to stack all the film magazines with her pictures in neatly in a pile. She arranges all her trophies and awards personally, putting the platinum jubilee ones in front, followed by the golden jubilees and the silver jubilees. She wears her most expensive sari and puts on her finest jewellery. She spends three hours in front of the mirror making her face look the best it has ever looked. Afterwards, she flushes all her cosmetic creams down the toilet. She goes to the medicine cabinet and throws away all her beauty aids. Then she opens a jar containing painkillers prescribed for her mother. I don't know how many of these tablets she gulps down.
Finally, she enters her bedroom and inserts into the VCR the cassette of her film Mumtaz Mahal.
