'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 name 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.
I get my first shock on seeing the condition of the drawing room. There are cigarette butts and traces of ash everywhere. An upturned glass lies on the centre table, together with an empty bottle of whisky. Peanuts are scattered all over the carpet. There is a strong smell of alcohol in the room.
The second shock is on seeing Neelima Kumari. She has bruises all over her face and a black eye. 'Oh my God, Madam, what happened to you?' I cry.
'Nothing, Ram. I slipped from my bed and hurt myself. Nothing to worry about.'
I know she is lying. That man I saw leaving the flat has done this to her. And in return she has given him cigarettes, whisky and also money. I feel pained and angry, and powerless to protect her.
* * *
From that day, a subtle change comes over Neelima. She becomes more introverted and withdrawn. I think she starts drinking whisky, because I often smell it on her breath.
One morning I find her again with a black eye, and a cigarette burn on her arm. I can bear it no longer. 'Madam, I feel very sad seeing you in this condition. Who is doing this to you?' I ask her.
She could have said 'It is none of your business,' but she was in a reflective mood that morning.
'You know, Ram, someone has said that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I wonder at times if this is true. I too have loved. I don't know whether I have lost as yet, but I have received a lot of pain. There is a man in my life. Sometimes I think he loves me.
Sometimes I think he hates me. He tortures me slowly, bit by bit.'
'Then why don't you leave him?' I cry.
'It is not that simple. There is some pleasure even in pain. A sweet ecstasy. Sometimes I feel if pain can be this sweet, how exquisitely pleasurable death will be. When he tortures me with cigarette butts I don't want to scream. I want to recite those memorable lines from my film Woman. The death scene. "O life, how fickle you are. It is death which is my real lover, my constant companion. Come, death, take me in your arms, whisper the sweet sound of silence in my ears, and waft me away to the land of eternal love."'
'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.'