This was an important moment, both in and out of her social life, this spotlit pause when she was most alone, when she began to sing the first lines to an audience that was never quite listening. The sari she was wearing was a beautiful purple Benarasi, embossed with silver thread-work. In comparison to the other singers and their hurried ambition and swift attunement to the dark of the auditorium, their smiling, convivial namaskars at the end of their two songs, she was like a slightly forgetful royal personage, half-aware of her listeners, in exile, someone from another age. The audience accepted her entry and her brief, incongruous incumbency good-humouredly. But when she sang, Nirmalya couldn’t stand it; he felt her voice, amplified and made subtly different, a voice from the past and not her own voice, was sounding too sharp, she was not in practice, she was accompanying her husband to too many parties, from which she’d bring back stories of the Tatas and the Singhanias. He could never listen to his mother calmly during a performance. It was only months, sometimes years, later, when he’d overhear something she’d taped for her own purposes, that he’d be struck by the beauty of her voice, effortlessly fresh and immediate, and wonder why he could never hear it in the present moment.
When she came out into the auditorium, hot, but calm, she whispered, ‘Mrs Makhija said to me — You have a wonderful voice!’ Nirmalya’s father smiled, pleased as much at her spontaneous happiness, at the end of the outing, as at the compliment: ‘Very good. Very good.’ She turned to search her son’s face for some indication or sign. He didn’t smile, only nodded curtly. Later, he was filled with pain for not having been kinder.
By ten o’clock, it seemed like midnight; the singers had finished — only their teacher remained, Shyamji, singing bhajans to an almost empty hall. His family sat in a cluster — and Apurva and Mallika Sengupta, and Nirmalya, because they so loved listening to Shyamji. Most of the others had gone; they had buses to catch.
In the front row, unmissable because of his largeness, a bearded man, dressed entirely in white, sat shaking his head in appreciation.
‘Who’s that?’ whispered Nirmalya to his father, studying the figure in amusement.
‘Hanuman Rao,’ said his father in a low voice. ‘Some Congress leader, apparently.’
* * *
HANUMAN PRASAD RAO came from a landowning family from a village on the border between Maharashtra and Karnataka; and this was the manner he carried with him — not of a man of the people, but a protector of the people. Dressed always in white, the slightest spot threatened to besmirch not only his clothes, but his reputation. He had huge hands; he could easily have strangled someone with them. An air of foreboding accompanied him; as if, when he’d be struck down, he’d be struck down simply, by a stroke, or a flash of lightning. But, as of now, he looked quietly, assuredly, invincible.
One day he’d discovered Shyamji, and, in his expansive way, become a sort of devotee. ‘You are the best singer in the country,’ he said, placing an ample hand upon Shyamji’s shoulder, ‘and some day everyone will know it.’ Here, too, he had the grandiose, proprietorial air, not unlike that of an explorer who reaches a continent and begins to believe he owns it. His admiration for Shyamji was an extension of his egotism, and possessed the charge, the enchantment, of self-love; Shyamji knew he could withdraw it whenever he wished. He might get bored; or he might take offence for some reason, as people did when they thought they were in love. So Shyamji kept Hanuman Rao happy.
Hanuman Rao was obsessed with films; he loved Dilip Kumar and Raj Kapoor, their youth full of simple rustic joy and unfathomable magic, their openness to the risk of romance and the uncertainty of the changed world; and Hema Malini and Waheeda Rehman, companions in the changed world — he felt beholden to them, these figures of solace and desire. He was moved by the great films, their deep understanding of the importance of sacrifice; his large frame would go still during the great scenes; he would weep.
He also saw that politics was a form of cinema — except that it was real. ‘They are not the real heroes,’ he told his wife in private, slapping his chest. ‘We are.’
He now had what seemed to him a fantastic idea: he wanted to produce a film and — this seemed like the logical thing to do, given his personality and appearance — to act in it. It didn’t matter that he was fifty-one; the movie industry needed a mature protagonist. The film would have the sort of socialist content expected from a Congressman; it would be about a peasant uprising, the overthrowing of a landlord, and he, Hanuman Rao, would play the peasant leader, exiled from his village and then returning to it by subterfuge and bringing about an awakening among the villagers.
‘Shyam,’ he said, for he addressed the singer by his first name, as if he were Shyamji’s older brother, ‘you will be the music director. It’s your tunes I hear when I think of the film. It has a wonderful title: “Naya Rasta Nayi Asha”.’ A new road, new hope.
* * *
IT WAS SHYMJI’S good fortune that, although he was an accomplished classical singer, a master, he had a pliable and beautiful voice. This meant it could take advantage of the musical currency of the day, of the songs with which a middle class of faithful, hardworking husbands and vivacious housewives expressed its dreams. It lent itself to ghazals, to their gorgeous banalities about drunken love, about heartbreak and desire, which inordinately moved husbands who seemed generally impervious to passion, and made them sigh; it lent itself also to the pieties of the bhajan, to the worshipful mood, the genuflections to Ram and Krishna that were part of the household created by mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. Shyamji was at the centre of this solemn self-expression. But the beauty of the voice carried with it a seductiveness — in the old days, the masters were right to be wary of mere beauty. It made Shyamji believe he could do, and sing, all things; that he could return to the other needs of his calling later.
‘Shyam, you will sing in the film,’ Hanuman Rao said, the large hand resting on Shyamji’s shoulder. ‘It’s my one condition for making you music director. There’ll be a special song in the scene in which I rouse the villagers. I want you to sing that song.’ Hanuman Rao’s voice made a rasping sound as the vision formed. There was no discrepancy at all, as far as he was concerned, that, on screen, he’d burst into song in the ether of Shyamji’s voice. He was too grand and determined a man to be bothered by detail.
‘Didi!’ Shyamji called, as he entered the flat. ‘Didi — it is ready! I’ve brought it with me.’
He had with him something at once ordinary and charged with unusual significance because of the way he held it — a long-playing record with a bright yellow sleeve. Its back was white, with the names of the songs and details about the film, the music director, the producer, the singers printed neatly, darkly, in English. A third of the yellow side, which was the cover, was enveloped by a looming picture of Hanuman Rao, dressed in white, as he usually was in real life, with what looked like a staff in one hand; behind him, incidental but not negligible, were two smaller figures before a hut — a young woman and a man. Shyamji was dazzled by both the vinyl within and the epic compressed upon the cover; Nirmalya handled the sleeve with diffidence.