‘You mean to say,’ I said immediately, ‘you assure yourself.’
She flared up. ‘You really are a cretin! There are ways of saying things, you know. I mean, in the end, what need is there for me to give you assurances? Yes, I’m trying to assure myself. The problem is that I’m not really succeeding. Aren’t you going to help me?’ She said this and came to sit down next to me. Clutching the little finger of her right hand, she began asking me, ‘What do you think of Raj Kishore? I mean what do you think it is about Raj Kishore that I like so much?’ She let go of her little finger and began clutching each of her fingers, one by one.
‘I don’t like his conversation, I don’t like his acting, I don’t like his diary, Lord knows, he talks nonsense!’
Becoming irritated, she rose. ‘I can’t understand what’s the matter with me. But I have this urge for a bust-up, to create a commotion, for the dust to fly, and for me to be reduced to a sweating heap.’ Then, turning suddenly to me, she said, ‘Sadaq, what do you think, what kind of woman do you think I am?’
I smiled. ‘Cats and women have always remained beyond my comprehension.’
‘Why?’ she shot back.
I thought about it for a moment, then answered, ‘In our house, there used to be a cat. Once a year, she would succumb to bouts of mewing and crying. In answer to her cries and meows, a tomcat would appear. Then the two would brawl and fight and there would be bloodletting like you won’t believe. But after it, this spinster cat would be the mother of four kittens.’
Neelam’s face soured as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. ‘Thooo!’ she spat, ‘You really are filthy.’ Then after a while, sweetening her mouth with a cardamom, she said, ‘I have a horror of children. But anyway, moving on.’
She opened her paan box, and with her slim fingers, began making me a paan. With a tiny spoon, she took out the paste and powder from various silver containers, and with great care, spread them onto a deveined paan leaf. Then, folding it into a long, triangular shape, she handed it to me. ‘Sadaq, what do you think?’
She said this and seemed to go blank.
‘What about?’ I asked.
Cutting roasted pieces of betel nut with a cutter, she replied, ‘About this nonsense that has needlessly begun — if it isn’t nonsense, what is it? I don’t understand any of it. I feel like I’m always the one tearing everything up and forever sewing it back together. If it carries on any longer, you know what’s going to happen… You have no idea, I can be a very fierce woman.’
‘And what do you hope to accomplish with this fierceness?’
The same faint, hidden smile rose to Neelam’s thin lips. ‘You’re shameless. You understand everything, but you must draw it all out, with this gentle prodding of yours.’ As she said this, her eyes became bloodshot.
‘Why won’t you understand that I’m a very hottempered woman!’ She rose suddenly and said, ‘Now, go. I want to have a bath.’
I left.
For many days after this, Neelam said nothing about Raj Kishore to me. But we were both aware of each other’s thoughts. I would know what she was thinking and she would know what I was thinking. For several days, this silent back and forth continued.
One afternoon, Kriplani, the director of The Beauty of the Forest, was conducting the heroine’s rehearsal and we were all gathered in the music room. Neelam sat on a chair, gently keeping time with the movement of her foot. It was a popular song, but the music was good. When the rehearsal ended, Raj Kishore, his khadi bag slung over one shoulder, entered the room. He greeted director Kriplani, music director Ghosh and sound recordist PN Mogha in English, then greeted the heroine, Ms Eedan Bai, with folded hands. ‘Sister Eedan, I saw you in Crawford Market yesterday. I was buying oranges for your bhabhi when I saw your car.’ Swaying, talking, his gaze fell on Neelam, who sat slouched in a low chair near the piano. Immediately, he folded his hands in greeting. Neelam saw this and rose. ‘Raj saab, please. Don’t address me as “sister”.’
She said it in a tone that, for a moment, left everyone in the music room dumbfounded. Raj Kishore flushed and managed only to say, ‘Why?’
Neelam left the room without a reply.
Three days later, when I passed through Nagpara late in the afternoon, this incident was being mulled over at Sham Lal’s, the paanwallah. Sham Lal was saying with great pride: ‘The bitch must have a dirty mind. Otherwise, who could take offence at Raj bhai calling them “sister”? Whatever it is, she won’t have her way with him. Raj bhai knows to keep his dick in his trousers.’
I was pretty fed up with Raj bhai’s trousers, but I didn’t say anything to Sham Lal. I sat in silence, listening to his and his client-friends’ banter, in which there was mostly rumour and little truth.
The incident in the music room became known to everyone in the studio. And for three days, it was the only subject of conversation; why had Ms Neelam stopped Raj Kishore from calling her ‘sister’? I hadn’t heard anything directly from Raj Kishore on the subject, but I found out through a friend of his that he’d written a riveting reflection on it in his diary, in which he’d prayed that Ms Neelam’s heart and mind be cleansed of corruption.
Days passed after this incident and nothing worthy of mention occurred.
Neelam became more serious than before and Raj Kishore’s kurta buttons were now always open, his pale chest bulging, its black hair poking out.
Since the rain had subsided and The Beauty of the Forest’s fourth set had dried, director Kriplani pasted a shooting schedule on the notice board. The scene that was to be shot was between Raj Kishore and Neelam. Because I’d written the dialogue for it, I knew that Raj Kishore, mid-conversation, was to take Neelam’s hand and kiss it.
The scene didn’t in any way lend itself to the kiss. But just as women are often made to wear racy clothes on screen to tantalise the audience, the director thought he’d use an old formula and add this little ‘touch’ of the hand kiss.
I was present on the set, my heart racing as the shooting began. What would Raj Kishore and Neelam’s reaction be? Just thinking of it sent a wave of excitement through my body. But the scene was completed without incident. After every dialogue, the electric lamps, with wearying tedium, brightened and darkened. The orders to ‘start’ and ‘cut’ rang out. In the evening, when the time for the scene’s climax approached, Raj Kishore played his part with great romantic flair, taking Neelam’s hand in his. But just as he was about to kiss it, he turned his back to the camera, kissing his own hand and letting go of hers.
I thought Neelam would pull her hand away and slap Raj Kishore across the face, so hard that in the recording room, PN Mogha’s eardrums would burst. But instead, I saw a faint smile appear on her thin lips. There wasn’t a trace of a woman’s hurt feelings in that smile. It was not at all what I expected of Neelam, but I didn’t mention it to her. Two or three days went by without her mentioning it either, and I came to the conclusion that she had not felt the sting of the incident. Perhaps the thought had not entered her usually sensitive mind. And the only possible reason for this was that in Raj Kishore’s voice, so used to referring to women as ‘sister’, she had been hearing terms of endearment.
Why had Raj Kishore kissed his own hand instead of Neelam’s? Had he been taking revenge? Had he been trying to humiliate her? Questions arose in my mind, but no answer was forthcoming.
Four days later, when I paid my customary visit to Sham Lal’s in Nagpara, he complained bitterly, ‘Manto saab, you don’t give us any news of what goes on in your company! You either don’t want to tell us or else you don’t know? Do you know what Raj bhai did?’