Shashi Tharoor - Show Business

I am the long arm of the law,

No one is quicker on the draw,

Injustice and corruption,

Forces of disruption,

Will be the losers in this war!”

She runs into his arms. “ Hold me, Ashok. Hold me so tight I can imagine you’ll never leave me.”

“But I’ll never leave you,” he says, holding her. She does not reply, and he strokes her hair. There is a worried expression on his own face.

Interior: lights, throne, pool, cheetah, gravel — the scene is set.

“Yes, Abha? What have you to report?”

Abha is no longer in civvies, but wears a glorious red-and-black pantsuit emblazoned with a gold cheetah springing across her chest. She is clearly in an emotional state because the decorative animal stirs visibly, as if scenting a threat in the jungle. “Sir, you don’t need to worry about Inspector Ashok,” she says, a ripple moving through her sartorial animal.

“Oh? And why is that?” The voice is smooth now, as if the gravel has been macadamized. Godambo looks remarkably content for a man who has had no costume change in four scenes.

“He doesn’t know how to find you. He told me himself he has no leads.” Abha’s tone is eager, relief mingling with anxiety in her voice. “You are safe, mighty Godambo.”

“Safe?” the hairless head on the throne shakes derisively. “I, Godambo, do not seek to be safe, like some street corner pickpocket! I seek to eliminate all threats to myself. Must I cower like a fat merchant before a tax man, and try to keep out of Mr. Inspector Ashok’s way? No, Abha. Now that I know he cannot surprise us here, I must surprise him instead. I will bring Muhammad to the mountain.” He laughs, a deep laugh this time, like gravel being shoveled into a pit. “In a way of my choosing. You have done a good job, Abha. I think you deserve a rest. For the next part of my plan, I have a more — passive part in mind for you.”

Godambo claps his hands; Pranay emerges, complete with paan and whip, and stands before his master. “Take her with you. You have followed her closely. You know exactly where to go?” Pranay chews, nods. “Go then.” Godambo laughs.

“Mighty Godambo —” Abha is distraught.

“Yes?”

“I am not feeling well. May I be excused from any further part in this — this plan?”

“You may not. Why my dear, you are a very necessary part of my plan.” Godambo’s expression is almost avuncular. Then it changes. “You are not” — he leans forward, propping one elbow on a knee — “you are not refusing an order, are you?”

Abha’s voice is very small. “No, Godambo.”

“Good. Because refusal is disobedience, you know. And the penalty for disobedience is —”

A hundred black-clad voices oblige him. “Death!”

“Death,” Godambo confirms and laughs again. His cheetah, unlike Abha’s, continues to sleep.

The black Ambassador car draws up outside Ashok’s house. A window is rolled down to reveal Abha in the backseat, her eyes imprisoned behind dark glasses. Inside the car, Pranay is holding a knife against her side. “Go on,” he says. “Call her.”

“No,” she breathes.

“Godambo was right to warn me you’d gone soft on him,” Pranay snarls. “Right now two of our Black Cheetah commandos are in your parents’ home. They arejust waiting for the signal to act.”

“No!”

“Yes. So if you want to see your parents again, do as you’re told. Call her.”

Abha stifles a sob. “Maya,” she cries out in a choked voice.

“Louder. Clearer. Or else …” Pranay places the metal of the knife on the bared flesh of her midriff, between sari and blouse.

Abha obliges. “Maya!”

There is an answering squeal of recognition, and Sweet Sixteen, back in pigtails, comes running out of the house. She reaches the car; Abha starts to warn her; Pranay savagely pushes Abha aside. The sound of a motorcycle is heard. The car door is flung open. Pranay leaps out, grabs Maya. She screams. Abha’s face, frozen in horror and indecision, is visible in the window. The motorcycle enters the street. Ashok sees all three, shouts “Stop!” Pranay leers at him, bundles a screaming Maya into the car. He raises a fist: “Godambo zindabad!” he proclaims, disappearing into the car. The Ambassador drives away in a squeal of tires.

Ashok sets off in hot pursuit on his motorcycle.

Chase sequence: the Ambassador roars through the crowded streets, up Marine Drive, heads to the sea. The motorcycle follows, weaving in and out of traffic. The car runs a red light; Ashok mounts a sidewalk to chase it, scattering pedestrians, hawkers, and peanuts from a moomphali -wallah’s basket. Twice, when Ashok seems to be gaining on the abductors, Pranay leans out and fires a shot from a revolver. Ashok ducks, veers, stays upright but loses ground. As the chase continues, Maya is seen struggling with Pranay inside the car. Pranay slaps her aside and barks to Abha, “Keep her quiet if you know what’s good for you.” Abha restrains Maya and is rewarded with a look from the young girl that feelingly combines bewilderment and a dawning sense of betrayal.

The car turns off the road, onto a dirt track. It seems to be heading straight for a hillside by the sea, going too fast to avoid crashing into it. Ashok shouts out “Stop!” and slows down himself. The car continues to drive straight on. Just when a crash seems inevitable, the hillside opens up, a huge steel door sliding aside to reveal an entrance for the car. Ashok curses, accelerates. The Ambassador has disappeared inside. The steel door begins to slide back, closing the entrance. The motorcycle roars toward it. The gap narrows. Close-up: Ashok’s face, grimly determined, teeth visibly clenched, as he strains every sinew to force his motorbike through the gap in time. The steel door is closing: with a fuel-burning roar, the motorcycle bursts through just as the door clangs shut.

Barely has the applause in the twenty-five-paisa seats died down when the audience and Ashok are both drawn up short. For there is a barrier across the road, guarded by two enormous, half-naked wrestler-types, each wielding a sizable sword. The fatter of the two pahelwans pats his belly, grunts, and moves threateningly toward our hero, sword at the ready. His partner proceeds to do the same. Ashok looks at both of them, begins to dismount. The guards nod to each other in impassive anticipation. Then, suddenly, Ashok swings back into the saddle of the motorcycle, revs up his engine, and makes for a point between the two men. They raise their swords. Ashok roars in, and in a remarkable feat of action (the credit for which stunt man and editor would later dispute), simultaneously he kicks one wrestler in the vitals with an extended left leg and hits another in the gut with an upthrust right fist, while ducking to drive the motorcycle between the raised sword-arms. The two flabby toughs collapse in a heap, and our hero takes his motorcycle crashing through the barrier.

But once more the applause of the twenty-five-paisa wallahs is doomed to die down. For as Ashok rides on in the ill-lit hill tunnel, slowing down to look for the errant Ambassador, a rustle is heard, soon drowned on the sound track by the violins of violence. He looks up in surprise as a gigantic net falls on him, enmeshing him in its chains and bringing hero and motorcycle spinning to the ground.

A light is flashed into his eyes and Ashok blinks, dazzled. Pranay is standing above him, whip triumphantly in hand. “Welcome, Inspector Ashok,” the vile villain snarls through red-stained lips. “Mighty Godambo is waiting to meet you.”

Ashok is dragged through the cavern by two heavies in black, his hands tied behind him. The audience sees it all again as if for the first time: the marble floor, the eerily illuminated pillars, the Black Cheetahs, the fountain-flanked pool with its darting floating fin, and finally the jeweled throne. On this the bald caped figure sits comfortably, but the pet cheetah is at his feet. It has grown too big for his lap since the film’s shooting began.