Shashi Tharoor - Show Business

“So you are Inspector Ashok,” the principal villain says gutturally. “Thank you for paying us a visit.”

“Where is my sister, kameenay?” our hero asks disrespectfully.

“Your sister.” Godambo does not seem unduly put out. “Let me show you.” He leans back and presses a button on the console beside him. The giant screen again emerges. This time it shows a barred cell, within which Maya weeps, tugging vainly at the bars with handcuffed hands.

Ashok, enraged, struggles to cast off his captors. Godambo laughs. “Why have you brought me here, villain?” our hero asks.

Godambo seems to enjoy this hugely. “Why have we brought him here, he wants to know. But you came here yourself! Uninvited, I might add.”

“What do you want with my sister, you castoff from an asylum?”

“Silence!” This is Pranay, accompanying his admonition with a crack of the whip. “No one abuses the mighty Godambo.”

“It doesn’t matter, Pranay,” interjects the most-wanted man in India. “We will tell him what he wants to know. Or perhaps he would prefer to hear it from more familiar lips.” The ghost of a smile haunts his impassive, hairless face. He claps his hands. “Agent Abha.”

Abha steps forward reluctantly. She is in her most recent Godambo uniform, complete with springing cheetah. Ashok’s eyes widen in betrayed realization.

“You know each other, I believe?” Godambo asks.

Outrage and contempt blaze from Ashok’s eyes. “I even took you home to meet my mother,” he says accusingly, the very thought drenching his voice in self-reproach.

“Forgive me, Ashok,” she pleads. “I had no choice.”

“No choice! Do you still expect me to believe those lies about your miserable parents?”

“They’re not lies —.” But she is silenced by a minatory wave of Pranay’s whip.

“Can you deny you were working for these thugs all along? Even when we went out together?”

She is silent; she cannot deny it. Ashok looks away bitterly.

“Enough of this love-shove talk,” Pranay snaps. “Tell him.”

Abha pulls herself together, but the strain shows on her face. “Ashok, mighty Godambo wants you to give up your pursuit of him. And he invites you to join his organization.”

“Never!”

“Ashok, if you don’t do as he says, he will — kill Maya.”

On the screen the concealed camera zooms in on Maya, hands tightly gripping the bars of her cell, tears streaking her pretty face, pigtail dangling by one wet cheek. Ashok grits his teeth, straining to shake off his shackles. He is restrained by the black-clad commandos and a menacing crack of Pranay s whip.

“What kind of man are you, Godambo, to fight your battles through an innocent young girl?” he rails. “Come and face me in hand-to-hand combat, and we will see.”

Godambo stiffens in his throne. The hairless visage registers offense. “Don’t ever, and I mean ever, speak to me like that again,” he growls, crunching gravel under every syllable. “What makes you think you are worthy of hand-to-hand combat with mighty Godambo? I could crush you like an ant with one hand tied behind my back, Inspector Ashok, but I won’t bother. I have made you an exceedingly generous offer. I can see you need some time to think about it. Very well.” He laughs, but there is no amusement on his face. “I shall accommodate you with your sister. But if you want her to see another sunset, Inspector Ashok, you will give me the answer I want by dawn tomorrow.”

Ashok’s eyes blaze defiance at this ultimatum, but the dialogue writer’s imagination has failed him, and he remains silent. A snap of Godambo’s fingers, a dismissive gesture, and Ashok is dragged away. But not without casting a bitter parting glance at his erstwhile lady love.

Abha looks away, and this time there are no dark glasses to conceal the despair in her reddening eyes.

Interior: Godambo’s dungeons. In the dimly lit cell, Ashok consoles the tearful Maya. She nestles against his chest, and he embraces her as far as the knots on his wrists will allow: elbows and forearms resting on her shoulders, unfree hands clasped behind her head. He looks into her eyes and sings:

We’re one small happy family,

We live and love together.

We’re one small happy family,

In sunshine and bad weather.

We’re one small happy family,

United, good and strong.

We’re one small happy family,

So nothing can go wrong.

Maya’s response is to burst into a fresh torrent of tears.

Outside the cell a Black Cheetah patrols the stone-flagged corridor in hobnailed boots. As Ashok looks up alertly, he hears another pair of footsteps. The commando’s boots pause in their stride.

“Who is — oh, it’s you, Agent Abha.”

“Just checking to see how things are, Ali. All well with the prisoners?”

“They were making a lot of noise, but its quieter now.”

“Could I see them?”

“I’m afraid not, Agent Abha. You know I can’t let you in. Strict orders from mighty Godambo himself. No one may disturb the prisoners.”

“I won’t disturb them.”

“Sorry, Agent Abha. I have my orders.”

“Good. I was just checking to make sure you were following them. Hey — what’s that?”

“What?” The guard whips around, submachine gun at the ready. In a flash Abha brings the butt of her own revolver down on the back of his head. He sinks soundlessly to his knees. She eases him to the floor. Looking around quickly, she pulls his bunch of keys off the belt loop from which they are conveniently dangling and opens the barred gate of Ashok and Maya’s cell.

“Come on,” she whispers urgently to the astonished prisoners.

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” Ashok asks.

“Of course it isn’t,” Abha says in an urgent hiss. “I’m risking my life for this. And the lives of my poor parents. Hurry. If Godambo catches us, it’ll be certain death.”

“What have we got to lose?” Ashok asks rhetorically. He raises his handcuffs. “Do you have the keys for these?”

“I think so.” Abha sifts through the bunch, finds a likely key and inserts it. It turns: Ashok is free. He rubs his sore wrists while Abha liberates Maya. The young girl smiles hopefully at her.

“Come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” Ashok says unnecessarily, taking charge. “Do you know the way out of this place?”

“Yes,” whispers Abha. “But I’m warning you, it’s heavily guarded.”

Ashok sets his jaw. “We’ll see about that,” he snaps, as the three creep out into the corridor.

They advance a few paces. Abha presses herself against a wall and pokes her head round a corner. The coast is clear. She signals, and they run down one more corridor. At the next intersection of pathways, Abha repeats the maneuver. They run — and are drawn up short by the sight of Pranay standing in the middle of the corridor chewing calmly, legs astride, whip at the ready, and a demoniacal gleam of delight in his eyes.

“And where do you think you’re going?” he asks sardonically. The red stains on his lips look like blood.

It all happens very quickly. Abha pulls out her revolver. Pranay’s whip cracks, and the gun clatters harmlessly to the floor. She cries out, holding her hand in pain. He laughs and again cracks his whip. This time it is Ashok who screams. Pranay is enjoying himself. He advances, the whip snaking out repeatedly, with a noise like a pistol shot. Ashok is hit once more, but then dodges, jumps. Pranay is unperturbed; he enjoys the challenge. “Dance, Inspector Ashok!” he snarls with each flick of his weapon. Ashok sidesteps him nimbly. Pranay strikes, the look of arrogant cruelty on his face turning to one of surprise as Ashok catches the cord of the whip in midlash.