Shashi Tharoor - Show Business

“And why,” I ask, my teeth increasingly on edge, “would Subramanyam do that?”

“Because I asked him to,” Maya replies matter-of-factly. “We’ve been talking about things, and I’ve told him to pass on scripts I might find of interest. So anyway, Papa, what do you think?”

My father begins to realize he is being set up. “Well,” he says, looking more uncomfortable than ever, “what does Ashok think about all this?”

“I don’t know,” replies Maya, untroubled. “We haven’t discussed it yet.”

“Well, then, my dear, I think you ought to discuss it with each other,” says my father. Good for him! But then he spoils it all by adding, “You know that whatever you do, Maya, you will have my blessing.”

“Thank you, Papa,” coos my scheming wife. “I knew you’d say that.”

My father looks at me looking daggers at her, and diplomatically remembers a prior commitment he has not yet mentioned. I escort him to the waiting official car, which is also to take him to the airport.

“Try and be kind to your wife, Ashok,” he says gratuitously.

“I don’t need you to tell me that, Dad,” I reply.

He looks at me sadly. He is always looking at me sadly. He shakes his head, opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it. I am about to honk for the driver, who was not expecting to leave quite so soon and is not in the car, when my father opens his mouth again. This time he speaks, but on a different subject.

“Ashok,” he says, his expression inscrutably heavy-lidded, “do you know Gangoolie? Our party treasurer?”

I don’t really know him, but I know who he is. I nod.

“Well, in his line of work, he knows a fair bit about black money,” my father says unexpectedly. “I am not a fool, Ashok, I know there is black money in politics. I have never touched any of it myself, but ever since we idealistically abolished company contributions to political parties, businessmen have found this other way of financing their preferred candidates.” Spare me the lecture, Dad, I think. Get to the point. “Anyway, I asked Gangoolie once where people kept their undeclared assets. The small-timers, as he put it, kept their currency in their homes, in safes, in false ceilings, under beds. When necessary, our tax people know where to look. The big -timers, however, use Swiss banks.”

“Swiss banks,” I repeat.

“It seems,” my father sighs, “that they find people abroad who need rupees in India, at a favorable rate of exchange of course. The rupees are handed over here, and the equivalent deposited, in Swiss francs, in Geneva or Zurich.”

“Isn’t that — illegal?” I ask, as the driver, his keys jingling in the pocket of his uniform, runs up to the car.

“Of course it is,” my father says. “But because of Swiss banking secrecy, it is difficult for our authorities to do anything about it.”

He embraces me in farewell and gets into the back of the car.

“And these people? The ones abroad, who need the rupees? Where do the big-timers find them?”

“The big-timers,” my father says, “don’t need to look very far.” Then he waves sadly and rolls up the window. His car drives away, leaving me more to think about than I had expected.

Strange man, my father. Sometimes I wonder if I have fully figured him out.

* * *

Inside the house, I erupt at Maya.

“What was the big idea of bringing this comeback nonsense up with Dad?” I demand.

She is unfazed. “It’s not nonsense, Ashok. I’m perfectly serious. And it’s not my fault if the only time you are around to be spoken to is when your father has come to visit.”

“Maya, we had agreed.”

“We had agreed I wouldn’t make a comeback if I turned out to be pregnant. I was. Well, now I’ve had the babies. They’re fine, and they’re in good hands, which don’t necessarily always have to be mine. The agreement is over.”

“But there’s still a basic agreement. When we got married.”

“You’re a fine one, Ashok Banjara, to be citing marital commitments to me.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You know perfectly well what that is supposed to mean.” Her voice is cold. “Don’t make me say it, Ashok.”

Guilt rises in me. I try a different tack. “Look, Maya, I understand your need to do something. I really do. But you don’t want to rush into a thing like this. Let me look at the script, talk to the producer. Then we can see. What script is this anyway?”

“You mean you really don’t know what script I’m talking about? Ashok, you surprise me.”

Realization dawns, like the baby spots at the studio. “Not Dil Ek Qila, for God’s sake?” I ask in horror.

“Why not?” Her voice is calm.

“But… but that film is already cast! Subramanyam had no business giving it to you. The only reason the script is here is because the actress who has the principal part specifically wanted me to be offered the male lead. It’s not the kind of film I’d usually do….”

“But you’re planning to say yes.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe, yes.”

“You’ve been talking to Subramanyam.”

“Leave him out of this, Ashok. I’m your wife, for God’s sake. Don’t I count for anything in this? Can’t you tell me the truth for once, without beating around the bramble bush?”

Once in a while, Maya’s English slips, and I am reminded of how far she has come since her diffident days as a provincial newcomer. But where did she find this rage, this strength?

“OK, I think I’ll do it. Choubey, the producer, says it’ll enhance my image. Broaden my appeal.”

“Bullshit!” Maya’s small thin frame is taut with anger. “It’s a weak and sentimental script, neither New Wave nor commercial. It’s a colossal risk that no actor in your position would normally take. But you want to do it because that slut is in it and she has got Choubey to ask you to.”

“Maya,” I begin in warning. She rides roughshod over me.

“Don’t you see what she wants? Are you so blind, Ashok Banjara, that you really can’t see what she’s up to? You’re going to play a married musician helplessly in love with her, the stunning dancing girl. Do you think the great Indian public isn’t going to see that as a statement about your real life? And you want to allow this whore to flaunt her affair with you across the nation while I sit quietly at home. Well, I’m not going to play along with this, Ashok. I am the mother of your children and I’m not going to reduce myself to an object of pity!”

“He stays with his wife in the end,” I say lamely.

“Because the slut dies in heroic circumstances to save them both,” Maya blazes. “Have you no shame, offering the script as an excuse?”

I can’t take any more of this. There are times when the easy way out is the best way out. “I’ll tell Choubey I won’t do it,” I announce.

“You’ve signed already,” she says.

“I have?” This is genuine, because half the time I’m not sure what I’m signing. But it’s true that I’d told Subramanyam I would, so he could well have thrust that paper in front of me along with a dozen others.

“You have,” Maya confirms. “You could still get out of it, but it wouldn’t be worth the grief. And besides, Choubey is probably already selling his territories on the strength of your name.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll do him some other favor. He’ll want me for another film soon enough, and I’ll promise him all the dates he wants.”

“No.” Maya is firm. “I’ve thought about it. If you pull out, they’ll probably make the film anyway, and that slut will still get the story across the way she wants it. It’s better this way.”