Shashi Tharoor - Show Business

Come be my wife.

He finally catches up with her and hugs her from behind: she continues trying to flee and they roll down the hill, locked in an embrace. Close-up: their laughing lips are about to meet when the camera swings skyward and the opening credits fill the screen.

Domestic scene: Maya with her parents, Godambo and Abha, in their luxurious, indeed palatial, home. Early moments of dialogue establish father’s strength (deep, gravelly voice), wealth (expensive rings on fingers), and traditionalism (caste mark on forehead). Maya gets to the point: “Father, I would like to get married.” “Excellent,” says Godambo: he has been thinking along the same lines. It is time Maya settled down. It would be good for her and, provided a suitable son-in-law was found, good for the business also.

Maya looks uncomfortable. “Father, there is already a man whom I wish to marry.”

“What!” Outrage on Godambo’s face, consternation in his bulging eyes. Abha rolls her own pupils heavenward and mutters a brief invocation. “And who can this be?” asks the paterfamilias.

“Its someone I met at the music class,” Maya says nervously. “He’s a very fine person and a wonderful singer. Let me bring him home to meet you. I’m sure you’d like him.”

“Wait!” Godambo is a man of procedure. “Before you bring any such person to our house, let me make some inquiries. Tell me everything you know about him. Who is the man? What is his name? Is he of good family? Who are his parents? Do we know them, and if not, why not? Where does he live? What is his profession?” And Abha adds, “Is he tall?”

“Yes, he is,” Maya answers her mother, but one useful response does not get her off the hook. Godambo is not to be diverted. Squirming under his relentless probing, Maya has to admit that her beau is neither rich nor well connected. “But he is a great musician,” she says with deep-pupiled intensity. “And I love him.”

“Love?” Godambo barks. “What is love?”

“Love,” Abha explains maternally,” is something that comes after marriage, Maya. I love you, I love your father. How can you love a stranger?”

“He’s not a stranger, Mother,” Maya begins, then realizes it is hopeless. “Look, if only you both would meet him, you would see immediately what I mean.” But her father is reluctant to take matters so far as to welcome this impecunious interloper into his own living room. Then Maya has an idea. “Come and see him at the Cultural Evening tonight,” she pleads.

Godambo is not interested, but Abha, ever the obliging mother, persuades him on behalf of her daughter.

Scene: an auditorium, every seat full. Maya and her parents are escorted to a front row. The curtain parts to reveal a stage with the painted backdrop of twin snow-covered mountain peaks. The symbolism is made even more obvious as Mehnaz enters in a cascade of anklets, covered head to foot in kathak costume of billowing blue skirt, peak-hugging blue blouse, blue head scarf, and blue leggings, all spangled with silver. Godambo grunts appreciatively. Ashok, seated on a dhurrie on the stage, bursts into song:

My heart beats for you,

I’d perform feats for you,

You are the landlord of my soul;

My eyes light for you,

I’d gladly fight for you,

Without you I don’t feel whole.

As he sings and Mehnaz dances, all arched hip and elegant fingertips, Ashok manages to exchange meaningful glances with Maya in the audience, making it clear every word of the playback applies to her. Meanwhile, Godambo, oblivious to this byplay, appears to enjoy himself hugely. When the song is over the audience bursts into well-rehearsed applause, and Godambo rises to his feet to clap vigorously.

At the end of the show, Godambo, in mellow spirits, looks around the hall. “So shall we meet your young man now?” he asks.

“Oh, yes, thank you, Papa!” Maya exclaims, bright-eyed. “Did you like him?”

“That boy,” Godambo’s eyes bulge with pleasure, “has the making of a very great singer indeed.”

Backstage Mehnaz is cooing to Ashok. “Wasn’t that wonderful, darling?” she asks, placing her hands on Ashok’s shoulder. “You and I,” she adds huskily, “can make beautiful music together.”

Ashok disengages himself. “Excuse me, Mehnaz,” he says. “I have an important appointment.”

Mehnaz tosses her hair in displeasure and flounces out of the dressing room.

Ashok emerges from the auditorium, looking handsome and poised. After he deferentially greets Maya’s parents, they get into Godambo’s chauffeur-driven Impala.

When Mehnaz, now freshly changed into a slinky salwar-kameez, emerges from the auditorium, she sees Ashok — a look of eager expectation on his face — shutting the car door behind him. Mehnaz is left staring crestfallen and resentful into the camera as the Impala drives away into the future with an optimistic squeal of its white-walled tires.

Next scene: Ashok with his parents, in their lower-middle-class home. The decor is conventional: pale-green walls, peeling ceiling, plastic-covered sofa, garish calendars of androgynous deities. His father, Ramkumar, is poor but dignified, and anxious about his son’s choice. Marriage, he points out, has to do with more than mere attraction. Could Ashok cope with the stresses of being married to the daughter of Seth Godambo, of having a wife wealthier and more important than himself? And what about them? Marriage is not just a relationship between individuals, but an arrangement between families. Ashok would not just be marrying one woman, he would be acquiring another family. Could he see his own simple father and sari-swathed mother socializing in Seth Godambo s living room? Ashok has to admit he cannot.

Yet when his parents finally meet Maya, they are charmed by her sweetness and simplicity, her modesty and manners. “But she’s wonderful!” Ramkumar beams. “She’sjust the kind of girl we would have wanted to arrange for you to marry,” he adds. “Despite your obsession with music, you must still have something of me in you if you look for the same qualities in a wife that we would in a daughter-in-law.”

Maya blushes modestly, her smile dimpling her slim cheeks.

It is later, at dusk; Ashok and Maya are running through a palm grove near the beach. Maya wears a sari and a joyous expression. The flow of the tide caresses the shore, sending up froth that seems to gurgle happily in celebration of our heroine’s love. The sun’s rays bathe her beauty in a golden radiance as she runs through the grove, and Ashok, losing sight of her among the trees, sings with feeling:

Where are you, my love?

I wait for light from the sun above.

You have taken my heart

And hid it from view,

Now the trees will not part

To bring me to you.

Wh-e-e-re are you, my love?

And Maya’s answer comes echoing through the palm fronds: “I–I-I’m he-e-re.” Ashok grins in delight and resumes the chase.

Five verses later, he has caught her. They embrace, and her last answer is a lilting whisper: “I–I-I’m here.” Ashok’s head moves toward hers, and the camera caresses the waves as they wash the shore….

Afterward, Maya and Ashok walk by the sea, now calm in amatory contentment. Ashok buys a small garland of white flowers for Maya to wear in her hair. Impulsively, she slips off her necklace and gives it to Ashok. “Keep this,” she says, “as a memento of my love.” It is a thin chain, strung through a medallion of a dancing goddess. Ashok kisses the medallion, then gives it back to her. “How can I wear a necklace?” he asks with a laugh. “Wear it on your wrist,” Maya suggests, “like a bracelet.” Ashok loops the chain three times around his wrist, the medallion resting on it like a watch. “Don’t try and tell the time with it,” Maya giggles. “Any time is a good time,” Ashok responds, “to think of how much I love you.”