Shashi Tharoor - Show Business

Ashok looks at her. “I rather like style and glamour myself,” he says, in a tone that suggests he does not admit his other meaning, even to himself. “Not everyone rejects excitement.”

“It took you a long time to recognize it, Ashok,” Mehnaz responds huskily. “Come to my place, I’ll give you a drink.”

“But… Maya…” Ashok’s protest is feeble.

“She’s so busy being felicitated, she won’t even notice,” says Mehnaz. “Her manager can take her home. Come on.”

And with only a brief, hesitant glance toward the hall where his faithful wife is receiving her due, Ashok is led from the garden by the temptress with the snakeskin bag. An apple litters the path, and Mehnaz kicks it aside with the tip of a high-heeled shoe.

Inside the hall Maya turns to her manager, Pranay, an energetic operator who has been seen earlier organizing backstage, berating auditorium factotums, arranging for Maya to be garlanded. Maya’s gentle features are clouded in apprehension.

“Ashok doesn’t seem to be anywhere,” she says. “What do you think could have happened?”

“He must have got tired of waiting,” Pranay says. “Don’t worry, I’ll take you home.”

“It’s not like Ashok,” Maya says, her dark eyes troubled. “I hope he’s all right. He hasn’t seemed himself of late. I hope he isn’t sick.”

“He’ll be all right,” Pranay retorts unsympathetically. “If you want my opinion, the only thing he’s sick of is your success.”

“How dare you say that!” Maya blazes at him loyally. “How dare you!”

“Take it easy.” Pranay backs off. “No offense meant. But the fact is that he’s less and less happy with your good fortune. I’ve been watching him closely, Maya. You and I have been together too long for me to hide these things from you.”

“If you go on saying these things, Pranay” — Maya’s delicate nostrils flare with rage — “you and I won’t be together much longer. Ashok’s my husband. He doesn’t even think like that.”

“Fine.” Pranay concedes. “He’s your husband. Just forget I said anything.”

But the seed of doubt has been planted in Maya’s furrowed mind. “Where do you think he is now?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Pranay says guardedly. “Seeking consolation of some sort, I suppose.”

“You mean sitting in some bar drinking himself silly in self-pity?” snorts Maya derisively. “Huh — that shows how much you know Ashok. He’s not like that at all. Take me home. I’m sure I’ll find him there.”

“I’ll take you,” says Pranay. “But remember, drink isn’t the only consolation there is.”

The audience knows that, because Ashok and Mehnaz are in a warm room with a log fire. (Note: this is Kashmir, remember?) Each sports a glass and a smoldering look. They circle each other, the glow from the fire reflected in the heat on their faces. Mehnaz sings:

You and me, locked in a room,

And I have lost the key.

You and me, locked in a room,

And I know you want me.

ASHOK JOINS IN:

You and me, locked in a room,

And I have shut the door.

You and me, locked in a room,

With a rug upon the floor.

MEHNAZ:

The look in your eyes

Is really no surprise

(SHE LIES DOWN)

And I’m not prone to argue.

ASHOK:

There’s nothing shoddy

About your body

(HE BENDS TOWARD HER)

And I’ve only seen the far view.

TOGETHER:

You and me, locked in a room,

With only each other for comfort.

You and me, locked in a room?

Ashok is almost upon her. The camera shows two logs burning, the flames licking toward each other. Then suddenly the logs fuse, and the fire spurts upward in a searing triangle.

Maya is still awake when Ashok returns home. They are both red-eyed, for different reasons.

“Where have you been?” she asks.

“Out.”

“I can see that. But where? Have you been drinking?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Don’t you have anything to tell me?”

“No. Do you?”

In the face of his belligerence, Maya bites her lip in silence.

“Well? Do you?”

She says nothing, but the tears well up in her limpid eyes.

“No? Good. In that case, good night.” And Ashok throws himself on the bed, while Maya, sitting with her knees drawn up against her chest, sinks her chin into her folded arms and weeps through the night.

It is the next day. “I’m sorry, Pranay. I don’t feel like singing this evening. Please cancel the show.”

“What has happened? You sound terrible, Maya.” Pranay takes her chin in his hands and removes the dark glasses with which she has covered the evidence of her tears. “My God, you’ve been crying. What’s the matter?” She does not answer. “Is it Ashok?”

Maya averts her gentle face so that only the camera can see the pain in her eyes. “Please don’t ask me, Pranay.”

“Why not? Do you have a better friend than me in the whole world?”

“No, of course not, Pranay,” sobs Maya. “You’re a wonderful friend, and a great manager. It’s not you. It’s just that I can’t talk about this … to anybody.”

Pranay is bewildered. “But why? Did he beat you?”

“No,” she sniffs, shaking her head for emphasis. “It’s worse.”

Comprehension dawns on Pranay. “So I was right, wasn’t I?” he asks. “He was out seeking consolation” — she nods miserably — “with a woman. My God, I even know which woman.”

“Witch-woman,” echos Maya.

“Mehnaz,” breathes Pranay, “of course.” He turns to her with a sudden onrush of passion. “Maya, that man is not worthy of you. Leave him, Maya. Come with me. I shall look after you the way I have looked after your singing.”

“Stop!” Maya’s face is again awash with her sorrow. “Pranay, how can you even speak like that! Ashok is my husband, my dharampati. I can never think of leaving him.”

“But Maya, stop thinking only of your duty to him! What about your duty to yourself?”

“My duty to my husband is to myself,” Maya says slowly, as portentous music fills the sound track. “When I married Ashok I gave my heart to him, and my life. I cannot love anyone else ever again.”

“But look at the way he is treating you,” says Pranay angrily. Maya does not answer.

“Don’t waste your life like this, Maya,” Pranay pleads.

“My life is committed,” Maya says nobly. “There is no waste in fulfilling my dharma as a wife. But I do not intend to sit idly and let my husband drift away from me. I must have done something wrong. I shall undo it now and win my husband back.”

(Respectful applause from the twenty-five-paisa seats.)

Ashok is on stage, singing as Mehnaz dances. But his eyes are not on her: he has a sad, wistful expression on his face as he gazes soul-fully at the dress circle and sings:

Where are you, my love?

I wait for light from the stars above.

You have taken my heart

And hid it from view,

Life has kept us apart

And rid me of you.

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

Where she is, is right there — for, unnoticed by Ashok, Maya has slipped into the audience, and she listens to him sing with tears glistening in her eyes.

The show is over, and Ashok is standing, palms joined in respectful namaskar, as a thin trickle of decrepit well-wishers congratulate him on his performance. Suddenly the look of distant politeness on Ashok’s face vanishes as a soft voice cuts through the hubbub near him. “You sang beautifully, Ashok.” Our hero looks up in shock at Maya standing among the debris on the stage.