Shashi Tharoor - Show Business

But of course you can’t. Look at you lying there, not saying a word, Ashokji, oh, it’s enough to make me cry. Not that you said many a word when you were with me. Always desperately anxious to rip off my clothes you were. And the rest of the time, the real strong-and-silent type. But then you always said I did enough talking for the two of us.

And why not? My mind opened up when I was with you, Ashokji. Really opened up. All sorts of ideas filled my head. And not just the wicked ones you always accused me of! I mean, ideas about really important things. Like life, and love, and philosophy, and things. If I hadn’t known what it was to be loved by you, I’d never have turned to the Guru.

Look at that — I’ve never even told you about the Guru. And whose fault is that, hanh? Ever since you entered politics, you’ve avoided me. Everyone’s going to the Guru these days, simply everyone, except you. And God knows you need him more than most. I wanted to take you to him myself, but could I even get you on the phone? Only that wretched Subramanyam, saying “Sorry, miss, I not knowing.” And you, you don’t know what you’re missing, I tell you. The way that Guru found me, even that was a miracle. The man is really incredible.

But as if you want to know anything about me these days. Me, your wife, Ashokji! OK, not your lawfully wedded wife, but what was it that witch Radha Sabnis called me — your “awfully bedded wife.” I know you were angry when that temple marriage got into the magazines. What could I do? I was so lonely, so hurt when you stopped seeing me, Ashokji, my dearest, and I was simply pining for you, so I had to give those interviews. Will you ever forgive me? Will you? Well, why shouldn’t you? After all, I never used your name. I always said “Him.” With a capital H — I always told them to write it that way. Some young journalist-shernalist said we only write it that way when we write about God. And I said, so what, He was God to me.

I know some people laughed at me. And that you were angry, so angry you snubbed me in public by turning away from me at Jagannath Choubey’s Diwali party. I bet your little shrew put you up to it. Why were you angry, darling? I hadn’t broken my promise to you never to discuss our relationship in the press. I hadn’t broken my promise because I never confirmed it was you I was talking about. Oh, I had to talk about the relationship, about the influence you had on my life, the Force you represented in my existence — did you like that at least, “the Force”? That was a word my Guru gave me. I had to, Ashokji, or it would have driven me crazy. All alone, knowing I was your wife and yet having none of the prerogatives, isn’t that the word, of wifehood. Sometimes I wonder, why did you do it? I didn’t ask for it. It was all your idea, this whole temple chakkar. You took me there, you bought the mala, you put it round my Muslim neck and pronounced me your Hindu wife. And ever since then you’ve tried to pretend it never happened. Oh, Ashokji, I’d have loved you with or without your mala. I want your love, not your name or your money. Why have you turned away from me, my life?

My Guru tells me I should learn to accept this. Learn detachment, he says. Take life as it comes. So I’m supposed to enjoy your attention when you give it to me, ignore your slights, and don’t let either touch — what does he call it? — the essential core of my being. Oh, it sounds so easy when the Guru says it. But when I’m sitting here, looking at you all silent and bandaged up, Ashokji, it’s not easy at all. I want to weep, you know that? Weep. Even if I’ve got a shift to go to straight from here and it’ll really mess me up.

I can imagine you saying, “Don’t be melodramatic, Mehnaz.” You were always saying things like that. What melodrama-shama did I inflict on you, hanh? OK, OK, the one time that I cut my wrist. But that was just a little cut, really, a skin cut, just to frighten you, just to make you stay. I saw in your eyes then that you didn’t want me to die. That’s all I wanted to see. I knew you’d have to go back to your little pocket edition of a wife afterward, anyway. But I wanted to see you wanting me, you know? Not just my body. Wanting me to live. That’s why I did it. I know I shouldn’t have. Don’t mind, promise? It won’t happen again. My Guru has told me never ever to do anything like that again. He saw it in my eyes, he said, that once I had tried to take my life. Can you imagine it? After that, I’d do anything for him. And I won’t try suicide again, really I won’t. I just wish you’d show me sometimes you need me. Show me that you’re not only committed to that dried-up little minx, and I’ll be as good as gold. Better, even, because gold isn’t going up much these days. I wish you could see this necklace I’m — oh, never mind.

That’s all I wanted, Ashokji, to matter to you. That’s all I ever asked of you. Not just bang away at me when you needed me and then pretend in public I don’t exist. Oh, I know you never promised you’d be anything else. Remember that first time, when I was practically melting in your arms, and I said, as a feeble last attempt at resistance, “But you’re a married man”? And you said, in that voice of yours, God, that voice, “A married man is still a man.” That was all I needed, that line, in that voice of yours, and with that look in your blazing eyes so bright it set me on fire. Of course I succumbed, I practically collapsed around you there and then, so I can’t blame you, you know I never have. But later, when I told Salma what you’d said, she retorted, “A married man doesn’t have to stay married — if he’s a man.”

Oh, you know Salma, I didn’t take her words to heart or anything, not really. But deep down inside, I can’t help feeling there just might be something to what she said. You were just trying to have it both ways, weren’t you, Ashokji? You never intended to acknowledge me in any way, except with that hypocritical temple garlanding of yours, with no witnesses. No witnesses — yes, Salma pointed that out too, and I said that it just shows how spontaneous the whole thing was. And all she could say was, “Mehnaz, you poor sap, when are you going to stop fooling yourself? He knew exactly what he was doing. That man of yours, or rather not of yours, is a selfish, calculating bastard and the sooner you realize it the better/’ You know what I did? I told her to get out of my house. I screamed at her: “Out! Out! You jealous, pimply housewife, just because your husband can’t get it up doesn’t mean you’ve got to get me down! Get out!” And I really pushed her out of the house, you know. All for you. The things I did because of my love for you, Ashokji. Sometimes when I think about them I can’t even believe it myself.

And what did you give me in exchange? Torment, neglect, humiliation. No, I’m not just being melodramatic, Mr. Ashok Banjara. Really, the things you made me put up with for you! I mean, how could you do to me what you did over Dil Ek Qila? A perfect script, tailor-made for me, a great Mehnaz Elahi part, and because I’m silly enough to be besotted with you, I ask them to cast you opposite me. Of course they were thrilled by the idea, everybody knew what was really going on between us, even if you pretended they didn’t. Dream casting, they said, slobbering over the gossip columns. Dream casting.

So you get the script, and what do you do to it? You let that wife of yours take it over, change the story, destroy my part, control the film and drive it to ruin! Did you even try to protest, Ashokji? A perfectly good plot destroyed, all the thrill and suspense taken out, dollops of sacchariney sentimentality added that was bound to turn away the crowds. And I tried to tell you — but would you listen? No huzoor! Heaven forbid! I tell you, if it weren’t for you and my contract, and not even in that order, I would have walked off that film on the first day. I could see what she was up to, the minx! But you, you were so blinded by your guilt, or whatever it was, you couldn’t see anything but her tight little behind. Well, if she was such a loyal and noble little soul, Ashokji, what was Pranay doing in that film, once all the villainy had been cut out of the story? What was the need for him to be there at all? You tell me that, Mr. Devoted Husband. Go on. Tell me. Just try.