Shashi Tharoor - Show Business

I am the long arm of the law,

No villain will touch you with his paw,

They’ll fall helter-skelter

When I give you shelter,

For they know what I’ve got in store!

I am the long arm of the law,

My skills are the very ones you saw,

Oh, damsel in distress, Justice is my

mistress, And my heart beats for

you at the core!

There are six different shots of Abha running into Ashok’s arms in six different parts of town and being clasped in six different tight embraces. When the last note fades away, the camera catches them thus and lingers on Abha’s face, the side that is not pressed into the hero’s chest. She is smiling: but is it the smile of a woman in love, or of a villainess in victory?

Interior: Godambo’s cavern. The cheetah is being scratched, the villainous palm is being struck, the fin is swirling in the pool — we are back in familiar territory.

“Are you making progress, Abha?” The gravel seems to have been troweled on today.

“Yes, mighty Godambo.” Abha’s eyes are lowered, so it is difficult to read her expression. She has changed from her range of respectable attire in the song — saris, salwar-kameez — back into her black-and-gold uniform. “He suspects nothing.”

“But what have you found out? How much does he know?”

“I am still trying to win his confidence, mighty Godambo. I haven’t been able to ask him that yet.”

“It is taking a lot of time,” Godambo says. “Pranay here is becoming impatient, aren’t you, Pranay?”

Pranay, chewing, grunts affirmatively, bringing the whipstock gingerly down on his palm. He sports a pair of vivid bruises, designed to win the makeup man a Filmfare award.

“Poor Pranay had to put up with a lot that night at the club,” Godambo chuckles evilly, “just to bring you and Ashok together. He’s itching to get his own back now, aren’t you, Pranay?”

Pranay chews and grunts even more vigorously. This time the whip handle falls into his palm with a satisfying thwack. Abha winces, but says nothing.

“You’re not becoming too fond of this Inspector Ashok yourself, are you, Abha?” Godambo asks conversationally. The cheetah sits up. “Because if any such thought should cross your mind, you know what will happen to your parents, don’t you? And to their sad little house?” The cheetah stands up on all fours on Godambo’s lap. “Or indeed to you?”

A look of pain, like a fleeting shadow, crosses Abha’s face. “I know where my duty lies, mighty Godambo,” she says. The gold lame chemise quivers with suppressed emotion.

“Just as well,” responds the domed head on the throne. “But to be safe, I shall ask Pranay here to keep a closer eye on you. Don’t want you making any silly mistakes over this Inspector Ashok.” He looks at her meaningfully; she averts her gaze at first, looking down, then brings her chin up to return his stare, a strong, confident expression on her face. “Not that I don’t trust you, Abha. You’re an intelligent girl. You know what’s good for you. And if you don’t” — he raises his voice to address the pillar-posted commandos — “we all know what the punishment for betrayal is, don’t we?”

The expected answer comes, full-throated, uncompromising. “Death!”

“Death,” echoes Godambo in confirmation. The cheetah closes its eyes.

“Amma, I have brought someone to meet you.”

“Arré, Ashok, home so early? And who have …” Amma bustles out of the kitchen into the main room with its parrot-green wall and stops short beneath the freshly garlanded photograph of her late and much-lamented husband. She takes in the sight of Abha, demurely clad in a cotton sari, and her eyes widen with surprise and pleasure.

“Ma, this is Abha.” Ashok cannot keep the pride out of these simple words, even in the rerecording studio. The heroine-gangster’s moll steps forward, hand outstretched, and bends to touch the old lady’s feet.

A happy scene follows. Kind words are spoken, embarrassed smiles concealed, shy glances exchanged. Pigtailed Maya enters and, in defiance of all the established patterns of sibling behavior, takes an instant liking to her brother’s flame. As Amma produces tea and snacks, the younger women commune in a shared filmi sisterhood. Maya admires the way Abha wears her hair; Abha tells her it is easy to do. Maya giggles a request, and Abha smilingly accompanies her to her room to oblige. In a moment they are back, with Maya’s hair done just like Abha’s. There is much laughter, but soon it is time for the visitor to leave.

“I’ve always wanted to have a sister,” Maya says artlessly. “Please come back soon.”

A troubled look shadows Abha’s face. “I’d like to come back soon,” she says. She turns away, biting her lip, so that no one can see the tears that have suddenly welled up in her eyes.

It is evening, and Abha is standing alone at some unidentified spot. She sings a slow, high-pitched, haunting lament:

I am torn in two,

I am torn in two,

Just like an unwelcome love-letter.

I am torn in two,

I am torn in two,

And I fear I will never be better.

How cruel is life,

To bring such strife,

And make me weep and mope;

To have the word “wife”

Strike like a knife

Instead of lighting hope.

I am torn in two,

I am torn in two,

I love this precious man.

I am torn in two,

I am torn in two,

For I must fulfill the plan.

His every smile

His sense of style

Lights up my wretched heart.

But all the while

With shameful guile

I’ve been playing my part.

I am torn in two,

I am torn in two,

My mind quivers with this thought.

I am torn in two,

I am torn in two,

Between the must and the ought.

As the last high note fades into the sound track, it is replaced by the roar of the hero’s motorcycle coming down the road. “Abha, why are you looking so sad?” Ashok asks. “Come on, I’ll take you for a spin and cheer you up.”

“No, thanks, Ashok, I don’t really feel like it today. I’m worried about you.”

“About me?” asks Ashok. “Why?”

“Your police work. It must be so dangerous. Just today there was an article in the paper about the ‘most wanted man in India,’ Godambo, and how many people he has killed. What would happen if they assigned you to a case like that, to tackle someone like this horrible killer?”

“Nothing,” he responds cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, I’ll let you into a secret, I am handling the Godambo case. And nothing has happened to me. I shall have that villain behind bars soon enough, and they will give me such a promotion I will be able to afford to marry you.”

“Hush,” she says. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you might tempt Providence.” She averts her face, swallows, resumes. “Have you — come into contact with this Godambo yet?”

“No. If I had, that would be the end of the story,” Ashok boasts. “I have successfully stopped some of his operations, but no one knows where to find the great Godambo himself. Once I can track him down to his hideout, Godambo will be mine.”

“Don’t do it!” Abha exclaims, then puts her hand to her mouth. “I mean, it might be terribly dangerous. Do you have any leads?”

“Not one,” Ashok admits. “I was hoping Godambo would show his hand after we intercepted one of his planes a few weeks ago. But he has been lying low. I must have frightened the fellow.” He laughs at Abha’s troubled expression. “For Gods sake, stop looking so worried,” he says. “Remember: