John Irving - A Son of the Circus

And Dhar could return and outlast anyone’s stare; he could also manipulate the eye of any camera. Alarmingly, he possessed an increasingly bulky strength. Until he was in his mid-thirties, his muscles had been well defined, his stomach flat. Whether it was middle age, or whether Dhar had yielded to the usual bodily measurements for success among Bombay’s matinee idols—or whether it was his love of weight lifting in tandem with his professed capacity for beer—the actor’s stoutness threatened to overtake his reputation as a tough guy. (In Bombay, he was perceived as a well-fed tough guy.) His critics liked to call him Beer Belly, but not to his face; after all, Dhar wasn’t in bad shape for a guy who was almost 40.

As for Dr. Daruwalla’s screenplays, they deviated from the usual masala mixture of the Hindi cinema. Farrokh’s scripts were both corny and tawdry, but the vulgarity was decidedly Western—the hero’s own nastiness was extolled as a virtue (Dhar was routinely nastier than most villains)—and the peculiar sentimentality bordered on undergraduate existentialism (Dhar was beyond loneliness in that he appeared to enjoy being alienated from everyone). There were token gestures to the Hindi cinema, which Dr. Daruwalla viewed with the mocking irony of an outsider: gods frequently descended from the heavens (usually to provide Inspector Dhar with inside information), and all the villains were demonic (if ineffectual). Villainy, in general, was represented by criminals and the majority of the police force; sexual conquest was reserved for Inspector Dhar, whose heroism operated both within and above the law. As for the women who provided the sexual conquests, Dhar remained largely indifferent to them, which was suspiciously European.

There was music of the standard Hindi combination: choruses of girls oohing and aahing to the clamor of guitars, tablas, violins and vinas. And Inspector Dhar himself, despite his ingrained cynicism, would occasionally lip-sync a song. Although he lip-synced well, the lyrics are not worth repeating—he would snarl such poetry as, “Baby, I guarantee it, you’re gonna find me gratifying!” Such songs, in the Hindi cinema, are in Hindi, but this was another instance of how the Inspector Dhar films were deliberately scripted against the grain. Dhar’s songs were in English, with his deplorable Hindi accent; even his theme song, which was sung by an all-girl chorus and repeated at least twice in every Inspector Dhar movie, was in English. It, too, was loathed; it was also a hit. Although he’d written it, it made Dr. Daruwalla cringe to hear it.

If Dhar was a good lip-syncer, he also demonstrated no enthusiasm for the much-maligned art. One critic had dubbed him “Lazy Lips.” Another critic complained that nothing energized Dhar—he lacked enthusiasm for everything. As an actor, Dhar had mass appeal—possibly because he seemed constantly depressed, as if sordidness were a magnet to him, and his eventual triumph over evil were a perpetual curse. Therefore, a certain wistfulness was ascribed to every victim whom Inspector Dhar sought to rescue or avenge; a graphic violence attended Dhar’s punishment of each and every evildoer.

As for sex, satire prevailed. In place of lovemaking, old newsreel footage of a rocking train would be substituted; ejaculation was characterized by listless waves breaking on shore. Furthermore, and in compliance with the rules of censorship in India, nudity, which was not permitted, was replaced by wetness; there was much fondling (fully clothed) in the rain, as if Inspector Dhar solved crimes only during the monsoon season. The occasional nipple could be glimpsed, or at least imagined, under a fully soaked sari; this was more titillating than erotic.

Social relevance and ideology were similarly muted, if not altogether absent. (Both in Toronto and in Bombay, these latter instincts were similarly undeveloped in Dr. Daruwalla.) Beyond the commonplace observation that the police were thoroughly corrupted by a system based on bribery, there was little preaching. Scenes of violent but maudlin death, followed by scenes of tearful mourning, were more important than messages intended to inspire a national conscience.

The character of Inspector Dhar was brutally vindictive; he was also utterly incorruptible—except sexually. Women were easily and simplistically identified as good or bad; yet Dhar permitted himself the greatest liberties with both—indeed, with all. Well, with almost all. He wouldn’t indulge a Western woman, and in every Inspector Dhar movie there was always at least one Western, ultra-white woman who craved a sexual adventure with Inspector Dhar; that he faithfully and cruelly spurned her was his signature, his trademark, and the part of his films that made Indian women and young girls adore him. Whether this aspect of Dhar’s character reflected his feelings for his mother or gave fictional evidence of his stated intentions to sire only Indian babies—well, who knew? Who really knew anything about Inspector Dhar? Hated by all men, loved by all women (who said that they hated him).

Even the Indian women who’d dated him were uniform in the zeal they demonstrated in protection of his privacy. They would say, “He’s not at all like he is in his movies.” (No examples were ever forthcoming.) They would say, “He’s very old-fashioned, a real gentleman.” (No examples were ever asked for.) “He’s very modest, really—and very quiet,” they would say.

Everyone could believe he was “quiet”; there were suspicions that he never spoke an unscripted line—these were happy, mindless contradictions of the rumor regarding his accentless English. No one believed anything, or else they believed everything they’d ever heard. That he had two wives—one in Europe. That he had a dozen children—none he would acknowledge, all of them illegitimate. That he actually lived in Los Angeles, in his vile mother’s house!

In the face of all rumors, and in keeping with the violent contrasts created by the extreme popularity of his movies and the extreme animosity toward him that was inspired by his sneer, Dhar himself remained inscrutable. No small amount of sarcasm was detectable in his sneer; no other thick-set, middle-aged man could possibly have seemed so self-possessed.

Dhar endorsed only one charity; so totally and convincingly did he solicit the public’s support of his personal crusade that he had achieved a philanthropic status as high as any among the several benefactors of Bombay. He made television commercials for the Hospital for Crippled Children. The advertisements were made at Dhar’s own expense and they were devastatingly effective. (Dr. Daruwalla was the author of these commercials as well.)

On the TV, Inspector Dhar faces the camera in medium close-up, wearing a loose-fitting white shirt—a collarless or mandarin-style kurta—and he holds his practiced sneer only as long as he imagines it takes to get the viewer’s full attention. Then he says, “You may love to hate me—I make a lot of money and I don’t give any of it to anyone, except to these children.” There then follows a series of shots of Dhar among the crippled children at the orthopedic hospital: a deformed little girl crawls toward Inspector Dhar, who holds out his hands to her; Inspector Dhar is surrounded by staring children in wheelchairs; Inspector Dhar lifts a little boy from a swirling whirlpool bath and carries him to a clean white table, where two nurses assemble the child’s leg braces for him—the boy’s legs aren’t as big around as his arms.