A Burning(37)

PT Sir looks at the man, and is shocked to see his eyes are wet. Azad is crying. In a panic, he wails, “Judge sir, I am just a transport man, where will I find five thousand rupees? I just got married, I have a wife to support now—”

The judge, irritated, announces that a trade in fake goods will not be tolerated, not while he has a courtroom to preside over. “If you cannot pay the fine, you can serve a jail term,” he declares. “Is that what you choose?”





LOVELY


NOW THAT I AM owning a demo video, on Mr. Debnath’s recommendation I am visiting a casting director, Mr. Jhunjhunwala.

Morning of the appointment, I am putting baby powder on my oily spots—forehead, nose, chin. Just in case he is asking me to film something right there!

Once again I am going to the film district, but this time I am going in the opposite direction from Mr. Debnath’s house. I am passing by a big studio, built a hundred years ago, which is now blocking part of the road. Since big-big stars are filming in that studio, the municipal corporation is letting the studio stay.

The casting director’s office is not far. I am walking down a lane where there is an open gutter thick with mosquitoes, and soon I am seeing a door that is saying Jhunjhunwala.

The door is thin, and one plank of wood is splintered at the bottom. Along the stairway, I am feeling surprised to see red splashes of spit which are soiling the walls. To be truthful, this office is looking quite dirty, but who am I to know where fame and success are coming from?

    I am knocking on door 3C, hearing the loud voice of a man on the phone inside. The man is calling, “Come, come.” Inside, the man’s head is bent to the phone, and he is waving me forward, showing me the two chairs on the other side of his table. I am sitting, touching the edge of my blouse on my shoulder to make sure the bra strap is tucked inside. Mr. Debnath has prepared me to always sit straight and tall. The pose is making me feel confident when I am actually feeling nervous. Then I am waiting, trying to look a bit humble and a bit royal.

The phone conversation is finally ending, and Mr. Jhunjhunwala is standing up, coming around to my side, and taking my hand in both of his hands. He is shaking my hand like I am the prime minister.

“Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” he is saying. When he is speaking, a scent of paan is coming from his mouth. I can see his teeth are red from betel stains, so maybe he is the one spitting in the stairs every day. “Some producers, they depend a lot on me, and want to discuss every small detail…” He is shaking his head. What to do with these needy producers!

“Chai? Pepsi?” he is offering, and a small boy is poking his head in through the door to take the order. How he is knowing that he is needed, I don’t know. But this is a professional film office, so this is how things are run in an office. I am saying water only, thank you, but Mr. Jhunjhunwala is saying, “Only water?” And then he is telling the boy, “Bring a cold Pepsi, straight from the fridge.”

    So I am drinking Pepsi from a glass bottle, keeping the thin straw in one corner of my mouth like film stars do. I am not wanting to spoil my lipstick. In front of me, there is a table topped with a glass slab, and under that glass slab are autographed postcards by big movie stars. Some of the names I am recognizing. Are they prints or originals? I am thinking. And then I am scolding myself—look at me, so cynical! Of course they are originals. This is the society in which I move about now.

Then Mr. Jhunjhunwala is sitting down, with his chai in front, and he is looking at me with a strict expression. “Now, your acting teacher, Mr. Debnath, is someone I respect very much. So I take it very seriously—very, very seriously!—when he says, look, here’s a student I think you should meet. Immediately I said, it will be my honor, just tell her to come quickly.”

I am smiling, sipping. The fizzy and sweet drink is making me feel good.

Mr. Jhunjhunwala is saying, “Now. Kamz, I mean, Kamal Banerjee, you have heard of him?”

Who has not heard of the great director Kamal Banerjee?

“So Kamz is casting for a film just now. Let me tell you the story. It will be a love story with a twist, set during a harvest season in which a whole village is suffering because too little rain, too few crops, you see, like that. It will be a blockbuster, mark my words. Now, there is a scene in which a hijra, a bad luck hijra, comes to the village, saying, ‘Give me money no, mother, please, my child is starving,’ et cetera, okay? And our hero, who is suffering himself from his fields dying, mind you, in his suffering he comes out and chases away the hijra with a broom.”

    I am sucking my Pepsi too fast now. The main part is coming, surely.

“You,” says Mr. Jhunjhunwala, “will be perfect for the hijra part. Do you have your demo CD with you?”

I am wanting to be a heroine on-screen. At least the heroine’s sister or girlfriend. And here is the great casting director telling me about a minor role, where the character would be chased off-screen with a broom! I am putting the straw away from my lips. My heart is sinking, and all of a sudden this room is making me unhappy. I am seeing the mousehole in the corner. I am feeling the wobble in this old chair. I am saying in a tiny voice, “Yes, sir.” I am handing him the CD in its case.

Mr. Jhunjhunwala is feeling the disappointment in my voice. He is taking the CD and leaning back in his chair. “You know,” he is saying, looking at the ceiling, “many people come to me and think I can put them in a movie, instantly. But it doesn’t work like that. If you are serious about your career, if you don’t want to remain on an amateur level, then you have to start at the entry level.”