A Burning(49)
But the interviewer, she is having tears in her eyes. She is putting a hand on my cold hand, like we are newly discovering that we are sisters.
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FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER THAT TV segment is playing on cable, this very same night, my WhatsApp is going prrng!
I am sitting with my sisters in my room, munching some fried pumpkin snacks, discussing everyone’s performance in front of the real cameras. Was Kumar keeping his nervous giggling to a manageable level? Was Peonji impressing with his life story of working in insurance and feeding his three children?
Dear Miss Lovely, my phone screen is saying.
When I am opening the WhatsApp from a number I am not knowing, it is continuing, I am from Sonali Khan’s film production company. Can we talk on the phone?
I am reading the words again and again. I am showing it, with big, big eyes, to all my sisters. Arjuni Ma, who is acting like she was never giving me any advices, is saying, “Is that—is that—Sonali Khan?”
Yes, that Sonali Khan, who is producing one blockbuster after another. Who in this entire country is not knowing the love story, filmed in foreign mountains, in I Am Yours Forever, or the fight sequences in the patriotic film Cricket Mania?
Suddenly, while we are all sitting there with mouths open, looking at the phone like it is a magic stone, it is ringing. When I am picking up, a woman is saying, “Lovely, did you get my WhatsApp message just now? We are thinking of you for a role in Sonali Khan’s next production. It’s a good role, a big role. Do you have time to come for an audition next week?”
My sisters are getting excited. They are leaning close to the phone and trying to hear. Everybody is pausing their eating of the pumpkin fritters so that their mouths are not doing crunch crunch.
While I am listening on the phone, I am looking with my eyes at my water filter, half-full, my mattress, flattened by our weight, my window, outside of which there is a woman carrying a tub full of soiled dishes for washing.
With all my dignity and all my calm, I, Lovely, am hearing this lady on the phone offering me my dream opportunity. “Yes,” I am telling her. “Yes.”
PT SIR
IT TAKES TWO WEEKS to get an appointment with Bimala Pal, and the appointment is no more than the chance to be in a car with her as she is driven from one place to another. The road they travel, in the center of the city, is thick with sedans and buses. A bicycle pushes forward in the wrong direction. Along the edge, tarps are strung between tree trunks for makeshift shops selling calendars, candy, cell phone covers. In the rearview mirror, PT Sir can see two white cars follow.
“Don’t ask,” says Bimala Pal when PT Sir asks how her work is going. The price of onions is soaring, and this is a problem for the government. She, in the opposition, is getting plenty of mileage from it, at least.
“The public is unsatisfied,” she says. “The government is failing to control the price. In the news, if you have seen the reports from local markets, every single person is complaining about the price of vegetables. It is hurting the common person.”
Turning to him, she asks if the lane before the school has held up over the months. No more waterlogging?
“None,” says PT Sir.
“And this has increased my prestige, in fact,” he reveals in a moment of friendly feeling.
At this Bimala Pal laughs.
PT Sir summons all his courage and says what he has wanted to say. “Madam, I want to do more for the party. I am ready for a bigger role. You have so many projects, maybe I can give my service—”
Bimala madam puts a hand on the headrest to brace against a bumpy stretch of road. Through the tinted windows PT Sir sees street-side vendors toss noodles, ladle biryani from giant containers, and scoop the white batter of dosa onto hot griddles. Through the windshield he sees, now and then, without warning, a pedestrian who holds an arm up and dashes across the street. Horns blare, drivers pressing angry palms against the wheel.
After a minute or two of silence, Bimala Pal speaks. “Actually,” she says, “good that you bring this up.”
PT Sir imagines an office with a leather chair. A computer of his own. An air-conditioned room where he can sit in the evenings, a part-time position to begin with.
But Bimala Pal has something else in mind. He was so good with the teachers in the village of Chalnai, she says, that she would like him to headline a rally at a village where he can present the party’s plans for the local school. They need a knowledgeable man like him in the field. And he will get a taste of a politician’s life.
“What do you say?”
The balloon pops. Quickly, the vision of a cool and comfortable office evaporates. This will be no different from standing out in the field all day, the blood circulation slowing below his knees. Of course, he accepts.
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WINTER IS RETREATING, the sun regaining its strength, when PT Sir finds himself in a village called Kokilhat. In the shade of a mango tree with roots like knuckles grasping the earth, PT Sir holds a microphone while two lanky men, sitting on the branches above, support megaphones above his head.
A politician’s persona slips easily over his clean white shirt and khakis, the garland of flowers around his neck. PT Sir speaks, recalling notes he studied the day before: “We know that your local school has been closed for over two years! I heard all about the absent teachers, the leaks during the monsoons, the textbooks which were not available. That is why we will renovate the building completely, and hire teachers for every subject. We will make sure discounted textbooks are available before the first day of school for every child. What’s more, there will be free midday meals for your children!”