Show Business (15 page)

Scene: Ashok the inspector goes from prison to prison, asking in vain about his father. In each frame the prison officials shake their heads too, out of tune with the insistent drumbeat of the sound track. The young policeman walks away, depressed but determined.

During both sequences the sound track swells with a plaintive lament:

Seeking —
We must go on seeking.
Must leave no stone unturned,
No candle of hope unburned,
No bit of truth unlearned —
Must go on seeking.

Seeking —
We must go on seeking.
Must keep our faith alive,
And never cease to strive,
Whatever we derive —
We must go on seeking.

Scene: Ashok, Mehnaz, and the monkey Thakur are at a village mela. Amid the colorful bustle of the fairground — painted animals and brightly dressed women, rusty carousels and lusty carousers, turbans and cotton candy in equally startling shades of pink — the trio continue their quest. They are seen receiving yet another negative shake of the head in response to Ashok's extended wrist. Dispirited — indeed, none is more dejected than the monkey, who covers his eyes with his long fingers gloomily — they turn away.

“I'm beginning to think we'll never find out about your amulet,
Bhaiya,”
says a weary Mehnaz, pretty in a yellow
ghagra choli
and pouting most attractively at her costar.

“We will, Mehnaz,” Ashok replies. “We must. I cannot rest until I have found out the truth about myself.”

Mehnaz looks as if she might be prepared to tell him a few truths herself, but further conversation is thwarted by a commotion in the village square beyond the fairground.

“What's going on here?” asks Ashok.

“It's the Old Woman,” says a villager. “Some people are angry with her and want to drive her away.”

“What Old Woman?”

“You haven't heard of the Old Woman?” The villager looks at Ashok as a Bombayite might regard someone who thought stars could only be seen in the sky. “She is well known in these parts. She has been wandering around for years. At first she was with a hermit who had helped her in some way. She collected alms for him, fed him, and so on. Then the hermit died and she took to sitting under a banyan tree for days on end, praying. People think she is a holy woman of some sort and they give her food and water. But it never lasts for very long. In village after village she has been driven away because of her madness.”

“She is mad, then?”

“You wouldn't think so at first. But every once in a while, when she sees a baby, she starts screaming that it is hers and tries to snatch it away from whoever is carrying it, accusing that person of having stolen her child. As you can imagine, people don't take too kindly to that. So they drive her away, and she wanders off to another banyan tree in another village, until it happens all over again.”

“Sad story,” says Mehnaz.

“Yes, something terrible must have happened to her in the past,” the villager clucks. “It used to be said that she had had some accident and could remember nothing — not even her name or address, who she was, where she came from. So she is just called the Old Woman.”

“And a lot of other names, it seems,” says Ashok, heeding the voices raised offscreen. “Come, Thakur, let us see what they are doing to this poor Old Woman.” The monkey nods agreement, and they set off.

Not a moment too soon. There is a mob gathered near the banyan tree, and the mood is ugly. Voices are raised, and so are fists: one unpleasant extra has a
chappal
in his hand with which he is threatening to beat the old lady if she continues to impugn the parenthood of his baby.

In the center of this throng, her gray hair flowing wild about her, her body clad in shapeless white, her considerable bosom heaving and her face bathed in tears, is — you guessed it, audience! — Abha. Damsel no longer, but evidently in distress.

“Would you raise your filthy footwear against your own mother?” Ashok asks sharply if irrelevantly, shaming the
chappal-
wielder, and ultimately the crowd, into retreat. (The original screenplay had called for a fight scene here, with Ashok and his monkey bashing up the mob, but this was regretfully deleted by the director in an uncharacteristic burst of sensitivity.) Ashok puts a protective arm around the Old Woman. “Come, Mother,” he says, using the term out of respect rather than recognition, but giving the audience their twenty-five paise's worth of irony in the bargain. “Come with us. We shall look after you.”

“Who are you,
beta?”
the Old Woman asks as her tormenters melt away, muttering. In the background the tune of “We must go on seeking” plays on, to alert the less attentive members of the audience.

“I am just a humble monkey-man, Mother,” admits our hero. “But I cannot bear to see you treated like this. I never had a mother myself, and it galls me to see those who have been able to take their mothers for granted behave in this way. Come with us, Mataji. We have a humble home which is yours as long as you want to stay.

“You are very kind,” Abha says gravely. “The blessings of Hanuman be upon you. And this girl?”

“She is my sister, or rather she is like a sister to me,” Ashok explains. “Her father recently passed away and I am looking after her, though a lot of the time I feel she is the one looking after me.”

“Bless you both.” Then suddenly, as Ashok moves his arm, there is a crash of cymbals on the background track. The camera zooms into a close-up amid the screeching of violins, and Abha's eyes, wide with astonishment, take in the sight of the talisman dangling from her rescuer's wrist.

“Where did you get that?” she screams, lunging for it. “You thief! You stole that! Give it to me.”

Ashok catches her raised hand in a firm grip as Mehnaz looks alarmed. “Please, Mother, is this any way to treat someone who has done you no harm? This talisman is mine.”

“Liar! How did you get it? Who gave it to you?”

“It has been with me since birth.”

(Another smash from the invisible percussionist.) “And who,” Abha asks with a catch in her voice, “are your parents?”

Ashok's voice drops. “I don't know, Mother. You see, as a baby I was found in a basket on the river.”

“My God!” says Abha and faints, a hand on her heart, as the refrain from “We must go on seeking” deafens the viewers. Before Ashok can prevent it, Abha has hit her head on the hard ground. The monkey, wincing, puts shocked hands to his ears as Ashok and Mehnaz look at each other in mutual bewilderment.

When Abha is revived, the knock on her head has, of course, affected only her amnesia. She now remembers everything, and at some cost to the patience of the viewers, remembers it garrulously. The reunion of mother and son is tearful and heartrending. So is the background music.

“Raju might still be working somewhere, in some factory in Bombay, and might know where your brother is,” Mehnaz points out.

“Do you know how many factories there are in Bombay?” Ashok asks. “That would be impossible. I pray that my brother is alive and well and that Fate will lead me to him. But first, there are more urgent things to do. I must find my real father and try to get him out of jail. And then I must deal with this evil uncle of mine.”

“But how can you get him out of jail?” Abha asks.

“Ma” (the use of the word brings tears to the actress's eyes, not necessarily for the reasons intended in the script), “in the years that I have been a humble monkey-man I have made a number of friends who are on the wrong side of the law. We will find a way.”

Abha looks at her newfound son, her eyes brimming with hope and pride. “Pray that they have not moved him to another jail,” she says.

“Let's go, Ma,” says the hero. The monkey hops excitedly about on Ashok's shoulder as they walk on. The sound track reminds the audience that they must go on seeking.

“You may visit the prisoner,” the jail official tells Inspector Ashok. The young man, controlling his excitement with difficulty, walks to the cell. On a rough wooden stool sits Ramkumar, head bowed, wearing a prison uniform and a thick beard. He is a well-known character actor, a euphemism for someone who can act but isn't as good-looking as the (invariably characterless) hero.

“Father,” breathes Ashok.

Ramkumar looks up dubiously. “What do you want?” he asks gruffly. “Who are you?”

Ashok grips the bars of the cell. “I am your son,” he beams.

“I have no son,” Ramkumar replies. “Stop torturing an old man. Go away.”

“B-but you have! Your wife, Abha, gave birth to twin sons while you were in jail!” Ashok exclaims. “My revered mother and brother died at the hands of the henchmen of Pranay Thakur, but I survived. Didn't anyone tell you this?” He takes in the expression of growing astonishment and wonder on his father's face and realizes that, of course, no one could have. “I'm sorry, Father.” He thrusts out his wrist. “Do you recognize this?”

“I gave it to your mother many years ago.” His voice breaking, Ramkumar gets up from his stool and walks warily toward the bars of the cell. “And I thought she had simply decided to abandon a jailbird.” He shakes his head, grieving. “How do I know you are telling the truth, that you didn't just pick this talisman up somewhere? Why have you come to me only now?”

“Because I have only just found out about you and traced you to this jail,” Ashok says. He bends to touch his father's feet through the bars. “If you don't believe me, I'll bring Raju-ji to you tomorrow. You remember Raju?”

“The servant? Yes, of course I do. But” — a blur covers his eyes, and in a single point of light at its center Ramkumar sees his wife, young again, arms outstretched to him as he is dragged away in handcuffs — “it won't be necessary.” Ramkumar looks at Ashok still bent, and slowly, as if marveling at the moment, places a hand on his visitor's head. “Bless you,” he says, “my son.”

“Father!” exclaims Ashok, rising. They embrace, despite the bars between them. (The filmmakers are unaware of prison regulations and they've never heard of the
Jail Manual,
but even if they were and had, they wouldn't let realism come in the way of art. These men from Bombay belong to a purist school of aesthetics.)

“It breaks my heart to discover a son and to know that these bars will always remain between us, while that wretched killer who has reduced me to this goes free.”

“Father, I promise you will not have to remain in prison much longer. I will check every rule, explore every legal right you have, to get you out of here. I am a police officer. I can do it.”

“You give me hope, my son,” says Ramkumar, pride in his voice. “But — do not tell the police I am your father. They will hold it against you, my son, that your father is a convicted criminal. It may even make it more difficult for you to intervene to secure my release. After all these years, I can afford to wait a little longer if need be, but don't take any risks.”

“You are right, Father,” Ashok agrees. “Very well, I shall keep our relationship a secret. But only until justice has been done and you are a free man again!”

Outside the prison Inspector Ashok walks on air, a starry look in his eyes. He whistles; he does a quick hop, skip, and jump. Startled passersby look at him askance. A lovely girl in a cotton
salwar-kameez,
books in her arms, hails him.

“Ashok!” calls Mehnaz. She is wearing outsize sunglasses, apparently to enhance the scholarly look she must sustain for the scene. “What are you doing in this uniform?”

Ashok blinks. “Do I know you?” he asks, though he is clearly not unhappy at being recognized by this exquisite stranger.

“Stop teasing me,” she says. “If the police catch you in this, you'll really be in for it.”

“But I
am
the police,” Ashok protests.

“Very funny,” says Mehnaz. “But I must say, it looks good on you,
Bhaiya.
Is it part of the plan?”

“If you say so,” agrees Ashok, mystified.

“Anyway, I knew you wouldn't let me walk alone to college,” Mehnaz says satisfiedly. “Having forced me to stay out of all your exciting plans and told me I had to finish my studies, I did think the least you could do was accompany me.”

“You bet,” confirms Ashok, who knows a good thing when he sees it and is, in his elation, game for anything.

“I suppose you think the uniform will frighten all the college
dadas
into behaving themselves,” Mehnaz goes on chattily.

“It should, shouldn't it?” Ashok agrees.

“You're talking funnily today, Ashok
Bhaiya.”
The girl giggles. They have reached a park that blooms conveniently on their way to the college. “You're really speaking strangely.”

“Would you prefer me to sing, instead?” Ashok asks. Mehnaz laughs and runs toward a tree. Ashok bursts into playback:

Gulmohars, roses and the iris growing green,
You are more lovely than any flower I've seen;
Take off those glasses and put jasmine in your hair,
And let me watch you just — standing there.
Oooh, standing there.

(Mehnaz laughs, runs around the tree, then skips lightly over the grass and puts one foot on a park bench. She slips her glasses up her forehead and holds her chin in one hand, surveying Ashok in mock disapproval.)

Mountains, oceans, valleys around the tourist scene,
You are a better sight than any place I've been;
Turn off that frowning look and sit upon that chair,
And let me watch you just — sitting there.
Oooh, sitting there.

(Mehnaz sits on the park bench while Ashok dances around it, singing. He plucks a rose and gives it to her. She inhales its scent, then stretches languorously on the bench, coyly veiling herself and the rose with her thin gauze
dupatta.)

Love-poems, sonnets and the words that I can glean,
You are more to me than any verse could mean;
Slip off that screen of cloth and leave your fragrance bare,
And let me watch you just — lying there.
Oooh, lying there.