The Accidental Apprentice (22 page)

I admire her steely self-confidence. But I also worry how she will handle failure. As with other TV contests, the winner of
Popstar No. 1
will be chosen ultimately by audience vote. And, as our politicians have learnt time and again, there is nothing more fickle than a voter.

*   *   *

The show begins in earnest the next day. We are all taken to Mehboob Studio in Bandra where the forty contestants are formally introduced to each other.

The set is retro chic, made to look like a classy nightclub of the kind that used to be quite common in Hindi movies of the 1970s. Painted with a dark palette of reddish brown, deep mauve and blue, it features a black, grooved, circular rotating stage modelled like a record from the 78-r.p.m. era. The
noir
atmosphere is accentuated by the dramatic lighting, hazy reds and purples that bathe the stage in a dreamlike glow. There are more than two hundred people in the studio audience, consisting of members of the general public and friends and relatives of the contestants.

The producer-cum-director is a tall, gangly hipster who looks like a reggae musician with his goatee and dreads. A Syrian Christian from Kerala, he goes by the name of Mathew George. Dressed in scuffed jeans and sneakers, he explains the ground rules to the contestants like a coach prepping a new team. ‘The first thing you all must know is that
Popstar No.1
is not a musical talent show. It is an entertainment show, a cross between
Bigg Boss
and
Indian Idol.
So I don't want just your songs: I also want your life, with all its messiness, sorrows, uncertainties, with all its beauty and ugliness. I want your tears, I want your fears. I want catfights, scandals, lovers' tiffs. I want your dark secrets, your dirty laundry. I want everything that you have within yourself to come screaming out, announcing to the world why you and only you deserve to become Popstar No. 1, and how you will stop at nothing to get there. Remember, the world only worships number one. It has no place for the number twos. History is severe upon the vanquished. So rise up, fight and claim your crown.'

He pauses and looks around at the contestants huddled backstage, some nervously biting their nails or tapping their feet. ‘Do you get it?'

I don't know about the others, but Neha certainly got it. ‘This is it, this is it,
didi.
' She grips my hand. ‘I can feel it in my bones that I'm going to be the number one.'

‘So do the thirty-nine others,' I sigh.

A short while later the judges troop in. They are the four ‘Musical Gurus'. Heavily built Bashir Ahmad is the Bollywood music director
du jour,
having given music for a number of hit films as part of the Bashir–Omar duo. He also has a regrettable knack for self-promotion. Rohit Kalra is a well-known lyricist and ghazal singer, who had tried his hand at acting, and failed. Though now comfortably middle-aged, he still has a certain dissolute charm, emphasised by his long and rakish mane of hair. Udita Sapru provides the glam quotient, a nubile singer with a sultry voice who was herself discovered three years ago through a talent contest called
Song of Life.
And lastly there is Vinayak Raoji Wagh, wearing his trademark dark glasses. In his late fifties, Raoji is a regular fixture on singing talent contests. Regarded as a living legend, he is Bollywood's only blind musician, composer and singer. His pockmarked face is a vestige of a childhood disease, but the striking scar raked below his left eye is a legacy of the grisly incident that took away his vision. A deranged female fan attacked him with a knife at a concert six years ago, and almost gouged out his eyes. She then committed suicide by plunging the same knife into her own neck. Raoji lost his vision but not his spirit. He has continued to score music for films and is on track to be listed in
Guinness World Records
as the world's most prolific blind composer.

Once the gurus have taken their seats on the judges' podium, Mathew George explains the format of the contest. ‘All forty contestants will be divided into four teams of ten, each mentored by a musical guru. Over the next two weeks we will have the direct elimination rounds, to select the twenty best contestants. And then the voting rounds will commence on live TV, allowing the public to choose, by the end of the year, the singer who will be crowned Popstar No. 1.'

He snaps his fingers and the houselights dim. A single spotlight flares up on the stage. Simultaneously the orchestra launches into the show's overture. ‘Now I want each one of you to come here and perform a song of your choice, on the basis of which the judges will finalise the four teams.'

This is what I have been waiting for, a chance to see if these pompous airheads have any singing ability at all. So I settle down with the rest of the audience as, one by one, the contestants take the stage in a predetermined order.

There's something transformative about being on stage in front of a crowd. I marvel at the curious alchemy by which these nobodies from dusty
mofussil
towns transmute into preening vocalists in the blink of an eye. The moment they stand in the spotlight and hold the mike in their hands, their entire body language changes. They are no longer engineers and farmers, students and salesgirls: they rise above their ordinariness to become performers on stage, the TV cameras endowing them with an instant halo of stardom.

Over the next three hours, I hear thirty-seven of them belt out all manner of songs to the accompaniment of a full orchestra. My impressions are decidedly mixed. Some clearly are trained singers who can hold a tune. And there are others with no musical talent at all. Their singing is so flat, it makes me wonder if they paid their way through the audition.

Then comes Neha's turn. She sings the title number from
City of Dust.
The judges – Raoji in particular – nod their heads, impressed as much by her vocal prowess as her stage command. She is easily the best so far, a rare combination of a good voice, a pretty face and a regal presence.

Neha is followed by Javed. The rickshaw-puller's son surprises everyone with his polished performance. He chooses a popular anthem from
Love in Bangkok
and almost immediately has the crowd screaming its approval and the judges tapping their feet in synchronised rhythm with the cadence of his rich baritone.

Neha begins to chafe as she is forced to acknowledge a competitor with ‘star quality' that is superior to hers.

The crowd is still chanting ‘Javed! Javed!' when, rising above the din, comes the delicate thread of an unearthly melody. It is the last contestant, the waiflike Mercy. Though her body is frail and slender, the sound that emerges from her lips is akin to a torrent of water flowing across parched desert sands. Her voice swells like a prayer, touching the deepest parts of my soul, transporting me to a celestial place of deep calm and bliss. The hall falls silent. It is the rapt silence of a crowd that knows it has stumbled onto something greater than itself, an experience that is special, almost magical.

I can see that the gurus are mesmerised by the unique timbre of her voice, but George is shaking his head in slow negation. Mercy doesn't stand a ghost of a chance of being crowned Popstar No.1. She may have the voice of a goddess, but she has the personality of a potted plant.

Having listened to all the singers, the judges go into a huddle. The contestants are on tenterhooks, like jittery high school students awaiting their board exam results. Everyone, it seems, wants to be in either Bashir Ahmad's team or Raoji's. They are the music directors who can give a new singer a much-needed break in films.

When the results are finally declared, there is gloom in some quarters and jubilation in others. Javed has been chosen by Bashir Ahmad to be a part of his team. Mercy goes to Udita, Nisar Malik, the Kashmiri, to Rohit Kalra. And my sister is taken under the wings of the blind Raoji.

Neha is ecstatic. ‘I can't believe I will be learning from a musician of Raoji's calibre.'

*   *   *

The next day the veteran music director invites all ten of his team members to his palatial, three-storey bungalow in Juhu, where he has his own private recording studio. A lifelong bachelor, Raoji lives all alone with an ancient manservant who looks half-blind himself. The recording studio is ultra-modern, complete with banks of synthesisers. Pretty soon an impromptu rehearsal commences. Someone begins playing a harmonium, another picks up a guitar. I begin to feel like a groupie at a backstage party as the strains of ragas fill the air.

Raoji patiently hears everyone and singles out Neha for special praise. ‘I can sense the presence of goddess Saraswati in your voice. You will go very far, my girl.'

Neha bends down and touches his feet. ‘I want to be your disciple and imbibe all the knowledge you possess, Guru-ji.'

‘So you shall. But don't forget my
gurudakshina,
' he laughs, referring to the tradition of repaying one's teacher after the completion of study.

I know blind people have a sixth sense, but the way Raoji says it, tilting his head and looking straight at Neha, for a moment it feels as if he could actually see her.

That night, Mercy seeks me out at dinnertime. ‘Tell your sister to be careful of Raoji,' she says cryptically.

‘Do you know something that we don't know?' I press her.

She bites her lip and does not answer.

*   *   *

Once the teams have been formed, the eliminations begin in that same tired and predictable format I have seen on countless reality contests. In every session four singers are chosen, one from each group. They are asked to perform a song selected by their own guru. Then the other judges critique the performance, and the weakest among them is eliminated. It is the equivalent of sudden death; there is no second chance for the eliminated.

Pankaj Rane, a twenty-two-year-old medical representative from Nagpur with limited talent and even less personality, is the first to be shown the door. He breaks down, starts wailing inconsolably. The cameras zoom in on his tear-streaked face. I can see Mathew George grinning. This is exactly what he wants.

It makes me sad for these young contestants and their blind ambition. The show will embrace just one winner. The rest it will chew on and spit out, leaving behind the burned rubble of vandalised hopes and broken dreams. These wannabes who have come with stars in their eyes will suddenly find themselves on the footpath, forgotten and all alone.

George is right. This is not a talent show. It is a trashy reality competition.

*   *   *

Two days later, Raoji sends his car to fetch Neha for a rehearsal session. I decide to tag along. We arrive at his residence to discover that we are the only ones; he has not invited any of the remaining seven team members.

‘Why this favour just for Neha?' I enquire gently once we are settled into his recording studio.

‘Your sister will sail through the elimination rounds,' he answers. ‘Now I need to start grooming her for the second phase, when the entire country will be voting. If Neha chooses the right songs, she has every chance of becoming Popstar No. 1.'

This is exactly what Neha wants to hear. ‘Which songs do you recommend, Guru-ji?' She flutters her eyelashes at the blind musician, sounding like an overeager schoolgirl desperate for approval.

‘Let's begin with the classical “Kuhu Kuhu Bole Koyaliya” – “The Cuckoo Goes Coo Coo”.'

I recall this as a really obscure song from the 1958 film
Swarna Sundari.
To my surprise, Neha knows it. She launches into the song with her usual gusto, but her voice falters, fails to catch the high notes.

Raoji beats his fist against his palm and cries, ‘No! No! No!'

Neha stops in mid-bar. ‘What happened, Guru-ji?'

‘This song is beyond you,' he says flatly. ‘It is one of the most difficult songs to master because its four verses are based on four different ragas. Only an extremely versatile vocalist can negotiate the transitions between these ragas without creating a break or going off-note. You are not in that class at the moment. But with constant practice you will be.'

Having administered the putdown, he softens. ‘Okay, let's try a lighter number. How about that Udita Sapru song “It's Raining”?'

Neha brightens. ‘That's one of my favourite numbers,' she says. This time she takes charge from the beginning, crooning her way through the catchy and mostly up-tempo beat, her voice climbing effortlessly up and down the scales.

Raoji claps when she finishes. ‘Wah! That was perfect! Now come and stand before me. I want to see you.'

Neha moves towards him hesitantly. ‘But … but you cannot see, sir.'

‘A blind man does not see with his eyes, but with his hands,' he says and begins gently tracing his fingertips over Neha's face, as if memorising every dip and curve. A frisson of unease goes off in my stomach as his palm continues to roam, moving down to her neck, going lower and lower till it is almost to the swell of her bosom.

Neha's breath is trapped in her throat, her body frozen in place. She sees me about to intervene and raises a warning hand at me. I have to grip the armrest and clamp my lips to stop myself from shattering that terrifying silence. A moment later, Raoji withdraws his hand. ‘I have now seen you,' he declares. ‘You are as beautiful as your voice.'

Neha winks at me, the corners of her mouth tilted in predatory amusement.

Later, as we are being driven back to Colaba by Raoji's driver, Neha bursts into hysterical, uncontrollable laughter. ‘How pathetic was that?'

‘It's no laughing matter,' I say sternly. ‘He was definitely trying to paw you.'

‘It's all right,
didi.
' Neha dismisses my fears with a haughty hand. ‘Let's not make this out to be the casting couch. That poor blind man just wanted a little human contact. I really pity him. Imagine having to fumble through your life in complete darkness, with no colour, no shape, no hope.' She shudders as though the thought itself made her sick. ‘I'd sooner die than live such a life.'