The Royal Ghosts, page 7
He woke around four to meditate, but couldn’t focus because his thoughts were too scattered. At times he wondered whether he was fooling himself about the movie’s significance or his own importance. After five, he went back into the bedroom, woke Kamala, and told her that he was leaning toward accepting Shiva’s offer.
“What changed overnight?” she asked him in a sleepy voice.
He was too impatient to explain his thought process. “It’s too good a role to pass up, don’t you think?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking yesterday. And after this, you’ll get other good roles.”
“No, no, this is it. I’d only do this film.”
“We’ll see,” she said with a smile.
Later, over morning tea, he told Kamala, “I have no idea what kind of people I’ll be working with. Maybe I’m better off not calling Shiva.”
“Enough of your indecision. Once the shooting starts you’ll feel better.” She went to the living room and dragged the phone over to him. “Here, call him.”
Ranjit stared at the phone, then picked it up and dialed Shiva’s number. Shiva sounded relieved that Ranjit had changed his mind. “To tell you the truth, Ranjit, I didn’t know who else I’d have approached for the role. I couldn’t really see anyone else doing it.”
“Let’s hope this will remind people what good movies are all about,” Ranjit said.
“Of course it will. Let me tell you something else. I came to you because I had a dream in which you appeared as the character’s father. Isn’t that amazing? I hadn’t seen you in all these years, and then suddenly, the night I read the script, I saw you vividly in the father’s role, actually speaking some of his dialogue. I didn’t tell you yesterday because I felt a little silly about it.”
Ranjit laughed and said, “Well, it must have been fated then.” He hung up feeling even better.
Three weeks later, the shooting began on a set made to look like the house of the conservative father that Ranjit was playing. The director was a small mousy man with a nasal voice. He was not Shiva’s first choice; the man Shiva had originally approached, a director with two recent hits under his belt, had backed out at the last minute. “I’m sure it was the low budget,” Shiva had confided to Ranjit when they met again to discuss the details of the role.
The new director, Diwakar, had only worked as an assistant director, something that didn’t inspire much confidence in Ranjit. But strangely, it felt good to be back on the set—good to be fussed over by the makeup artist, good to have young actors and actresses tell him how much they admired his work, how he had been a source of inspiration for them.
On the first day of shooting, early in the morning, Ranjit did a shortened version of his yoga routine, then memorized his lines and arrived on the set at the scheduled time, only to learn that the actor playing the low-caste boy and the actress playing his daughter hadn’t arrived. While waiting for them, Ranjit paced the set, talked to the crew, and glanced often at his watch. No one else seemed concerned by the delay, not even Diwakar, who sat on his stool behind the camera and laughed with the assistant director. Trying to appear equally unconcerned, Ranjit went over the script again. He’d read it soon after he’d made that call to Shiva, and was pleased to see that his role was as powerful as Shiva had initially described it. Many critical moments focused on him, but more important, the story was good. There were no unnecessary titillating scenes, the songs didn’t involve two dozen scantily clad women shaking their bellies, and there was no violence, not a single punch thrown by anyone. In that respect, it was better than any of Ranjit’s earlier movies, most of which climaxed in either a fight scene or a car chase. Rereading the script and going over his lines at least helped pass the time while waiting.
When the actor, Mukesh, and the actress, Priyanka, finally arrived, they inevitably put on airs that made Ranjit uncomfortable. Neither was well known: Mukesh had played a supporting role in an action movie that had flopped miserably, and Priyanka, although a good actress, had garnered only minor roles so far. This movie, with its solid screenplay and Shiva’s well-respected name, was their first decent break. Priyanka had a young daughter of four whom she brought to the set, and every time the girl wailed, which she did quite often for a girl that age, Priyanka dropped everything to attend to her, even a few times while the camera was rolling. Mukesh demanded a cold drink every half hour and continually ogled a young woman in the crew.
The shooting of the scenes that took place inside the house was supposed to last two weeks, but it ended up taking a month due to Mukesh’s and Priyanka’s temperamental behavior. For three days in the middle of shooting, Mukesh refused to appear, citing some vague illness. The young woman from the crew also didn’t show up on those days, and Ranjit couldn’t believe that no one confronted them about this.
The bigger problem came when Diwakar decided to cut a scene that featured Ranjit growing livid when he discovered his daughter’s affair with the lower-caste boy. Ranjit had been looking forward to this scene—he’d throw things around the house, launch into a monologue about how the daughter would be shaming the family for generations. When reading the script for the first time, he had considered this moment pivotal. Now Diwakar wanted to replace the scene with a sleazy one showing Mukesh and Priyanka in a provocative position—on the angry father’s own bed.
“That would be out of character for the daughter, don’t you think?” Ranjit said to the director. “I mean, she’s rebellious and all that, but she still respects her father. I mean, at the beginning she won’t let the boy anywhere near the house. This other scene allows people to sympathize with the father’s point of view, to connect with his emotions, even as they might be rooting for the couple. It helps amplify the tension.”
“No, no, no,” Diwakar said. “The father’s scene is too melodramatic and predictable. The scene with the two lovers is a symbolic moment. Don’t you see, Ranjit Sir, that their making love on his bed eviscerates the father’s purity as well as the daughter’s? Think about it: the caste barrier is not only a mental or a spiritual one—it’s also physical. Their getting together is breaking down this final wall.”
Ranjit wished Shiva was there so he could appeal to him. The screenwriter, who Ranjit thought would side with him, agreed with Diwakar: “That’s the core of the story—the idea of the physical barrier being erased by physical intimacy.”
Ranjit said nothing at that point, thinking that he’d just call Shiva from home and make a plea to him then. For the rest of the day, Ranjit felt irritable, and Priyanka’s daughter bawled constantly, giving him a headache.
When he reached home that evening, Chanda was there. She’d just returned from Bombay, and she and Kamala were sifting through shopping bags filled with saris, watches, and jewelry. “Nothing for you, Papa, I’m afraid,” she said with a smirk as he sat on the sofa.
“Nothing needed,” Ranjit said. “You didn’t bring Akhil?”
“He and his father went to buy a table-tennis set.”
Trying not to show his disapproval, Ranjit excused himself and went to his study, where he picked up the phone and called Shiva. But he wasn’t home, and his wife said that he was in the border town of Birgunj, trying to get some film equipment through customs. He wouldn’t be back until the next day.
Chanda ended up staying for dinner, and as the three of them ate in the dining room, Kamala asked him why he had such a long face.
“I’m just tired today,” he said. “I’m not used to working long days anymore.”
“Akhil wants to challenge you to a game of table tennis,” Chanda said. “I told him you were a good player in your younger days.”
“Hmmm?”
“What’s the matter with you today?” Kamala said. “Something happened on the set?”
Hesitantly, he told them what had happened.
“But that scene is so important for your character,” Kamala said. She’d read the script and was visibly upset. “You can’t let this happen.”
“I’ll talk to Shiva tomorrow. He’ll take care of it.”
“I can’t believe a second-rate director has the gall to cut your scene, Papa,” Chanda said.
Ranjit stopped eating. “How do you know he’s second-rate? He’s just doing something he thinks will make the movie better, that’s all.”
“I can’t say anything to you these days,” Chanda said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed for dinner.”
“That’s not what I meant, Chanda,” Ranjit said. “But you don’t know enough about this movie to judge Diwakar.”
“Can’t I make a comment as your daughter?” Chanda said. “Why do you have to criticize everything I say and do?”
“What’s wrong with you two?” Kamala said. “I’m getting tired of it.”
For the rest of the meal they talked about other things, but the tension between him and Chanda was palpable. When she finally left to go home, she said goodbye only to her mother.
Ranjit and Kamala went to the living room and turned on the television.
“Don’t argue with her so much,” Kamala said. “She was complaining to me the other day how you don’t love her anymore.”
“Of course I love her,” Ranjit said. “But I’ll never understand her obsession with money. She wasn’t like this growing up.” In fact, he recalled Chanda as being a modest girl in her teenage years, someone who had many school friends poorer than she. It was after her marriage to Bimal that something had changed.
“There’s nothing wrong with enjoying money,” Kamala said. “Just because you have changed doesn’t mean everyone has to follow in your footsteps.”
Not wanting to start another argument, Ranjit kept quiet. That night in bed, when Kamala was asleep, he thought further about what had happened with Diwakar and wondered whether he should bother Shiva about it. Shiva trusted Diwakar, and Ranjit would only be causing trouble and putting his friend in a difficult position. Besides, the more Ranjit thought about it, the more Diwakar’s words made sense to him. In a movie that had as its central theme the barriers of caste, wouldn’t it be appropriate to be provocative? Could it be that Ranjit was objecting to the replacement of the scene only because he was in it? Was he being too selfish and not thinking about the overall good of the movie? It was true that in his earlier days no director would have done away with a scene featuring him. But those days were gone, and it was foolish of him to hold on to them. Let it go, he told himself. This way it’s better for everybody.
The next morning, Kamala asked him whether he still planned to call Shiva, and Ranjit told her that he’d decided not to pursue it.
“Why?”
“It’s just one scene. It’s not that important.”
“So you’re going to let him push you around?”
“He’s not pushing me around. We all have to think about what’s best for the movie.”
Kamala seemed about to object, then sighed and said, “Well, it’s your movie. I guess I just don’t understand what goes on in your mind anymore.” For the rest of the morning, it was she who had the long face.
Ranjit wasn’t required on the set for the next few days, and he was glad; it would give him time to collect himself, and he’d be refreshed when he went back. He’d thought more about Chanda and concluded that he needed to be a bit more gentle with her, and this time off was a good chance to spend a few days with the family. With that in mind, he suggested to Kamala that they go over to Chanda’s house for lunch that day. “I promise I won’t argue with her,” he said. Kamala called Chanda, and soon they headed to her house in Lazimpat.
Chanda lived in a new three-story house with carved windows she’d had custom built by one of Bhaktapur’s carpenters. A large fountain stood near the entrance, and whenever he visited, Ranjit felt as if he had entered a movie set. The guard at the gate saluted as their Toyota entered the driveway. One of the servants let them in and told them that Chanda was taking a bath, so they went into the living room, where the servant then brought them tea. Elaborate statues and artwork adorned the room. Since their last visit, Chanda had added a tall Buddha in the corner, its head nearly touching the ceiling. Kamala went over to it, touched it, and said that it felt like solid gold.
Akhil came barging in. “Ready for table tennis, Grandpa?”
“After lunch, okay?” Ranjit pulled Akhil toward him and tousled his hair. “Where’s your father?”
“Selling condos,” Akhil said, giggling. “Condo, condo,” he chanted, delighting in the fact that “condo” sounded like the word for ass in Nepali.
Kamala scolded him, saying bad words would rot his tongue. Ranjit merely laughed. He doted on his grandson. “I share a special bond with him,” he frequently told Kamala. Akhil too seemed particularly attached to his grandfather, perhaps because he saw Ranjit as a substitute for Bimal, who, constantly busy with his work, rarely had time for his son. Akhil often asked Ranjit questions about his acting days: “Why didn’t you act in more movies with lots of fighting?” “Was that villain a bad man in real life too?” Ranjit patiently answered his questions, often providing anecdotes. “Are you thinking about an acting career, grandson?” he’d once asked Akhil. “No!” Akhil had said. “I want to be a rich businessman like my father. I want to make lots of money.” Although Ranjit realized that this was just a child talking, he suspected that Chanda was planting warped ideas in her son’s head about what life was all about. Ranjit got worried, and the next time his grandson came to visit, he told himself, he’d make sure to talk to him about his career goals. But he soon realized what foolish thinking he’d gotten himself into. The boy was only ten years old, for God’s sake.
Chanda soon emerged from the bathroom and they all headed into the dining room, where an enormous lunch of curried lentils and tofu, cauliflower, eggplant, and rice pudding had been laid out on the table. Last year Chanda had hired a cook, and now every meal in her house was a feast. She paid the man fifteen thousand rupees a month, and when she boasted about this to Ranjit and Kamala, Ranjit was aghast. Even at the peak of his career, he never earned enough to hire more than one servant. During his time, actors made a small fraction of what they were paid today. Of course, the cost of living in the city had greatly increased in the past decade or so, but he knew of no household where the cook made more than a top officer in a government job. When he questioned Chanda about it, she said that Bimal entertained many businessmen at home, and it was important to maintain a certain standard.
Now, as they ate, Chanda said, “Don’t yell at me for this, Papa, but last night I mentioned to Bimal what your director did, and he came up with a great idea. He wants to produce a movie himself. It would star well-known actors, but he’d give you the central role. He knows a couple of screenwriters he can commission, and you could work with them to develop the kind of story you’d want. Plus, you and Bimal can choose your own director.”
Irritated, Ranjit stopped eating. “Starring in my own son-in-law’s movie will hardly gain me any respect. Besides, I’m not interested in being in another movie, really.”
“Grandpa, please,” Akhil pleaded, “can I be your director? I’d have you beat up ten villains at once.” He began jabbing his fist in the air. “Dhissom! Dhissom!”
Ranjit patted him on the back. “Why don’t you and I make our own movie? You have a video camera, don’t you?”
Excited, Akhil nodded and left the lunch table to go get his camera.
“Diwakar is a fine director,” Ranjit said to Chanda. “Most good directors are difficult.”
“He’s known for being particularly difficult, though. Everyone knows this.”
“Who is everyone?”
“Well, my college roommate, for example. She’s an actress.”
Ranjit shook his head. “I don’t know why you’re poking—getting involved in this.”
“I’m worried about you, Papa, that’s all. You have such a great reputation, and if your part keeps getting smaller and smaller in this film, what will people think of you?”
Ranjit saw Kamala signal Chanda to drop this line of conversation. Then she asked him, “You’ll at least think about Bimal’s proposal, won’t you?”
“Of course,” he said reluctantly. “We’ll deal with it when the time comes.”
Akhil came back with his video camera, and he and Ranjit walked outside to the fountain, where, under his grandson’s direction, Ranjit acted out some scenes. “Act like a villain who’s about to die,” Akhil shouted from behind the camera, and Ranjit fell to the ground, clutching his heart. “Now, the hero chasing the heroine!” Ranjit scampered around the driveway, one hand behind his ear and the other extended. He crooned a song popular when he was young. “Now be the hero shooting the villain with a machine gun.” Ranjit stopped. “No guns in my movies, Director Sab. Think of something else.”
They role-played for a while, then went back inside for a few rounds of table tennis in Akhil’s game room. “You must be the only boy in town with his own game room,” Ranjit said to Akhil, who responded, “Yes, yes, I’m lucky, I know, you’ve told me that before.” Ranjit often played table tennis in his younger days, and now the moves came to him easily. He played with enthusiasm, glad for the distraction. “See, your grandfather’s blood is still young,” he said to Akhil as they finished the last game.
They joined Chanda and Kamala in the living room for tea, and Chanda turned on the television. An old Hindi movie, Madhumati, was showing on Zee TV. It featured the legendary Indian actors Dilip Kumar and Vyjayanthimala. Dilip Kumar, with his large, intoxicating eyes and brooding good looks, walked through a forest, singing, “Suhana safar aur yeh mausam hansi”:
The journey is pleasant,
