The Waning Starlet
“And Packup” — The director shrieked with a thud. The scene changed vividly, only on the film set though. Assistant directors casually removed walkies, lights lost their paradigm sheen, the sound guy sparingly undid the microphones, drained spot boys reluctantly facilitated and the celebrated actress left for exalted smokes with the ‘lead’ actor for an illustrious conversation. The entire film set began to collapse like a habitat sprinting vigorously towards its doomsday.
Saudamini, with an unpronounceable thought in her mind and a lose sheet of script clutched in palms, looked at the wall of the archaic studio. A bruised graffiti translating some work of an ancient Urdu poet read, ‘When someone leaves you, he always takes an irreparable part of you with him, forever.’ Saudamini distracted herself from the emanating pain and looked welcomingly to the approaching director.
The director appeared exhausted but his eyes brimmed like an agile cat behind his wire — frame prescription glasses. He sat with Saudamini and spoke with an unknown sympathy — “Saudamini ji, aapka pack up ho gaya hai. Actually,‘final packup’ ho gaya hai(“Saudamini ji, it’s a packup for you. Actually, it’s the ‘final packup’”)”. Saudamini was aghast. Despite everyone displeased, she had put off her sister’s marriage celebrations for this film. “Lekin kyon? Call sheet aur schedule main to teen din ka shoot baaqi hai(“But why? There is still a three — day shoot left in the schedule and on the call sheet”)”.Saudamini questioned. “Hai! Lekin, dekhiye Saudamini ji kabhi kabhi kuch cheezein set par apne aap badal jaati hain(“Yes! But, there are times when things change on their own on set”).You look different from your auditions in reality. Producer sahib ka call hai(“This is the call of the producer sir”). I am sorry. I will just tell Vishesh to book you an Uber”. The thoughtful director explained with a pinch of guilt.
The wind around Saudamini went hollow and the shimmering lights from the giant studio windows appeared piercing. A shocked Saudamini got up, didn’t say anything and began to leave. The hesitant director intervened with compassion — “Aur haan Saudamini ji, woh lead actress hai na apni, Naila, uska vanity, vanity kuch use kar liya tha shayad aapne, uske peeche? Aap to kaafi senior theatre artiste hain, aap kaise(“And yes Saudamini ji, that lead actress of ours, Naila, you perhaps used her vanity, vanity behind her. You are such a senior theatre artiste, how could you”)”? Saudamini found this disgusting. “Lekin woh to maine sirf washroom . .(“But that I only, for washroom. . . ”)”.
The poker faced director cut her short — “Jaldi nikal jayiye Saudamini ji. Dilli ka mausam bahut kharab hai (“Leave quickly Saudamini ji. The weather of Delhi is not good”)”.
It was 2014 when a happy Saudamini came to Miranda House in Delhi University from her small town Aligarh. With a sling bag hanging by midriff, Oscar Wilde by her hostel bed and zillions of unkempt aspirations in her bleeding heart to do ‘big’, Saudamini found her course, English (HONS), a seamless way to sneak into her college’s English Theatre Society. Everyone around her, including Saudamini, thought, she will do big. However, her Oscar Wilde found validity, much later — “Society Never Forgives The Dreamer”. Life, beyond that college gate, was indifferent of expectations, devoid of passion and mocked courage. A yawning theatre group run by a failed Marxist and obsolete theatre teacher introduced her to the grammar and pedagogy of Delhi stage theatre. Appreciations and adulations came versatile. And came close, Avishkaar too. Avishkaar, a theatre enthusiast who casually found solace in theatre shows from his grilling Civil Services exam preparations. Mutual fondness grew and so did the reciprocal nearness. Solitudinarian Shakespeare discussions were now happening over beer pints in Khan Market, Sylvia Plath was now being debated over reminiscents of Old Fort at Tughlaqabad. Love replaced dreams and longing took over ambition. When? No one knew.
But, like it always happens. People raise bars and purify standards when they get successful. For a newly triumphant Avishkaar in Civil Services, Saudamini arbitrarily became delusional who was vanishing in the hallucinated astray world of stage theatre. Discussions do not matter when conclusions are drawn, already. Saudamini still has those fleeting recalls of what Avishkaar said to her, the last time they met over ‘banta’ adjacent to Mandi House Metro station, — “Aadmi jo kehta hai, aadmi jo sunta hai, zindagi bhar woh sadaayein peecha karti hain(Which a man says, which a man hears, those voices always chase”)”. “So, just remember me as a ‘good’ man. As long as I could love you, I loved you”. Not a shard of guilt, not a fragment of disbelief, Avishkaar said all that like an over rehearsed nursery rhyme of a kindergarten pupil.
Avishkaar and Saudamini did not separate. Avishkaar ‘LEFT’ Saudamini.
“Aankhein pathrana band ho jaati hain jab intezaar ek aadat bann jaye (“Eyes don’t stone any longer when waiting becomes a habit”)”. A self proclaimed seer said it out of context years back in Aligarh, Saudamini remembered. Love doesn’t grow on trees but spreads like a nonchalant vine. Its repercussions are seen far and wide. The old rusted teacher of theatre had never liked Saudamini being in a relationship. May be for some latent feelings or simplistic discipline issues, the desolated mentor once remarked on Saudamini after a seemingly disappointing show — “Bahut mushkil se aisee adakaara milti hai jiske daaman aur nuqte, dono saaf hon (seldom you find an actress whose character and diction, both, are correct)”.
Some call it ‘relentless pursuit’, some know it as unbeknownst circumstances, people somehow, find a way out. The pain does not leave a man, it just blends his conscience and feelings to a level where he translates sorrow into joy and call it ‘hope’. Perhaps, Saudamini had reached to that level, uninvited. ‘There was always a way, there will always be one’ — she thought of it casually once, while giving a glance at an article about a victorious non — profit social worker in Femina. With a reluctant permission from her family, Saudamini packed her bags again to move to the city by the sea, Mumbai, for a better
tomorrow leaving a trail of ungrateful souvenirs from Delhi behind. The chasing of casting directors, bulky portfolios, menial roles in TV soaps, younger actresses being in more ‘good books’ of the directors and largely, the innate responsibility to always ‘look good’ as an actress made Saudamini provoked her presence more on the murky shores of Versova than in the congested queues of auditions. An old theatre friend of Saudamini, who, after a huge argument with her live — in boyfriend in her flat at 4 Bunglows which echoed a lot, once had insinuated Saudamini — “Wapas Chali Jao Saudamini Bambai se! Tumhari ‘biological age’ ab tumhari ‘screen age’ bann chuki hai. Aur waise bhi, tumhe rakhne ke liye mere paas ‘jagah’ ho na ho, ‘wajah’ bilkul nahin hai (“Go Back from Mumbai Saudamini! Your biological age has now become your screen age. And otherwise also, I may or may not have space to keep you but certainly not any reason”)”.
Saudamini never went back to Mumbai again.
Delhi has always been careless with its choices. They change swiftly. By the time Saudamini had come back, failed film actors had taken over the stage theatre, scripts were being written to appease and film makers were working more as ‘sales representatives’ of tolerable startups and eulogised political campaigns.
Saudamini was about to reach her rented place in North Campus. The unforgiving and unpredictable Delhi rain made Saudamini to deboard her Uber with an innocent struggle. It was dark, everywhere. Saudamini initiated improvising her way back home on foot like a child. The obtuse Uber driver with tinted tobacco teeth grinned and said sheepishly — “Madam! Yahan to hamesha ek raasta hota tha na (“Madam! There was always a way here no”)”?
THE END
Manil Mayank Mishra (SWA Registration — 36725)
http://www.linkedin.com/in/manilmayankmishra
