“If we opened people up, we’d find landscapes.” - Agnes Varda
This written work is dedicated to the faces who wear another’s, and to those with the nerve not to.
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part I: DREAMS
“He who jumps into the void owes no explanation to those who stand and watch.” - Jean-Luc Godard
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Kreeeee! The ancient bedside clock ripped the virgin hour’s solitude. Five a.m. Padma grunted and rolled over, “Unnh…“ Kreeeee... “Aaanh!” Kreeeee... “Damn!” Krr… “Okay, okaay! Just stop… unnnh!”
It wasn’t new for her, this unearthly hour, but last evening's performance had drained the twenty-three-year-old of all her bearings - more emotional than physical.
Last evening! The thunderous applause, the whoops at her two-hour-long dance rendition of Anarkali - she had played the 16th-century martyr of love, and after her last bow, her habitual search for approval in her father’s impassive eyes; all of it was a thick fog this morning.
Padma preferred it that way - letting go of all that weight, or so she believed. The density always condensed and loomed over her unsuspecting self.
She forced her fatigued energy and body out of bed, and shuffled to her day.
*
When Padma’s mai died eons ago, she left an oppressive father for her eight year-old daughter. Hari mercilessly chipped away at the raw rock, polishing the impressionable child’s crude naivety with mad frenzy.
But Mai’s Hari was not a tyrant.
Hari was a “Bahrupiya” by profession: an impersonator, or one of many forms. He was hailed as “Supreme Master of Disguise” in his nondescript hometown of Devgaon in the interiors of Central India, but fans claimed his genius was revered “across the seven oceans as far as one’s mind could see”. There was an underlying whisper of a supernatural grace which empowered him to transform, and Hari had never refuted their faith; he had simply worn his crown with just enough modesty that was mandatory.
The actor had had the power to manifest his dreams for those who his heart had beat: his beautiful wife and their pretty princess, Padma - his dream to build a two-storeyed home for themselves in the glamorous City of Golden Opportunities. “... with a terrace with cane chairs and a round table with an umbrella to meet guests and my fans, a courtyard with jasmine, chameli and yellow rose plants for you, darling daughter, and a porch to park our new blue car.”
All was well in this ordinary small town, when one not-so-ordinary morning, its ordinary people had reason to weep for that perfect little family. “How cruel can fate be?” They had mourned Mai’s passing, and ached and suffered with poor Hari, “She was so young! What will you do now?” and they had professed unconditional support for the orphaned family of two.
Hari was benumbed; his breath moved senselessly, keeping the corpse just alive. The widower had turned impervious to their lament, leaving a very confused and starved Little Padma cowering in a dark corner of their kitchen, frightened tears staining tracks down her pudgy cheeks.
Nobody had stepped out of that house on Jambul Street. Nobody. For days.
A kindly neighbor had rescued Padma, showering her with foster love, food, and hygiene, and sympathetic villagers narrated hopeful stories to the little one of her mother being called away to work in a magical country, “ … she will bring splendid gifts for you, gifts of gold and glitter that shine like the sun,” and cushioned her with “you are Mai’s special girl, aren’t you, Padma?” and “Mai is so proud of you!”
“Then why,” Little Padma had wondered, “are Kaka and Kaki (uncle and aunt) and Dinu Bhau (brother Dinu), and everyone in the village so sad?” Why does Baba not speak to me?
After days had turned to months, one blazing summer noon, the wooden door of house number 27 on Jambul Street had opened with a rusty clank of its iron knocker. A bedraggled Hari, in a greying oversized tunic and very loose pyjamas, and bloodshot eyes that suggested he had lived with filth and alcohol, stepped out of the threshold of his house. The wooden piece at the doorway had swirly patterns painted by Mai, and Hari hesitated a heartbeat before crossing it.
The air had turned silent; onlookers had froze in that frame.
Bloody eyes scoured the scene till they spotted a pair of large familiar ones peeking from behind Mala Kaki (Mala aunty), clutching onto her guardian’s green sari. “Come, come, my child,” Mala Kaki had ushered Padma into the far secure reaches of her home, and then stepped out, defiant and confused, staring suspiciously at Hari.
It seemed all of Devgaon (the government books had claimed there were twenty-six hundred and seventy-two villagers barring children) had congregated in the square that distanced house number 27 from Mala Kaki’s hand painted courtyard walls.
Twenty-six hundred and seventy-two pairs of eyes had stripped the lone actor of all decency with their inquiring stares; the same eyes had been accustomed to playing audience to the Supreme Master of Disguise’s performances.
Hari had staggered towards Mala Kaki’s courtyard - tripping, staggering, tripping, falling, grinning … Was he enacting? There were gasps; there were audible whispers of shaming at first, and then speculation, “Devdas! Look! Hari is Devdas!” and they had gawked at the maestro’s impression of the famed drunken lover.
Rooted, mesmerized by another stellar performance by their beloved hero, they had applauded, passionately, encouraging his act till the venerated actor fell again, sprawled sick on the hard, dry ground.
Only then did the twenty-six hundred and seventy-two spectators see how real the “act” was.
Hearts can change impulsively, and for a little town that is bound together by customs and protocols of morality and honor, this sort of smear on its chaste repute was horrific for its simple-souled people. Some had spat out (their admiration) in disgust; some literally kicked dust in his face; some struck the fallen hero with pebbles, and some others, with opinionated abuses.
Padma had heard the terrifying shouts of “very bad words”. “I saw Baba, Kaki, he was coming to get me. Where is he?” She tugged at Mala Kaki’s hand. “Where is Baba, Kaki? I want Baba! Why is everyone angry?” Mala Kaki had rushed back to the child when the drama outside her courtyard got abusive. She had tried to distract the distraught eight-year-old, but, “Baba! Baba!” a shrieking Padma had wrestled out of Kaki’s firm hold.
“Babaaa … aaaaa!” The girl was at the courtyard gate, struggling against Mala Kaki’s restraining clasp. Her superhero father was sprawled face-down in dust, red stains on his arms and tunic, tatters in his clothes, stones lying around him, and some on him!
“Babaaaaa! Babaaaa! Ba …” Little Padma had buried her desperation within Kaki’s sari, “Kaki, why doesn’t anyone help him? He is hurt, no? Kaki … Kaki!” She had begged, screeched for help, using every tiny muscle in her tiny body. With guilt-stricken tears, Mala Kaki had pulled Padma back inside.
The trauma had sunk very deep into every cranny of the miserable child’s malleable being; so deep that she was unaware of its existence in her later years, but it manipulated her - her every move, thought, and her every breath.
*
Hari had awoken much later. The merciless beating and the sun had set. The throbbing in his skull had turned into a murmur, and a cool composure had washed over him. He had felt the stab of prying eyes behind veiled windows as he walked back into the darkness of his house. For a week he endured the shame quietly - a calculative resignation behind closed doors, and then, his entire self had revolted.
Hari fled with Little Padma, and the “virtuous” village had branded him “mad-man”.
*
Fate had slashed the famed superstar’s power, and Hari fought back; a fanatic monster, he ruthlessly prepared his daughter for battle to reclaim what was rightfully theirs - respect, and their title.
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Disclaimer: This written work is imaginary. It is not intended to bear resemblance to a specific individual(s) or place. If it does, the likeness is purely coincidental.
That said, who can deny the blur between fact and fiction?
“All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts,” once said a legendary playwright.
