The visiting card was clenched in the corpse’s fist at the time of the postmortem. That day too Charu ji had got up at 5.30 am as was her norm. But unlike her norm, she was more excited than usual. Like every day, she got dressed with care. She combed her hair and put a fine sprinkling of powder on her face to hide the wrinkles that gave away her age. Her dress, as always, gave ample evidence of her taste and temperament.
She used to tell Shivdutt, “See, even today when people look at me from the corners of their eyes they talk in hushed tones. They gesture to each other saying, ‘See, that’s Charulata walking past.’ If not for myself, I must live in a certain manner and style for the sake of my fans.”
Shivdutt was her cook.
That day when he went to her room in the morning, she was standing in front of the mirror and talking to herself. Seeing him there with the tray, she was a bit abashed. Shivdutt smiled to himself: the way Madam could blush, even at this age, was amazing! This coquettish air had slayed thousands of her ardent admirers in her younger days.
“A certain Gopaldas Mishra is expected to come and see me, Shivdutt. Please arrange some tea and snacks for him.”
“Who is he?” Shivdutt asked after a moment’s consideration.
“He’s a writer. He wants to write a book about me. He has sent me a letter.”
That day, there was a new spring in her step. Someone had thought of reaching out to her even though she had retired from the film industry so many years ago. In the early days, many journalists used to beat a path to this far-flung bungalow. After all, no one comes to Mahabaleshwar daily for no reason.
Charulata had ridden the wave of her “comeback” for a long, long time. Gradually, with the passage of time, the number of visitors began to dwindle. She was offered the roles of older characters, but Charu ji refused to accept them. Standing in front of the mirror, her chin raised at a certain angle, she had looked at herself often. There wasn’t a wrinkle on her neck. She could spot no sign of age on her face. She would often have conversations with herself. Her reflection in the mirror never said to her, “You are showing your age.”
Though Dr Sahni had in fact said to her after her first heart problem, “Look here, your heart can no longer take the burden you are putting on it. One day, the fuse will go off…”
“Had Singh sahab been alive…”
Shivdutt entered her room and announced that Mishra ji had arrived.
“Huh? Ahh, yes … Mishra ji.” Despite waiting for him, Charu ji was startled to hear the name.
“Seat him in the hall downstairs. I hope you have taken off the sofa covers.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“And have you switched on the chandelier?”
Shivdutt was perfectly aware of his responsibilities. Even now, he wanted to impress people with his Madam’s glory and fame. Once in a while, if a letter came from one of her fans, he would make sure to mention it several times in the bazaar.
As she was fastening the necklace, Charulata felt as though her neck had become thinner. Had it been a choker, perhaps she could have camouflaged it. But that choker had been sold quite a while ago. She had bought it for Rs 3,000 a long time ago, and it had been sold for Rs 30,000. Had Singh sahab been alive, he would never have let her sell it.
As Charulata came down the stairs, she looked like a character from the movies. It seemed as though someone would call out, “Start … Camera … Action!”
Mishra ji was inspecting some marble statues placed in the hall. In his hand, he held a notepad in which he had already made some notes. Seeing Charu ji, Mishra ji offered a very respectful “namaskar”.
“Please be seated.”
Suitably dazzled, Mishra ji sat down on the sofa. Such was the impact of Charu ji’s personality! For a long time, not a word escaped from Mishra ji’s mouth. Soon, Shivdutt appeared with a tray of tea, some sweets and savouries. Charu ji poured the tea.
“How did you get my address?”
“Goyal sahab gave it to me. He’s your manager in Mumbai.”
“Yes, Goyal is a very fine man. He has looked after my matters for many years. Even now, he takes care of several things for me. Here … have the tea.”
A long interval passed. Charuji began to speak again.
“I love my solitude. I have never cared for taking on too much work. Even when I had a line of producers at my door day and night, I never used to take on too many films. Even then, I used to run away to hide here.”
“Can I see your house?”
“Yes, certainly, come this way.”
Charu ji took him and paused beside the marble statues.
“I had got this pair from Italy. How difficult it was to get them here safe and sound! For many years, they were in my Mumbai house. You haven’t seen that house, have you?”
“No,” the answer was brief but the smile that accompanied it was long and leisurely.
As they crossed the verandah, Charu ji said, “We got this house constructed with a lot of love and care. How much I argued with Singh sahab – sometimes over the choice of stones, sometimes wood. These tiles were brought from Bangalore by Singh sahab. I chose the name for the house from an English film – Sunset Boulevard. And this bird cage – in which we have never ever kept any bird – I don’t know why he brought it…” And she began to laugh very loudly as she said it, as though she was enacting some scene.
The sound of her laughter caused Shivdutt to come in to peer. He had never heard his Madam laugh so loudly. She used to, though, once upon a time, when her contemporaries and fellow actresses, Noor and Nila, used to drop by to meet her.
Charulata was speaking as she was climbing the stairs, “…I would say to him, ‘Why don’t you imprison me and put me in this cage?’ And he would answer, ‘Then I will have to get it constructed with marble.’ You see, I love marble. I love walking barefoot on marble. This is Singh sahab’s portrait…”
It was a life-size painting of Singh sahab. It hung in the upstairs verandah, flanked by two candle stands. Shivdutt had lit the candles. He knew Madam would certainly come by this spot.
She stood still for a long moment, looking silently at Singh sahab’s face. Then she wiped her brimming eyes gently and turned away with her head bent low.
Mishra ji was walking behind her as she was talking.
“Our married life was extremely brief: exactly three years, four months and 18 days.”
Once again, she drew a long, quivering breath.
By now, Shivdutt had removed the tea tray. She called out for paan but when she received no response, she understood that he must be out in the garden. She didn’t like the long interval of silence that stretched between them. So, she asked, “Do you have to ask something?”
“What is the area of this house?”
Charu ji looked at Mishra ji with somewhat dazed eyes and asked, “Area?”
“And the built-up area?”
Looking somewhat snuffed out, Charu ji answered, “Goyal would know.”
“That’s okay, I will ask him.”
Mishra ji got to his feet.
Charu ji too got up, placing all her weight on the arms of her sofa.
“Why had Goyal sent you here?”
“He had asked me to see this house. It seems it might need to be sold soon. He asked me to see it in case a buyer is found…”
“What’s your name?” Charu ji asked harshly.
“Dhiraj Mishra. I am a property broker. I buy and sell properties on commission.” And he pushed his card before her.
Suddenly, her face became red. She wanted to shout but she couldn’t speak. With an abrupt gesture of her hand, she asked him to leave.
The broker tried to speak up in his defence. “Madam, look, Goyal sahab had told me not to broach the topic with you. He had said possibly you…”
“Get out…” this time, Charulata screamed, but a strange sort of raspiness came into her voice.
The broker went away in nervous haste.
Holding his card in her hand, Charulata watched him leave. As she turned to climb the stairs, she stumbled. She had a huge heart attack and…
That visiting card was still clenched in her fist at the time of the postmortem.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Sunset Boulevard’ in Aamchi Mumbai: My City in Stories and Poems, Gulzar, translated from the Urdu by Rakhshanda Jalil, HarperCollins India.
