A Star Is Made

“Objects in the same plane may be made to appear in distinct, separate planes with the help of selective illumination.”

“You were outstanding. Simply brilliant. I’ve never come across such talent, such clean dialogue delivery, such magnificent expressions. I will not have anyone but you play my Anasuya — it’s final,” Vikram Banerjee proudly declared as if handing her the greatest gift of her life.

Mala Sen tried to keep a straight face, but this was too much. Her stomach twisted and her ears burned, and it was all she could to burst into tears. The 18-year-old Botany major had auditioned for Madhumati, the queen of the princely state of Behrampur. She was given the part she dreaded the most: ‘Madhumati’s most-trusted confidante and servant, a woman of oscure birth but a robust, loyal, dependable character’.

Vikram wanted to move on quickly, but he could sense Mala’s discomfort and didn’t want to risk upsetting his actors too much. He leaned forward and spoke in an intimate, urgent tone as if letting her in on an important secret. “You do know how important Anusuya is, right? I would say even more than the queen! She’s fierce, she’s intelligent, she’s loyal, and she’s —” Vikram paused for effect, then went smoothly on, “the force that sets the wheels in motion. Without her, there’s no play.”

The more he spoke the more it became difficult for her to pretend she was fine. She kept nodding, as if understanding completely, wishing desperately he would just stop talking.

If the others felt uncomfortable, they didn’t show it. It was a nasty move to make the plain girl play the plain girl, but Mala did come closest to “a face that couldn’t be called attractive by even the most generous observers or the most relaxed standards.” Also, Vikram was a moderately successful theatre artist and director who had agreed to write and direct St. Paul College’s marquee production that year. Sexist character descriptions were a small price to pay for access to him, and through him, to his inner circle of theatre and even TV actors and directors.

“Let’s move on to, um - “ Vikram spoke after a brief, awkward silence, making a show of leafing intently through his notes. “Simi. You will be Madhumati. Now - who’s next? Michelle, you will fit right into…”

***

“A flat object could be given depth by lighting some parts of it — and dimming the rest.”

“Come on now; we haven’t got all day…back to your positions, and let’s take it up from Act 1, scene 3,” Vikram bellowed, darting a furtive glance at his watch, then slowly ran his fingers through his hair and lowered himself into his low-back director folding chair.

The lights faded out, drowning the stage and everyone on it in near-complete darkness, except where the spotlight fell. At the center of the stage was the queen of Behrampur, standing proud and upright, her slender form illuminated by the silver mist gently landing on her.

“What does he mean ‘my son cannot inherit the throne?’ How dare he speak so? Who gave him the right to?” Madhumati thundered, with unusual passion and intensity, myriad emotions animating her well-proportioned face. “He, a rank outsider, a preposterous upstart, a mere merchant who arrived at our shores with his crumbling ships and half-dead crew, knocked at the royal door and took shelter with us, now wants to take the fate of my nation in his filthy hands?”

A half-suppressed laugh in the left wings.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Anasuya replied in a deferential tone, briefly emerging from the shadows, “There’s really little we can do in this matter. Your deceased husband, the great monarch of Behrampur, had entered into a treaty that transferred the right to decide the legitimacy…”

“I am quite aware of what transpired between my husband and that scheming foreigner,” Madhumati cut her confidante and servant mid-sentence. “Forcing him to agree to an unholy deal when he was too ill to recognize his own wife? That could only have been the work of the devil. Vile. Detestable.” A pause for breath. “It is indeed true what they say - the darkest hearts reside in the whitest skin. I…you…I must—”

The air was now thick with vicarious embarrassment. Even Vikram couldn’t let the horror show continue.

“Okay - good job, everyone. I think you all are doing remarkably well, but maybe we can take a relook at some of the lines we have for some of you. Let’s quickly gather and fall in a circle.”

Simi waited for the others to assemble. She looked troubled and disappointed, and kept mumbling apologies for being ‘so stupid and always forgetting her lines’. In penitence, she looked even more divine. Everyone wanted to comfort her, and even Mala felt her murderous rage melting in response to the girl’s very public display of despair.

Vikram began: “Let’s make this more conversational. More here and now. Nobody wants unending monologues anymore. We sound archaic. Antiquated.”

One of the cast members gently reminded him they were in a period drama. And that ‘antiquated’ was exactly what they were aiming for. And that ‘archaic’ and ‘antiquated’ meant the same things.

“Yes, thank you. But what I wrote is weighing some of you down — for no fault of yours, of course,” Vikram added quickly. If anything, Simi’s downcast eyes and slumped shoulders left him remorseful for having created such cumbersome lines that exposed her non-existent acting skills so mercilessly.

“How about we turn this into a dance drama?” Radha, the history student who was playing Madhumati’s mother-in-law, proposed. As Simmi’s hostel roommate, she cherished every moment she spent basking in her friend’s reflected glory.

“Dance drama?” Vikram scoffed but felt his skepticism vanish when he caught the glint in Simi’s eyes. For the first time in a fortnight, he saw hope in them. That was all the signal he needed. The final performance was three months away. He knew a friend who wrote and directed dance dramas. Vikram would step back, bring him on board and ask him to lead the production.

And give the choreography team lead the chance to shine like the star she was.

***

“What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is your candle.” - Rumi

But for the skies opening up without a warning, he would have been in his car and safely on his way home by now. Instead, he found himself in the same waiting area as another person he’d instantly recognized on his way to the restroom before the play had started — and wanted to avoid.

“Eight years later you’re still weaving your magic despite being saddled with the worst lot of actors. You must share your secret one day,” Mala said, a mischievous smile playing at her bright red-painted lips. Clad in a pista green georgette saree, she looked happier and more comfortable in her own skin than he ever remembered.

“Thank you, I will take that as a compliment. What good will my secret be to you? You are in marketing, for the love of god,” Vikram responded, feeling slightly less awkward now. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his left pocket and felt for his lighter in the other.

“It will be useless to me. But I have a little something I have long kept to myself that you might be interested know.”

Vikram lit his cigarette and gestured her to go on.

“You remember the two weeks when Simi just couldn’t get her lines right?”

He felt his chest tighten at the mere mention of her name. “Yes,” was all he managed to say.

“She was actually not such a disaster as she let on. As an actor.”

“Well, I did wonder about that later. She was no Shabana Azmi but she seemed to carry on just fine on television,” Vikram regretted the spite in his voice but he couldn’t help it. After being signed for a major role in a popular primetime TV show, Simi had refused to take his calls, let alone thank him for all that he did for her.

“Simi knew Rick Kapoor will be in the audience that day,” Mala said, and slowly stepped back to see his reaction. Kapoor was the casting agent for a mega-successful producer of soap operas that made no sense but were wildly popular among Indian households. One of their shows - the same that Simi was selected for - ran for over a thousand episodes before coming to an abrupt end. He was in Delhi looking for scriptwriters, but Simi's star-like presence on the stage made him backburn his original plan and approach her for a role instead.

It all made sense now. In a speaking role, Simi would have looked mediocre. As the star of a dance drama, she had thrived. Vikram’s play gave her the stage - and a very, very relevant audience - she would have never found otherwise.

“You know I was used to staying in the shadows, in obscurity, for no fault of mine except, well… But watching you kill your own script, your own chance to make way for someone else made me realize that there is one thing in life that's worse than 'not being attractive by even the most generous observers.' It is...”

"Being stupid," Vikram finished her sentence. He looked dazed, like a child who'd been abandoned by his mother at a crowded place.

"It wasn't the end of the world for me then; it won't be for you, now. There's my husband - come, I'll introduce you to him. And let me buy you a drink. For old time's sake."