smoke rings at a sequined vamp, and generally having a wonderful time until brought to book by an improbably honest cop for some carefully unspecified crime. I played them all, and as my screen credits grew with my bank balance, I put the money I couldnât legally show the bank into a place of my very own in Juhu. And I watched you and Maya from afar.
Three films, thatâs all you gave her. Three films, all opposite you, for the actress who was the brightest, freshest talent in the Hindi cinema of her day. Three films to prove her worth, to capture the heart of the Indian public and to break mine. Three films before you obliged her to âretireâ so you could marry her.
And I wasnât in any of them. Probably just as well, because Iâm not sure I would have been able to bear losing her to you every day, on and off the set. To be obliged to succumb to you on screen, and to watch her succumb to you between takes.
I wonder when it all began. I suppose with Ganwaari, just after Godambo, when Maya made the transition from sisterly schoolgirl to girlish heroine and Abha from heroine to supporting actress. The famous film about the village girl (Maya was a natural for that part, wasnât she?) who wins a competition to come to the city and spend a week watching her favorite movie star (you, who else?) at work. Surprise, surprise, the worldly-wise Hindi film hero is completely won over by the innocent village belle and spurns his cinematic leading lady (Abha, whose rage seemed genuine) to clinch the ganwaari girl at the fade-out. I hated the film, but it was an unexpected success at the box office; it made Maya, and it confirmed you in stardom. Even then, before it was known that your interest in Maya was extending offscreen as well, I saw the movie as symbolic, a portent. And everywhere I went, on street corners, at wedding receptions, in holiday processions, I kept hearing that wretched song from the film:
Is it true? Can it really be?
Is it a dream, or can this be really me?
Standing he-eere, in your embrace â¦
Is it true? Can it really be?
Could it be a mistake, can you really see?
That your lo-ove shines on my face â¦
Iâm just a little girl from the heart of India,
I know nothing of worldly sin, dear,
Iâm just a village girl with stars in her eyes,
And youâve taken me by â surprise.
Is it true? Can it really be?
Is this life or a Bombay moo-ovie?
That puts my hand in yours â¦
Is it true? Can it really be?
Are you, my hero, really free?
To give me a joy that endures â¦
This doesnât happen in my part of India,
My heart beats so much you can hear the din, dear,
Iâm just a village girl whoâs never told lies,
And youâve just made me your â prize.
Is it true? Can it really be? â¦
It was true, of course. And the song was played everywhere, on transistors and record players, over Muzak systems and public-address loudspeakers, by radio disc jockeys responding to importunate requests from Jhumri Tilaiya, by two hundred-rupee per evening hired bands at every imaginable public festivity. And every time I heard it I kept seeing that scene from the film where she looked up at you holding her, and I saw an adoration in her eyes that no amount of nervous direction from Mohanlal could ever have placed there. And I knew you had won her.
The next couple of movies made a star out of her and a prophet out of me. Maya and her makeup men managed to combine her fresh-faced innocence with just enough expert artifice to make her a convincing heroine, without losing the quality that made audiences like her in the first place. She didnât have the figure of Abha or Vyjay-antimala, she couldnât dance like Hema Malini or Saira Banu, but she captivated every cinemagoer in the country. They loved her, Ashok. She was every manâs sister or daughter, every womanâs ideal. And she could act: she was a true professional.
And then during the
Three films, thatâs all you gave her. Three films, all opposite you, for the actress who was the brightest, freshest talent in the Hindi cinema of her day. Three films to prove her worth, to capture the heart of the Indian public and to break mine. Three films before you obliged her to âretireâ so you could marry her.
And I wasnât in any of them. Probably just as well, because Iâm not sure I would have been able to bear losing her to you every day, on and off the set. To be obliged to succumb to you on screen, and to watch her succumb to you between takes.
I wonder when it all began. I suppose with Ganwaari, just after Godambo, when Maya made the transition from sisterly schoolgirl to girlish heroine and Abha from heroine to supporting actress. The famous film about the village girl (Maya was a natural for that part, wasnât she?) who wins a competition to come to the city and spend a week watching her favorite movie star (you, who else?) at work. Surprise, surprise, the worldly-wise Hindi film hero is completely won over by the innocent village belle and spurns his cinematic leading lady (Abha, whose rage seemed genuine) to clinch the ganwaari girl at the fade-out. I hated the film, but it was an unexpected success at the box office; it made Maya, and it confirmed you in stardom. Even then, before it was known that your interest in Maya was extending offscreen as well, I saw the movie as symbolic, a portent. And everywhere I went, on street corners, at wedding receptions, in holiday processions, I kept hearing that wretched song from the film:
Is it true? Can it really be?
Is it a dream, or can this be really me?
Standing he-eere, in your embrace â¦
Is it true? Can it really be?
Could it be a mistake, can you really see?
That your lo-ove shines on my face â¦
Iâm just a little girl from the heart of India,
I know nothing of worldly sin, dear,
Iâm just a village girl with stars in her eyes,
And youâve taken me by â surprise.
Is it true? Can it really be?
Is this life or a Bombay moo-ovie?
That puts my hand in yours â¦
Is it true? Can it really be?
Are you, my hero, really free?
To give me a joy that endures â¦
This doesnât happen in my part of India,
My heart beats so much you can hear the din, dear,
Iâm just a village girl whoâs never told lies,
And youâve just made me your â prize.
Is it true? Can it really be? â¦
It was true, of course. And the song was played everywhere, on transistors and record players, over Muzak systems and public-address loudspeakers, by radio disc jockeys responding to importunate requests from Jhumri Tilaiya, by two hundred-rupee per evening hired bands at every imaginable public festivity. And every time I heard it I kept seeing that scene from the film where she looked up at you holding her, and I saw an adoration in her eyes that no amount of nervous direction from Mohanlal could ever have placed there. And I knew you had won her.
The next couple of movies made a star out of her and a prophet out of me. Maya and her makeup men managed to combine her fresh-faced innocence with just enough expert artifice to make her a convincing heroine, without losing the quality that made audiences like her in the first place. She didnât have the figure of Abha or Vyjay-antimala, she couldnât dance like Hema Malini or Saira Banu, but she captivated every cinemagoer in the country. They loved her, Ashok. She was every manâs sister or daughter, every womanâs ideal. And she could act: she was a true professional.
And then during the
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