By Kausalya Saptharishi
The blinding lights of stardom
Are dimming
Like the flickering saffron-indigo skies,
agape like a fresh wound,
waiting for the night to swallow it
I walk through
the ruins of an iconic movie studio
that launched me as a hero in the rollicking ‘60s
“He won’t make it!” they had declared
But history tells another story
Of multiple silver and golden jubilees
Of female fans swooning at a mere glimpse of me,
calling out my name over the din and clamour of Tinseltown
Of polished ebony Filmfare trophies
lined up like gleaming ducks in my Pali Hill home
There’s a catch in my throat
as I stumble on the broken ground that once bore the weight
of smashed coconuts at Mahurat shots
Of legendary stars and their tantrums,
the studio’s peeling walls privy to salacious conversations
that editors of gossip rags would have sold a limb to hear
The crane’s jaws have ruthlessly demolished the studio
Biting into its structure, brick by brick
Biting into my soul bone by bone
But the heartless machine cannot strip the studio of its gilded legacy
where cult classics were born, spawning new stars in a crowded galaxy
I pause and beckon to the ghosts of the past
At once, I’m surrounded by dear comrades
The costume dada measures me for fittings
The make-up dada fusses over my foundation
The sultry heroine throws me a coquettish glance
And my Man Friday, the Spot Boy, holds a mirror to my face
But the frail man in the mirror is a pale shadow
Of the “Blockbuster” Hero who broke records every Friday
Of the charming Hero who romanced dainty heroines
in rugged mountains and misty waterfalls
Of the enraged Hero who pummelled villains in dusty godowns,
until the director yelled ‘Cut!’
I make my way through the concrete mess
of the decimated studio
that finally surrendered to avaricious builders
while battling valiantly to cling to its dignity
Much like me,
the shadow of the Hero I see in the mirror
No doubt, I rode the hey days
in scarlet convertibles
that zipped through the ethereal Swiss Alps
I fell in and out of affairs with leading ladies
who naïvely trusted my fickle heart
My king-size ego was fed on the fodder
churned out by Stardust and Cine Blitz
Flattered and foolish, I viewed myself akin to God
in a town that turned out to be as fickle as my heart
When the corporate studios came from afar,
New heroes—muscular and flawless—were manufactured overnight,
slowly nudging me away from the limelight,
making me crash from dizzy celestial highs
to the nether regions of the mortal world
I pause again and strain my ears
to listen to the swell of the
famed Bollywood orchestra of yore,
belting out golden melodies
that made me the Hero
whom people worshipped,
Haunting tunes fill the cavernous space where once stood
a grand film studio, a legend in Maximum City
My eyes sting with tears
looking at the crumbling building
where once 70 mm dreams were made every day
and “dreamboats” like me were launched with fanfare
(Yes, the ego remains, though shrunk to size)
I was, after all, a Hero!
The man I see in the mirror
Is a mere shadow of the Hero
His stiff botoxed visage
desperate for the nectar of youth and
frustrated at the absence of
frenzied hands clamouring for his autograph
I stop in my tracks when I see
a tattered movie poster
buried under debris and rubble,
muddy footprints of labourers
callously stamped on my first silver jubilee hit,
right on my thick mop of hair, my former crowning glory
Suddenly, I crave a cup of piping hot cutting chai
that my Man Friday would have miraculously produced
But, alas, there’s not a soul in sight,
Only me and my brittle memories
On this balmy Mumbai evening
that’s ready to turn in for the night