Part 3 Rahat
He could sense the change before it came. He could smell it in the air, hear it in the winds, feel it as a tingle on his skin, a lurch in his stomach. A storm.
Rahat Sayed was a man who believed in signs, almost superstitiously. In fact believing was what sustained him, day in, day out. To imagine living without believing would inevitably send a cold shudder to his heart. If he didn't believe, nothing of what he did would have made any sense. All the struggles, the hardships, he endured... only because he believed in his dreams, knowing that his dreams believed in him. Others found him insane, but to him, his dreams were more real than anything else. They were his identity.
"Rahat, eat," said his wife, Seema, slightly exasperated, but affectionately so.
He came back from his thoughts, and joked, "Food is really hot, yaar."
"Abba, you can eat. It's cold now," chirped little Naazneen. He smiled at her. Looking at her always brought a certain warmth to his heart. She such an adorable thing, his and Seema's little bundle of love. She was a miracle that never failed to surprise him. To think that he had helped bring a piece of such perfect and pure beauty to the world!
"Oh yes," he said, not wanting to disillusion her, "You're right. My little Naazo has become very smart, huh?"
She giggled happily and opened her mouth for her mother to feed her. The phone rang just then, and before he had answered it, he knew that this was what he had been anticipating.
It was Jamila, the hairstylist who had worked on some of the films he had helped direct - one of the few people he routinely shared his frustrations with. She always laughed and waved away his rants. It was a strange relationship that they shared. He spent most of his time being annoyed with her over-bubbly nature and her naive acceptance all that came her way. And yet, he could always rely upon her for just being there, and being her, as nonchalantly honest as ever.
"Some hero you have become, hey?" Jamila's voice boomed on the other side of the line.
"Why?"
"Why indeed," she said sarcastically, "So you don't know about the article in Sparkle?"
"No."
"You're something else, man! Okay, listen.. " She cleared her throat and read, "Nidhi Kapur attempted to dive off a cliff while shooting for Hemant Raghavan's Dooriyaan in Mauritius. A reliable source tells us that the scene required her to stand at the edge of the said cliff, but that suddenly, without saying anything whatsoever, Kapur started walking forward. Were it not for assistant director Rahat Sayed, who pulled her back in the nick of time, the consequences would have been tragic."
"How did they know?"
"Who cares? Your life is set now! All the other magazines and tv programmes have followed the lead. They're all talking about you, Rahat!"
The rest of what she said was drowned out by the thumping sound of blood gushing to his ears. He could vaguely sense that she was laughing excitedly. She thought this was good news. How could it be? Everything was going to change, and he didn't want it to. Not this way. He wanted to achieve success because of his talent and perseverance, not by using the media as crutches. And the media could not be relied upon. They were erratic, uncontrollable, even by themselves. He did not want fame, he did not want to be exposed out there, for others to decide what was going on in his life.
He broke into cold sweat.
Seema was looking at him, visibly concerned. She could sense the emotional turmoil behind his seemingly neutral face. He smiled at her. Naazo wasn't the miracle. It was his wife, who had given up everything for him and had never left his side, who had always spurred him on to be led his dreams. She was his silent pillar of strength, his evergreen harbinger of hope and happiness.
The next day, a reporter reached their apartment, fully armed with camera, dictaphone and notebook. He opened the door, too polite to allow her to wait in the stairway until he came out, but mostly, increasingly annoyed with the constant knocking. Anyway, he reasoned, one interview couldn't hurt. He had nothing to hide after all.
As soon as the the reporter had been let in, she gave free reign to her pent up questions. Some Natasha, she said she was, from Bollywood Times.
"Rahat, is it true that you rescued Nidhi Kapur when she was committing suicide?" she asked.
"I don't know if it was suicide," Rahat replied vaguely, lost in thought.
Why would Nidhi have tried to commit suicide? He remembered that she had been crying when shooting for the scene, even though it wasn't in the script and no glycerine had been provided. But this hadn't surprised him then. Nidhi was the most natural actress he had ever seen. She immersed himself in all that she did, so perfectly, that he found it somewhat scary, for reasons that he could not quite articulate. Somehow she was just so good that it seemed unnatural at times.
"Murder? She was pushed, you mean?" Natasha asked, wide-eyed.
"Pushed? Of course not. Look, I don't know what happened and why. You should ask Nidhi Kapur."
But would Nidhi know what had happened that day? She had seemed to be in some kind of trance, as though sleepwalking. He could not forget the way she had blinked at him blankly after he had pulled her back. As though she didn't know him. And yet, she had always talked to him on the sets of the various movies they had worked together in, asking him about Naazo and Seema. There was definitely something very odd in what had happened. Or was it that there was something odd about Nidhi, as he had sensed before? Something to do with her sometimes being unpredictable, inconsistent, somehow lost?
Natasha cleared her throat. Rahat looked at her and she repeated her question, "Why did you save her?"
"What do you mean? I couldn't just stand there and watch while she fell off a cliff."
"Others didn't budge, as far as I know," she replied snidely, her eyes narrowed, observing him, waiting.
"They were far."
Rahat's mind flashed back to what had happened that day.
The rest of the crew was behind the camera. He was just a few metres away from Nidhi, directing the extras who were supposed to be casually sitting around and standing up confused as they saw Nidhi standing at the edge of the cliff. As an assistant director, he had been assigned with all the running around, all the dirty work. The director, his junior in the industry by five years, knew nothing of direction, and yet, considered it his birthright to boss Rahat around. Thus frustrated, Rahat was struggling to get the extras to follow instructions, when suddenly he noticed Nidhi was walking towards the edge of the cliff. She was only meant to stand there. He walked towards her uncertainly. The director hysterically screamed "Cut!" and yelled at Rahat on the loudspeaker for having come in front of the camera. But Nidhi kept walking, as though she had heard nothing. Tears were streaming from her eyes. Rahat's heartbeat quickened as he sensed the ominous. He sprinted to her and pulled her back.
"Indeed," Natasha said, smiling, interrupting Rahat's thoughts again, "And you were close?"
"Huh?" Rahat blurted, confused, "Yes, I was just a few steps away."
"No," she giggled artificially, "not that kind of close. I mean, close close. You know what I mean?"
She gave him a small wink.
"Natasha, I am not having an affair with Nidhi Kapur."
"Oh, I never said you were, Rahat. But you're so prompt to deny it. Interesting. So how long have you been seeing each other for? You can tell me, you know. She is pretty, isn't she? Oooh, and Mauritius, man! What a romantic location, wouldn't you agree?"
Seema was watching from the doorway. She looked hurt, her faith flickering, faltering. She couldn't deal with such allegations. Doubts crept into her mind, slowly, sneakily. Rahat stared at her helplessly, trying to get her to read the truth in his eyes. He understood what she was going through, the poor girl. Despite her undeniable wisdom, she had always been too innocent to deal with the ways of the world, to understand the unearthly levels to which humans could stoop.
"Are you out of your mind?" he asked sharply to that idiotic Natasha with her fake eyelashes and gruesome blond highlights.
"I don't think so" she said sweetly, noticing Seema, "You mustn't be so scared, Rahat. Oh, is that your wife? She doesn't know, does she? Shame. These things happen in the film industry. You must tell her. It's all normal, part of the job."
"Seema, go inside," Rahat said, more harshly than he intended and regretting it instantly.
"But let's change the topic. This one seems a bit... ah, touchy. So what do you know about Nidhi Kapur and Rohit Thakkar? Their affair, I mean."
"Nothing," he said distractedly, wanting to go to Seema that very moment, "Look, I think you have overstayed your welcome."
"You don't like talking about Rohit?" Natasha asked, her smile widening.
"Why don't you just drop it?"
"You want everything covered up, don't you? But the public has the right to know."
"The truth," he said, calmly as always, but shaking with fury as he did so, "Not the bullshit you come up with!"
"Indeed," she smiled and started leaving, "Well, I won't take more of your time. Thanks, Rahat, for the interview. I believe I have what I need."
The storm was edging closer now, gaining momentum. Rahat staggered back to his room after the reporter had left. It was over now, wasn't it? He had played right into the hands of the media. He knew exactly what kind of nonsense they were going to come up with. He didn't have to read the article. They had him now, like devious puppeteers. Seema smiled weakly when she saw him come in. The smile was sad, tormented, broken. She had been crying.
He shook his head at her, and enfolded her limp figure in his arms, unable to utter a word, unable to tolerate the presence of such ugliness in their relationship. He knew that she would understand, eventually. But that would not negate the pain she had endured, the pain he had inadvertantly caused her.
"I trust you," she said after some time, her voice choked by silent sobs. The words felt like nectar to his parched soul. His breaths regained life, no longer cursing themselves for their unworthiness.
His eyes, heavy and exhausted, met hers. And he realised, when he saw those anguished tears amidst the love in her eyes, that his dream had lost its beauty. He didn't want to be a director anymore. It meant that he had to be a part of that ruthless world. He couldn't pay the price. He couldn't see his family suffer so much for his dreams. He decided he would protect his family until his last breath, from himself if he had to.
Now it really was over. The storm. And everything else.
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