Cantonment
bungalows can take you on flights of fancy. Everything can seem right with the
world as you step out of the car, swinging a tastefully wrapped gift, hugging
to yourself cosy thoughts of the waiting hospitality. “What a fabulous lawn!”
Komal turned to her husband, the fairy lights throwing her warm smile into soft
focus.
They picked their
way carefully over the cobbled path, Garv keeping a steady hand under his
wife’s elbow, thoughtful of her party footwear.
The host
couple was waiting graciously at the other end and soon enough the evening flowed
along on smooth rounds of drinks, music and effervescent banter. “Is your son
home today? How have the auditions been going?” Komal had heard from Isha about
their twenty three old aspiring actor son. “He will show up for dinner,” the
hostess responded, looking away.
With the
bonhomie having reached comfort levels, acerbic anecdotes had begun to roll off
artful tongues. Before long, they were all moving in to Isha’s elegant dining
hall. A gastronomic high was clearly guaranteed if the visual treat was
anything to go by. Komal lowered herself
onto an ethnic chair with a plateful and looked around.
A tall young
man had entered from the rear door. She watched him stand still near the table,
gazing down at the prawns. He seemed as though he was in a bubble wrap,
unseeing and unhearing of others. He
reached for a plate. There was the slightest hesitation when he reached the
table end. Beckoning him close, she patted the chair besides her. He came over
and sat down obediently.
“Hi! I am
fascinated by your choice of work,” she began. He responded instantly, “You
know Auntie, acting is a very dirty line. There are mothers who bring their
daughters to directors; you understand what I am saying. Also, any idiot can
get a six pack at the gym these days. Have you read the Laws of success by
Napolean Hill? He talks of the mastermind. I shut my eyes often and picture
myself on the screen; I hear the hall resounding with ovation, it is as though
the audience are chanting my name.”
Komal placed
her plate down gently on the peg table, narrowing her
eyes. “You did not go to
NSD or FTII, so how do you plan to crack this?” her voice was tentative, a
little unsure at his stilted intensity. He sprang up, “Oh! Would you like to
see my blueprint for success?” Komal was led at a brisk pace to his study, “Here,
I have organized myself,” he pointed her towards the computer chair. The two turned
to a medium sized green board. There were grids and columns under heads such
as: personal, social, professional, emotional. Subheads included: make four
influential friends; put on 8 kilos; play basketball 45 minutes daily; clean up
spoken Punjabi; don’t be picky; NETWORK. Her eyes stopped at ‘BHAI!’
His high strung
voice nagged at her “We skyped with my brother last night. He was depressed
over some exams. I don’t know man, here, look at this book. He wrote this when
he was twelve! See all those shelves there; he has read them all. He is a
champion shooter; a phenomenal dancer. At our school, everyone would tell me,
“You can’t be Karan’s brother?!” All my life I have been compared with him; he
is better built, fairer, scores more. It hurts.”
Conscious of
the sudden silence from the dining hall, Komal got up. She parted the curtains,
feeling an odd sense of guilt at having glimpsed something painful and private.
Isha was seated right across the study. Their eyes met, held briefly then broke
contact in haste.
Forcing
herself to stay upbeat through the goodbye speeches, Komal let the mask drop as
soon as their car pulled away. She gnawed at her lip, brows furrowed. At the
red light, she turned to her husband and asked quietly, “Garv! Have we been too
ambitious for our children, pushing them beyond what their caliber justified? Time
for a mid-course correction?”
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