Jump Cut Read online

  JUMP CUT

  Krishna Shastri Devulapalli

  HarperCollins Publishers India

  jump cut / jump’kut’ / noun

  film-editing term: an elliptical cut that appears to be an interruption of a single shot in which either the figures seem to change abruptly against a constant background, or the background changes abruptly while the figures remain constant.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Praise for the book

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Madras. 1992.

  The hall goes black without warning. No slow fadeout of lights like in Satyam or Devi. Instantly, the aimless murmur of the crowd takes on the unmistakable tone of anticipation. The boy turns around to look at the asymmetrically set glass squares high up on the wall behind him. The projector comes on with a katak-burr, triggering a beam of light that turns the screen at the other end white-hot. A million swaying specks come alive in its path. Random scribbles that look like they have been made with a giant marker flash across the screen for a couple of seconds before a wax-busting veena riff announces the banner of the film-makers:

  Shakti Ganapathi Films (P) Ltd.

  Behind the glitter-dusted thermocol logo, a golden Ganesha’s crooked trunk barely conceals his smile. Asymmetric tendrils of smoke rise from mirror-image incense sticks on either side. By the time the sloka that will clear all obstacles on the film’s path to the box-office comes on, the invisible projectionist has adjusted the volume to a bearable level.

  The music segues to a racy tune. The title cards come on. The hero’s name first. The spontaneous applause and the one long whistle are worthy of a first-day–first-show, not a fifty-strong preview for insiders. In a quick succession of dissolves, the other title cards follow, each one lasting just short of being able to be read fully. The boy takes his eyes off the screen to see where his father is. He is still there, standing by the main entrance door, the flickering images making his face dance between light and dark.

  The boy feels a tiny pinch. It’s his sister.

  ‘Concentrate, you monkey,’ she says, ‘or you’ll miss Appa’s name.’

  The card they have been waiting for comes on. It says ‘Story, Screenplay & Dialogue by Vasant Raj’ in big letters that fill the screen, the drum-roll underlining their importance.

  At the bottom of the screen, in barely readable letters, is the legend:

  Associate: Raman

  Then it is gone.

  1

  He loved the god’s-eye view of Madras. He had last seen her this way five years ago from the window seat on his way back to San Jose. There was no denying the difference, though. While the high-rises and cell-phone towers had popped out from the carpet of green like sporadic obscene gestures then, they now had the makings of an angry mob. But, to him, the city still resembled what he had thought the first time he had seen it from the sky: an iron-rich meal for a vegetarian giant.

  How long it would remain that way was the question.

  Though he had an aisle seat, the unfettered view of his home town was courtesy his neighbour who didn’t seem to mind his head trespassing into his airspace one bit. Twenty-four hours ago he wouldn’t have dreamt of doing something like that. In America, one respected space. People guarded their personal three feet with built-in electric fences you didn’t cross unless you wanted to be jolted by a lawsuit.

  ‘Back from holiday?’ said Window Seat, hitting him in the face with his unbrushed breath, equal parts airline food and cheap scotch.

  ‘No,’ he said, jerking his head away from the firing zone. ‘Live in the US. Down for a visit.’

  ‘Getting married?’

  ‘No, no – it’s my father. He’s not well.’

  He wondered about this compulsion of his to tell the truth no matter what. Even to complete strangers, about things that were of little or no consequence to them.

  ‘Oh, really. Anything serious?’ said Window Seat, warming up to the prospect of some grisly medical details.

  He had been happy that his companion had spent pretty much the entire journey drinking, eating or snoring. He had even forgiven him the one redolent and extended fart that had left him gasping for breath in the middle of the night. Why did he have to talk now, seconds away from touchdown?

  Before he could reply, the violent union of rubber and concrete powered by supersonic engines on high-octane fuel came to his rescue. His flight from San Jose to Chennai via Abu Dhabi had reached its destination with three minutes to spare.

  Ignoring the flight attendant’s plaintive call, three-quarters of the plane rose as one in a well-worn Indian symphony of unbuckled seatbelts, clicked-open cabin lockers and feverishly resuscitated mobile phones.

  He remained seated, clenching his eyes shut to work off the fatigue. All it did was make his father pop into his head.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Window Seat, standing in that awkward way unique to air passengers whose compatriots are still seated. He had no choice but to get up.

  ~

  Ray found himself standing dead still in the lobby of Anna International Airport, his index finger crooked around the handle of his lone carry-on. The formalities had taken a little over half an hour. Overloaded trolleys helmed by madmen careened past him like dodgems that had come loose, the result of three flight loads of luggage coming to the carousels at the same time. A fat man, sweat pouring down his face, came at him like a fugitive on the run. He stood petrified. But, with a last-minute swerve, the man avoided a head-on collision while still managing to get Ray’s loafer-clad foot with one of his rear wheels.

  He bit back a curse and stood on one leg.

  ‘Dei, Ray-Ban, welcome to Chennai,’ said a voice.

  Still wincing, he turned around to walk straight into a hug. The lumberjack arms that had squeezed him to an inch of death in school fights years ago still had game.

  ‘Abie, you rascal,’ Ray said, returning the embrace. ‘Thanks for coming. And how the hell did you get in, isn’t this area restricted?’

  ‘Don’t ask! Just tell me where the single malt is.’ Abie released him from the clinch.

  ‘One litre of Macallan, just like you asked,’ he said, pointing to his bag.

  On G.S.T. Road, as Abie negotiated his Civic through the early-morning traffic, showing little respect for the gearbox and even less for the sisters and mothers of his co-motorists, Ray looked at his friend. The stubborn brow of steel wool, his principal weapon in badgering people, was still there. The addition was a tiny paunch that popped out from under the seatbelt.

  ‘Straight to the hospital or do you want to stop over at my place and hit the loo?’ said Abie, trying to turn an offending auto to dust with his eyes.

  ‘Hospital, da. Must give Shobha a break. My cousin – remember her?’

  ‘The one with the big bazookas?’ said Abie, cheering up.

  ‘They all are, da. They all are,’ Ray said, grinning.

  Some things never changed.

  2

  The lobby of Life
-Smile Hospital (the best in the city, he had been told) was conspicuously empty of civilians. A few white-coats and admin types walked about as only they could. Word was the new hospital, which had managed to woo the best medical talent available, did things differently, with strict rules for everything. But not that differently, as it turned out, because Abie’s neighbour was a director in the hospital, and that had been enough to get them in at this odd hour.

  The security guy, a bargain-basement version of the Air India Maharaja, had asked for his name before letting them into the lift that led to the cardiology section.

  ‘Saab, please finish your business quickly. Visitors not allowed now. Only after four p.m.,’ said the maharaja on duty a tad apologetically.

  Ray mumbled his thanks while Abie gave the closing lift doors the finger.

  The elevator stopped on the third floor with a bing. An intricately carved wooden Ganesha greeted them from a niche in the wall on the other side. A clump of incense sticks let off fickle tendrils of sandal-scented smoke. The sign said CARDIOLOGY. Leaning next to it was a woman with a disposable coffee cup in her hand and bags under her eyes.

  ‘Ah, Ray. Here, at last,’ she said.

  He embraced her carefully, making sure not to spill the coffee. His cousin didn’t seem to care, and hugged him like he was five years old.

  ‘Hey, Shobhs. Thanks, pal,’ he said, squeezing her free hand, ‘don’t know what we would have done without you.’

  ‘No big deal, da. It’s Mama, after all,’ she said, walking towards the room, her hand still in Ray’s.

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  ‘Out of danger, don’t worry. But Doc Subbu says he should be under observation for twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Doc Subbu?’

  ‘Dr Badri Subramaniam. Head of cardio, big cheese. My classmate in PSBB. How do you think we managed to get Mama here double-quick?’ she said. ‘He’s a good guy, we used to call him “Bra Man” back then, but that’s another story.’

  Ray couldn’t help thinking that that would have made an equally good name for his friend who was standing around in the background.

  ‘Hey, thanks again, Shobha,’ Ray said. ‘How am I going to repay you?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Shwetha wants to go to Stanford. You can pay her tuition fee,’ she said.

  On the door of Room 311, in a convent-educated hand, a rectangular slip of paper in a plastic niche stated the bare facts:

  Patient: T.K. Raman

  Doctor: Dr. Badri Subramaniam

  Inside the room, the spare, calm face and one bony hand, seemingly held together by tubes and wires, were all he could see of his father. He looked like a prone puppet, ready to dance if a doctor hiding behind a screen decided to yank the tubes. It was hard to believe that he was nearly six feet tall. He looked so small, different even, with his grey stubble. Ray tried to recall when he had last seen his father unshaven. Must have been the time he had picked up that terrible stomach bug after coming back from a location shoot years ago. He remembered his tired, grizzled face as he went to the loo to vomit every half-hour. That must have been about the only time. Even when his mother had died, he couldn’t think of a single day when he had seen his father moping.

  He turned around to ask Shobha when the doctor would come by and found he was alone with his father. Through the tiny glass window on the door, Shobha gestured to him from the corridor. ‘Spend some time alone with him,’ she seemed to be saying.

  He looked at his father again. His gentle breathing made the starched hospital sheets move up and down ever so slightly. The shifting wrinkles somehow looked like young mountains trying to find their final shapes.

  Really? Geology? At a time like this? It had to be the fatigue of the last three days. The frantic scramble for tickets, the hundred phone calls to his sister and Shobha, the hurriedly changed work schedules and the hasty departure had got to him, now that he was here sitting beside his father.

  He would have killed for a coffee.

  This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. His father should have been in San Jose with him or in Portland with his sister. This ought not to have been Shobha’s headache. Appa could be so stubborn, especially when it came to his wretched films. All he could ever think of was them. And as if that wasn’t enough, he had adopted a pup a couple of years ago, a leftover from a film, a Labrador he had insisted on naming – of all things – ‘Dog Raj’.

  ‘Anyone who’s anyone in Tamil films is a “Raj”’ was his explanation.

  In the last five years, ever since things had stabilized for him in the US, not a phone call had gone by without the question, ‘Okay, Pa, when are you going to come live with me?’

  The answer had always been the same. ‘I’m working on a script, Ray. This is the one.’ And in the last couple of years: ‘Plus, who’ll take care of Dog Raj if I’m gone?’

  He looked at the helpless man on the bed, guilty at being angry.

  As if on cue, his father opened his eyes and saw him. He smiled.

  ‘Ray, my boy!’ he said, almost inaudible. ‘Why did you come for such a small thing?’

  ‘Only you can call a heart attack small,’ he said. ‘Forget about me. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine, how’s Raja? Is he all right, who’s taking care of him?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Dog Raj is safe with your isthriwallah. Whatsisname … Velu. He’s fine. Shobha told me.’

  Ray turned around to call Shobha and found that she and Abie were back in the room. How was it that people automatically sensed it, almost as if they were tapped on the shoulder, when consciousness made its discreet arrival or departure? It was like it had its own messaging service. He thought of the day of his mother’s accident. She had been in a room similar to this one. Appa, who had stepped out of the room to talk to the doctor, cut the conversation short and rushed back into the room in time to see her go.

  ‘Why don’t you go meet Doc Subbu?’ said Shobha.

  ~

  The injection-moulded chair, one of ten set in a row on a frame of flimsy metal, shook to the mismatched rhythms of a dozen restless legs. Ray closed his eyes, thankful that he had found a vacant spot. But time remained liverish, as it did in waiting rooms.

  A group of doctors in identical white coats walked by, laughing as one. What was the hilarity about? Had one of them left a surgical glove inside a patient’s stomach?

  Doctors – they came in two varieties. The majority belonged to Group One, a sinister society that had its headquarters in a world of secret rituals and bizarre initiation rites. Its members spoke in riddles and revelled in giving bad news. Even harmless stethoscopes and tongue depressors became instruments of torture in their hands. Good health and well-being were their mortal enemies. The high priestess of this group was Dr Mirabai, the paediatrician his father used to drag him to. On bad nights he still dreamt of her, her high-pitched cackle ringing in his ears as she administered veterinary-strength doses of god-knows-what with a rusty hypodermic on his exposed bum.

  When he saw Doc Subbu, Ray was happy he belonged to Group Two, the humans.

  ‘Your father’s had what people call a fairly severe heart attack. Taking his general health and age into consideration, I recommend a bypass at the earliest. Maybe even tomorrow or the day after, depending on the availability of Dr Chandrasekhar – he’s the best cardio-thoracic surgeon we have…’

  Reports. Animated film clips of his father’s heart. Options. Procedures. Costs. Post-op care.

  ‘Your father has every chance of a full recovery and can resume his old life in two months flat, with slight lifestyle changes, of course.’

  ~

  ‘That’s it, Appa,’ said Ray.

  It was just him and his father in the room. The TV was playing a Tamil film with the sound off. A vaguely familiar-looking man danced vigorously. He was dressed in standard hero gear: trousers with several pockets, fully unbuttoned shirt with bright T-shirt showing from underneath. Even without words, the
hand movements and the all-male ensemble of dancers behind the man made it abundantly clear that the song was a moral science class for the masses. Ray figured it was Ajith, Surya, Vijay or one of the other first-name-only demigods unique to the south. If one thought about it, it made sense. Their celestial counterparts didn’t have any surnames either.

  Shobha had gone, but not before insisting on spending the night at the hospital, and handing over a large bunch of roses on her daughter’s behalf. ‘Get well soon, Cine Mama! Love, Shweta’ said the card. He had forgotten that name. Appa had been ‘Cine Mama’ to an entire generation of kids, their entry pass to the final frontier – a film shoot.

  ‘What do you mean, that’s it?’ The voice may have been weak but Ray didn’t miss the rusty iron in it. ‘It’s not that easy to just up and leave.’

  ‘You don’t have to do a thing, Pa,’ said Ray. He put his hand cautiously on his father’s pale hand and brought down his already soft voice a notch. ‘I’ll take care of everything. And it’s not like you’ll be leaving tomorrow. Three months is enough time to recover, wind up and…’

  The man on the bed closed his eyes, and Ray let his voice trail off.

  He had spent the morning finalizing the plan that had begun on the plane. What had been clear to him for several years had now become an inevitability. The surgery would be performed in the next couple of days. He would wait for a week or ten days for his father to recover, move him into Shobha’s house, as she had suggested, and return in three months to take his father with him to the US – permanently. There, he would be happy, looked-after, and free to spend as much time as he wanted with either of his children. Plus, there were the bonuses: his grandson, Avinash, in Portland, and unlimited old films on Turner Classic Network.

  It hadn’t been a unilateral decision. Shobha, his sister Lakshmi, Doc Subbu – everyone had been in on it.

  It was the only way.

  3

  Quite used to receiving business calls all hours of the night from the Far East, Ray wasn’t startled by the discreet pip-pip of his phone. He awoke quite easily and picked it up on the third ring.