“They will run up excitedly and say ‘pranaam’ and then run off again. It’s not as if they talk much to me, or hang around me much. They will laugh and chatter amongst themselves, and be naughty.

But they are still shy of eating in front of me, shy of taking sweets, or any other treats. Once when I forced some cold drinks on them, because I knew they wanted them, they swirled the bottles around in their hand, until I had moved away.

They don’t touch me of their own accord, but accept the hugs I give, or the pats on their heads, except Pavan, the littlest one who will squirm a little.

Anjali when she knows we will be going away, will go away before us, will not come out of her house until her mother calls her, and will seem quite disinterested in the goodbyes.

Anuraaj will dance around excitedly, the last one to leave, until we leave, full of mischief even as we see him running off.

Harish and Ajay call me every now and then, and after the enthusiastic ‘pranaam’ it is up to me to ask them questions to carry on the conversation, and all they will say is ‘yes, m’m, no, m’m’.

But then, Harish will stand on the road between his village Aagar, up on the mountain and look down at the Ghimtoli market, where he knows we will come that morning, just to watch our jeep pass by.

Or Ajay will come with us up to the next village some 7 kms. away, ready to walk back if he does not get a ride home, just to have those few extra minutes with us. On the ride he will not say a word, just sit beside me in the front seat, and then get dropped off, wave goodbye and leave.

That is how I have to figure out that they love me”, I said to Dhanno.

“You should stay in Garhwal”,  Dhanno says.

I know she wants to say something else but is not. “Because I express love in the same strange way, isn’t it?”, I complete for her. She nods.

When she was younger, she would say, “Mummy, I love you”, and wait for me to reply back, “I love you too.” I would just look at her and smile. Soon, it became a game between us. When will Mummy actually say, “I love you too.”?

But the words seem so little to me, have always done. There is love, but there is also the piercing pain you feel every now and then, the irritation, the exasperation, and the resignation that you feel in your heart that you are not going anywhere, that you are never ever going to be able to let this person go. How can those words encompass all that? Sometimes she sulked, but I don’t think she ever doubted her place in my heart.

The children know that too. They don’t need me to hug them, or say how much I love them, to know how much they mean to me. Harish knows it when I climb up a few kms. to his house, after a day’s shoot, to say a proper goodbye, even if it is a huffing puffing one. He cries when I am unable to go the second time, though not in front of me.

Ajay knows it when I travel 21 kms., more than an hour’s drive in the hills, to meet him in his mother’s home, after his grandfather does not allow him to complete the last 2 days of the shoot. Ajay does not talk to me much even then, but looks proud and happy that I am in his home.

His mother does not apologize for her father, and she has nothing more to give us but tea and biscuits. A day or two, later she calls me, embarrassed, “I did not make any lunch for you.” I said I would eat the next time, she asks, “In our hut?” She has been calling me regularly all of last year, even though we had not met then, usually at around noon. “Have you eaten?”, she would ask. I would ask, “What are you doing?” “I am in the fields”, she would say. Or, “I am in the jungle cutting wood”, and I would feel such happiness receiving a phone call from the field or the jungle, from a woman I had never met, as if I were there myself. How could I explain to her that I had travelled those 21 kms. to meet her as much as I had to meet Ajay?

Harish’s father will call me from his job in Phata, a government office where he is a caretaker cum peon, taking care of buildings visited only now and then by his superiors on a routine visit, or their families on their way to Kedarnath. He too has nothing much to say except ‘Pranaam, sir! How are you? How is Sirji (Teja)? How is the little one (Dhanno, whom he has never met)?”

The children all live away from one or other of their parents.

Harish lives in Aagar with his mother and sisters, his father lives in Phata, almost 115 kms. away.

Anuraaj and Anjali live in a rented house in Ghimtoli with their mother, away from their village Talghar, while their father works in Amritsar.

Pavan lives in Ghimtoli market with his father who has a small clothes shop there and his sister Santoshi, only a little older than him, while his mother lives in the village Ghwans with her in-laws taking care of them and their house, a few kms. away. They meet on weekends.

Ajay lives with his mother’s parents and sister in Ghimtoli. His mother lives in Chandannagar, 21 kms. away with her in-laws, his father works in Mumbai. He catches a jeep and goes to meet her on weekends.

Ghimtoli has a small private school, marginally better than the government schools around, and almost 80% of the children live with one parent or their grandparents to be able to go there.

Pavan was only 6 when we shot with him last year. His father told us that he had learned to get ready and go to school on his own, since he was 4 or 5, as his mother was not around.

Most of the children turn up at school, unwashed, school uniforms torn and dirty, buttons and zips missing, noses running, not having eaten in the morning. At the shoot, the children dressed in their best, but they came without breakfast or handkerchiefs.

To us, from Mumbai, the children seemed so independent, so undemanding, also maybe a little  neglected, a result of the harsh landscape, the poor living conditions, the choices their parents don’t have.

To them, our concern about them being fed, cleaning their noses, seeing they were out of the sun, drinking water regularly, playing with them and laughing with them, letting them be naughty, and then scolding them, was more than enough love.

Cross posted on the Kaphal blog

Before that, there had been the pale blue house in the tube-lit street at 4 am, a walk up red stairs, and paintings on every landing, and a bed which did not move, and soft blankets, and a clean bathroom.

And before that, there was Howrah Station at 2 am, and a waiting room that was out of a Rituparno Ghosh film, and another train that was late, and deciding to quit the journey and take a morning off, and a long queue at the pre-paid taxi booth, and walking outside the station and finding a cab.

And the rasogollas brought forth a long forgotten desire to learn the Bengali script, so that I can read Bengali novels, not only the translations. “And why not?’ I said to our friend in the blue house with many odd-shaped rooms, ‘I can read books in Marathi, Hindi, Gujarati, and very slowly, in Urdu. I’m sure I can learn to read Bengali.”

So the only morning in Kolkata was spent in Chuckerverrty Chatterjee and Sons of College Street, buying the book that will teach me Bengali, and some more translations, some which are available online, but the buying of them at CC&S makes them more Bengali, so to speak.

Then a hurried visit to the Indian Coffee House down the corridor. Fooled by the prices, I ordered a chicken cutlet and chicken sandwiches, and realised one of the either would have been enough.

Waiting for a taxi on MG road, we get into a bus. So there was a bus ride to Howrah Station and a few photographs. Calcutta has bits of Bombay in it, as we drive closer to the station, carts overloaded with huge parcels, coolies carrying goods, markets and more markets, and crowds. But before that there is the long stretch of band shops, shehnai bands, and wedding bands, and the best Indian bands, and more bands. I like travelling to places that seem familiar, and yet are so different, which is almost everywhere in India.

Puri at midnight is quiet, peaceful, as we move through it slowly on a cycle rickshaw. For a few minutes, the town is ours, as its inhabitants sleep. Before that, was a tedious journey by a train that is Duronto only in name.

And then, we watch ourselves fall. A few minutes before that, I thought, “This cycle rickshaw could topple so easily.” A few minutes later, outside the hotel, just as we are about to stop, an auto rickshaw comes hurtling at us from the other side of the road, as if he hated the sight of us. He hits us and drives away, at the same speed. The cycle rickshaw, the rickshaw-wala, Teja and I fall in slow motion. We watch ourselves fall, and perhaps watching, we are able to fall without getting too hurt.

The shock comes later.

There are several people who keep dropping in, to lay out two folding tables and serve us food, to clean the coupe every time we eat, to ask us what we would like to eat.

The food is the best I have had on a train, tasty, yet simple. The only complaint is that there is too much of it. Teja and I pick out the things we like, for now or later, and give back the rest.

Soon Teja has enough goodies to set up a small food counter on the table. We wonder if we should invite the other passengers to come play ‘shop’.

We wonder why we are taking this crazy journey, 3 days to go, 2 days coming back, when we are staying there only for 3 days. We wonder why we did not take other travel options. It makes us laugh. The chaotic planning makes us a little giddy-headed.

We spend a lot of time reading, sleeping, doing Sudoku. The IPad we bought after years of squabbling is used mainly for Sudoku.

A querulous voice in another coupe complains to the Supervisor about the lack of soap in the toilet, that he asked for some special vegetable and got served lunch only at 3 pm, and the fact that he has launched several complaints about the railway staff in the past.

Teja says, “You should go and watch. He will calm down.” I am happy to have him continue with his complaints. I say, “He should be made to travel by the Haridwar Express”. The Haridwar Express is much on my mind, because a few days after we get back home, a journey by 3 tier A/C on it, awaits us.

Teja goes off to watch the to-do, and comes back laughing. At one of the few stops, he goes off to buy some more food at the station. And props up the packets on his food counter.

I think it’s important to have a good companion in a first class A/C compartment. There is not much else to do, otherwise.

We could go back home for a few hours, the city has had a bandh of sorts, and it would take only an hour or so to go back. Or we could go to a friend’s place. I, reluctant to leave home always, am cranky for a while, looking at what cancellations would cost, until Teja gets huffy. We are already on holiday, in his mind. So instead of cancellations, we make calls, change bookings, make new plans.

Teja asks the security at Sterling if we can go in with our luggage. They check it. I tell them our train is late. They cluck sympathetically, but don’t really seem to care. It’s the first time we will watch a film in Sterling after it became a multiplex. We get a show of ‘Murder 3′ and laugh through it. We sit on the verandah in Barista, have more coffee than we are used to and eavesdrop on conversations. At least I do. Some girls are planning their move to their first rental house. I soak in their excitement, and feel happy.

If I were to draw a personal map of the places I feel happy, this verandah would be on it. Here, I feel I could be part of many stories.

We still have 4 hours until midnight. We walk from VT to Colaba, to eat dinner at Cafe Ideal. Teja has a haversack, I have a pulley bag. The wheels on the cobblestone, sound like a train. The roads are peaceful, quiet. We talk of things we did many years ago.

At the restaurant, the waiters smile at us when we leave, as if wishing us well on our journey. Outside, a group of Arab men surround a paan stall, while I try to chew paan politely. They grin, I grin back.

We walk back from Colaba to VT, and stop for another coffee. The girls are still at the same table. Inside a group of older women play cards.

The city seems different when you have luggage in your hands. There is much to be said about being a tourist in your own city, once in a while. Of course, South Bombay is not really our own city, that being the very different Bumm-Bumm- Bhole-Land.

Woman 2 weeps silently while she makes eyes at a man who lives in the house opposite hers. They exchange love notes and sit by the sea. A schoolchild wishes her “Good Morning, Miss!” in a corridor, she smiles, we realise she is a school teacher. Her grandmother prays while admonishing her. She is engaged to a man her grandmother likes. She waits for her lover to rescue her, while her family goes ahead with wedding preparations. Perhaps she does not take her lover to her family because her father might say, “He is old enough to be your …” The audience may or may not laugh.

Somewhere at the other end of the country, in Punjab, another grandmother prays while a large family sleeps on the floor around her, in a hall as big as a railway station lobby, and a grandson steps out for a con job, after touching her feet.

A wife yells at her husband while he washes the clothes, and sleeps while he folds washed clothes, before leaving for a con job. She detests him because she cannot earn enough for them to afford domestic help. The audience laughs.

In another house, a woman takes care of a large brood of children and is pregnant with yet another, even after her older daughter is married off, and her husband would have retired if he had a job but is still working because he is a conman.

A politician’s overweight wife feeds her overweight teenage son with her hands, and panics more than her husband when the CBI raids their house, and finds their huge stash of black money and gold.

One candidate for a CBI interview is called Kamini, wears a flower in her hair, and recites her vital statistics. The audience laughs.

Another plainer candidate speaks of fighting corruption. The hero asks her if she is going to uproot it. She replies that they can uproot it together. In Hindi the word is more vulgar, and has another connotation. The audience laughs.

A CBI’s officer’s wife runs out to the gate with a phone and a message for her husband. He looks at her cleavage, and asks her in a proprietary manner where her dupatta is. The next time she slips up again, and he glares at her. The audience laughs.

In another film, Woman 1 leaves her job, family, country, friends, to be with a man she loves in another country. She seems sensible, smart, but when she begins to suspect his fidelity, she quickly becomes moronic. Even though she looks at some drawings from time to time, to show us that she is an architect.

Woman 2 is single, poor, and falls in love with the same man after she sees him drunk and senseless. I wonder if I am missing something, but then it may be because he is rich and famous.

I wish I could elaborate more on the stupid things done by these women, which include eating canned food from 1947, but can’t as it would completely reveal the plot.

In the heist film, the women seem to be merely types. In the murder thriller, they are integral to the plot, besides showing a lot of beautiful skin. In both cases, any resemblance to real women seems merely coincidental. I collect these strands with female characters from the films and wonder what women really mean to these film makers, what they mean to the audiences these films are made for.

1. My capacity to tolerate aggression is dangerously large. This has been proved in my earlier marriage. One would have thought I had grown up. This comes from an innate politeness, a desire to be ‘nice’, to be approved of. To consider myself a ‘good person’ is also such pompousness.

2. I am unable to stand up for myself when intimidated. My ability to listen to the other person’s point of view makes me forget my own point of view at times.

3. In a conflict situation, I respond with extreme calm which is almost a shut down of all my responses. I am afraid I will burst into tears if I begin to respond. Which is why I often prefer a frigid calm.

4. I expect Other Assorted People in the situation to see what is right, and just, and stand up for it, to be supportive, which is pointless to expect when I don’t stand up for myself. Perhaps the other people are also intimidated, playing ‘nice’, playing safe, like me.

5. My sense of responsibility towards a project, towards work, is sometimes at the cost of my self dignity. Years of struggling financially, and some years of single parenting when Dhanno was very little, have made me swallow all kinds of bitter pills to keep things going, when it would have been more righteous to walk out. It would also have been so much more dramatic, so satisfying.

6. I realized that what comes across as power is usually an audio-visual play. There is a seating arrangement which spells ‘I am in charge’, a tone of voice, a facial sneer. Mostly, power is about who has the loudest voice, and who can get away with being most rude. The Person in Power in this situation, was someone I have been acquainted with for over 20 years, someone with a reputation of being sensible, sensitive, intelligent. But obviously the accoutrements of the chair gave him a voice which I had never heard before. I am clear that he has a right to his opinions, but the airing of those were offensive in a way they did not need to be, particularly when the conclusion to the meeting was a given, even before the meeting took place.

7. I came out of the meeting with the Person in Power and Other Assorted People, and crossed an assistant director who had worked with me on a shoot. I remembered how nasty I had been to him during the shoot. I still think that he had done enough to deserve my exasperation, but I do know that I had shown him my annoyance because he was my subordinate. I was unable to show my annoyance to many other people on the shoot who deserved it more, on other occasions, because they were not my subordinates. I know that though I might resent the Person in Power, given a chance, I can easily be one myself.

For more lucid thoughts on power. 

Once he was on the highway, he said, “It’s become bekaar to drive now.”

I said, “Yes. There is too much traffic, the roads are so bad.”

He said, “Now there are going to be cameras at every signal. It has become more strict. Even if you escape, they will catch you sooner or later. Now it will be on camera.”

He explained, “I had to go to the left to avoid the khadda. That man abused me. If I had been late by a second, and missed the signal, you would have shouted at me, everyone has crossed, why haven’t you? As I crossed, the signal turned red. If I had got caught, I would have to pay a fine. The fine is 100, 200 Rs. But the police will ask for 2000.”

I asked naively, “Why? Why should you have to pay 2000?”

He said, “You can’t ask why. In the government, there is no why, what, how. There is only payment. If you don’t pay, they will say, OK, keep your rickshaw here, come and show us all your papers, then take the rickshaw back. They will ask you for each and every paper, from your birth certificate to your astrological chart.”

I said, “You will waste a day.”

He said, “You may waste a day, you may waste a month. Who can say? In government, you just pay. All these rules are there only for them to make more money.”

I said, “It’s very difficult to live in Bombay, now.”

He said, “What to do? There is money here, so we think, fine, we will pay a little, but we earn. In the village, there is no money, people die. They make the working person pay, to be able to live in palaces.”

She whispered, “Mom, that guy is playing with his ..”
I stopped in my tracks. “We should report him.”

We stood for some moments, hesitantly. I started walking back a little, towards the watchmen. Half way across, I began to call out to the watchmen. They looked at me curiously. I waved out to the rickshaw-walas to come ahead, to call the watchmen. It took a few moments before they responded.

In the meanwhile, the young man began to talk on his cellphone, and walk away nonchalantly. By then, the rickshaw-walas had come ahead, so had a couple of watchmen.

They yelled out to the crowd near the tea stall on the other end of the road to stop the man. Everyone looked at us curiously, but did not move. The young man started running, they watched him pass by, and continued to look at us, without moving to stop him.

We reached the crowd. Everyone wanted to know what had happened.

They seemed a little shocked that I mentioned what the man was doing.
Perhaps a little shame on my part would have been more appropriate. But then, a few of them, did get into action.

A rickshaw-wala started his rickshaw, some men piled in. A couple of men set out on a motor bike, another man on his bicycle. They asked Dhanno and me to wait there.

More people came to ask us what had happened. People looked at Dhanno and me, and whispered amongst themselves. Maybe they were looking at Dhanno’s shorts and t-shirt, maybe they were shocked at the fuss we had made, maybe it was only my own imagination.

The search parties came back without success. The young man had entered some other premises, and disappeared.

Dhanno and I left.

I felt bad that I had taken a couple of minutes to react. That I did not go and get a hold of the man myself, at the very beginning, before calling out for help.

Dhanno said I had done right. What if the man had hit me?

She asked, “What if he comes back?” She comes alone, at all odd hours of the night, parks her car in the lane, and then walks into the gate. It’s a dark lane.

I said, “Don’t be afraid. You must never be afraid of guys like these. You must shout, complain, fight back.”

But a part of me was wondering if that was sensible advice. Haven’t we all read of enough cases where people protesting teasing or molestation are attacked?

Somewhere inside me, I wanted to tell Dhanno, stop being friendly with boys, don’t go out for New Year, cover up more, don’t come home alone. But I shut myself up.

Later Dhanno, Shy and I were discussing men. Shy and Dhanno were telling me about the boys they know, their ideas about girls, their expectations. It was tempting to say “Most Indian men are like this.” We did say it a few times, and felt better.

But then, I remembered a dear friend who I hero-worshipped and crushed on for many, many years while I grew up, saying to me, “Don’t generalise. How many men do you know? 10, 25, 50?”

So over the next few days, I am going to try making a list of all the men I know, have met, have heard of, have read, or read about. And a list also of the women I know and know of, because we are a part of the situation. And maybe that will help me to understand better why things are so.

To begin my man-woman series, let me talk of Yashpal. I came across a translation of his famous novel on Partition at the roadside second hand bookshop around the corner. ‘Jhootha Sach’ translated into ‘This is not that Dawn’. I had never heard of Yashpal before that, and I picked up the book only because it was satisfyingly large.

After I had lived through Yashpal’s magnum opus for several days at a stretch, I picked up a collection of his work in Hindi. 4 volumes of short stories.

What has hooked me to Yashpal more than anything else, is his view of women, and their sexuality. I don’t know of any other Indian male writer of the period, (not that I am an expert on Indian literature) who looks at women just as they are. They are not goddesses or whores with golden hearts, or mothers, or tormented creatures of destiny. Yes, they do have their roles, and functions in the world they live in. But Yashpal manages to see them beyond their roles, as individuals looking for the same things men look for. They choose, even if circumstances may overthrow their intentions, and then, they make more choices, surviving as we all do.

So, Yashpal is Man 1. (1903-1976)

Woman 1 is Kanak, (circa. 1942 – 1952, the span in which we know the character) one of the protagonists of ‘This is not that Dawn’. Kanak loves a man below her social status, Jaidev, and chooses to commit herself to him, despite family opposition. Her journey to find her lover and be reunited with him and then marry him, spans across pre-Independence to Partition and after. In the meanwhile, she is attracted to a colleague, and almost becomes his lover.

Later, she is disillusioned with her husband, over his loss of ideals, and his treatment of his sister, Tara, particularly when she realises that he was happy enough to have an affair himself, but did not want his sister to marry her Muslim lover, that he now does not want to acknowledge his sister as she may have been raped during the Partition, that his idealism is only a matter of his professional image, but not to be carried over into real life.

She seeks divorce, and gets it, despite the malevolence of her husband. While she fights for her divorce, she also gets back with her colleague, and starts living with him.

Kanak is particularly appealing because her decisions come from who she is, and what she believes in, and not from some attempt to portray her as a bold character. So she remains rooted, and believable, and someone like any one of us.

Please watch out for more in the aadam-hawwa series. I think I am going to speak only of Indian men and women here. Though I have worked with several men and women from Europe, watched hundreds of European and American films and TV shows, read many novels, I cannot claim to understand the nuances of the man-woman relationships in other societies in a direct way.

Please feel free to add to the list, or make your own. Even if it is not Indian!

Recently, we went to a farewell party of our girls hostel warden at FTII, and a large part of the evening was spent in telling each other how we had not changed at all. Realistic Jarbean kept reiterating that of course we had. For one, we were all much thinner when we were students. Old photographs revealed skins which glowed more, hair that was shinier, thicker. But even so, there is a special feeling of warmth in being with old friends, and reassuring each other that nothing much has changed.

The next morning is a different matter altogether. And this fuzzy feeling of warmth certainly cannot make a film.

‘Jab Tak Hain Jaan’ attempts to do just that, make a film out of fuzzy feelings. Which is why, the best part of the film are the end credits with director Yash Chopra and his cast and crew on location. You can feel his ease on the set, the tremendous love and affection his cast feel for him, his sense of happiness in directing a shot.

But not as much can be said about the film. The story has its drawbacks but they could have been overcome if, if only the actors had real chemistry. For what is a love story without chemistry?

Shahrukh and Katrina kissing each other or making love make you cringe. Shy sitting next to me, is the sort of fan who bakes cake on Shahrukh Khan’s birthday every year. Every time Katrina flung herself at Shahrukh, Shy clawed my arm, shut her eyes, and squealed, “Please, no. This is making me very uneasy.” The audience meanwhile, hooted with threats of Salman. For all the general abandon, the kisses were definitely rubber-ducky. There was more excitement in the audience, than on screen.

Katrina is pretty, yes. But! She is so much like a doll, that any one making love to her looks almost like a sex offender. Particularly if they are much older to her. Unless they are Govinda or Akshay Kumar, who don’t kiss and don’t really make love to their women on screen.

Anushka Sharma on the other hand, gets by making love to anyone. Her promise of coming back to teach Samar (Shahrukh) to kiss properly is a promise that is sadly never fulfilled. He gives her a conservative peck on the forehead which however is more sexually charged than any shenanigan with Katrina. I guess, it’s also because the shadow of Salman does not hover.

Anushka’s love for Shahrukh is also more acceptable because he gets to play closer to his age, and it is made explicit that she has fallen for an older man. Shahrukh also looks good in his scenes with her, the lines on his face textured with stubble, older, more mature, not having to try so hard to look 25. He can be kind, and caring, without being burdened about looking sexually interested.

As a 25 year old, he has his energy, his charm, but age is relentless, and won’t extend a helping hand.

No amount of Botox comes to the rescue, or pancake or powder puffs.

Which brings us to Botox. In a special guest appearance by Rishi Kapoor and Neetu Kapoor, I find it such a pleasure to watch Rishi’s naturally aged face, and hate Neetu’s ‘well maintained’ one despite my love for her. She still manages to pull off an impressive cameo with a face that is not supportive of expressiveness.

But if you had 2 expressions to begin with, you would do well to avoid being jabbed by the needle. I wish ‘Stars’ were not ‘Gods’ and were allowed to age gracefully.

(drawing by Teja)

It occurs to me that like the actors, a lot of the big commercial films these days are Botox-ed.

There is too much emphasis on looking young, looking good, and less on genuine expression. Secondary characters, locations, context, villains, vamps (oh, how I miss vamps) are all wiped out with the wrinkles, the creases, the crows feet, the laughter lines, and all we are left with are the pretty stars. Dialogues are used to confirm how pretty and awesome they are. Most of the screen time is dedicated to their pretty faces. Everyone is nice. Everyone is good looking. Everyone is young.

But without the wrinkles, the lines, the creases, curiously the fuzzy feeling of warmth too is gone. Wiping out the years also wipes out the associations, the friendships, and you are left looking at something you can only strive to recognize through its artificiality.

‘Jab Tak Hain Jaan’ suffers from too much ‘looking nice’. It would have been a better film with a real villain, rather than Sir Jesus. If older Samar had more screen time than younger Samar, and younger Samar had been sepia-toned. If Katrina were not quite so nice. If Anushka had actually kissed Shahrukh, ‘modern lover’ style.

I walk in from strong morning sunshine into blue halogen light.

The light creates frameworks where there are none. I feel as if I am walking through walls. It’s a strange light. People seem to be in different zones. There are some open glass cubicles, but I feel glass even where there is none.

In one cubicle, a white lady talks to 2 balding men about hair transplants. She puts 4 fingers on her forehead and says, “This is what your head must look like.” They look bewildered. They look like ordinary businessmen. Middle- aged. Not the kind who you think would be worrying about their lack of hair. Not Bollywood.

They take 8 steps outside the cubicle and think for all of 1 minute while the white lady tries hard not to look at them. On the walls between the blue lights are photos of actors, singers, and details of their hair transplants. Presumably the pictures will help them make up their minds.

They go back into the cubicle.

The white lady puts on glasses. She is plump, motherly, is wearing a bright pink shalwar kameez. She shows them photographs of other people. She talks in a soft, sympathetic voice. One of the men says softly, “28.” Of course he needs more hair.

She tells him of a 18 year old girl who she met yesterday.

I want to see him with a new head of hair.

Nurses walk around in uniforms. Doctors work upstairs.

I would trust them more if the light were not so blue. And the air did not smell so much of freshener. Outside the sun shines.

This is Bollywood Lane.