Crosshair

Her white cotton saree was threadbare. ‘Costumes would determine the appeal and hence the plainness’, she had been explained by one of her teeth-clattering, in white hair and saree, in-law. It didn’t matter whether she wore the wedding red, or the casual blue, the grave white, or nothing at all, she was just one of those who were meant to mesmerize. External elements of palette, fabric or ornament did not matter. Everyone would end up reducing this charisma to the ‘air’ around her.

Losing a husband was one of those things that came her way like the match had, in the first place. Straight out of stories that one grew up on, a poor farming history, an ambitious move into the nearest town, and a resulting failure at a business into which all of life’s savings had been invested, Janak Ram only had his daughter remaining to trade-off. Narayani Ram, schooled till books could no longer hold her interest and she could somehow manage a signature, was thus eventually married off to Seth Akash Nath, also a struggling Seth. A month of distant nightly adventures later, he was found death one morning, not responding to his bed tea. Doctors confirmed an orgasm caused it. They did not have any other medical terminology and concluded politely that too much excitement must be the reason.

Narayani cared not a bit, nor had she teared up. She was used to too many things happening around her. And she was but in her late teens. The only thing which interested her ever was the town’s parlour that she was sent to once a week by her in-laws, for a facial and a massage. They say even when money runs out on a zamindar the ego does not. The new bride had to keep shining. The parlour walls were stuck with posters of Madhuri Dixit and Sridevi and Juhi Chawla. And Mithun Chakraborty and Amitabh Bachchan and Salman Khan. As her face was in their hands, Narayani slept into a world of living with the stars.

Four months after her wedding, she was once found in her threadbare white cotton saree. By the parlour man who came asking after the welfare of the Missus. He was instantly smitten by her raw, wild beauty. While she brought him a cup of tea he confided how she had the making of another star. ‘One photo shoot and you could become the next Madhuri Dixit!’ She smiled, delighted. The death of her husband had brought upon her no other lack but that of the touch with the stars. She asked back, ‘Really?’

‘Yes, Madam.’

‘What do I have to do?’

The next Saturday at an hour when parlours are generally infused with lethargy, Narayani made it to New Look Beauty Parlour. She was given a welcome drink. No, it was not mixed with any intoxicated secret potion, nor was she made to strip. In fact, Joginder gave her a change of clothes and was quite nice to her, allowing her the privacy of a closed room for changing. It was, however, Narayani, who, once the first ten shots were taken, was unable to restrain herself. The dark room and the man’s kind and friendly words led her to take off her blouse. Joginder was beside himself with shock. ‘I think we could use one without this for more effect.’ She knew what that would entail.

Joginder came near her to set the saree and found himself locked in her lips. Each hair on their body alive with attention. The teenage desires choreographed for the first time in a dark room, with clothes. Once they were done, Narayani left the studio, the exposed roll of his camera in her clutch. ‘Shoot me soon.’