Fallen

Summer had well and truly set in.  A hot loo blew even at 9 am on that Saturday morning. Avantika was still getting used to it though. The heat was making her languid and lazy but she’d dragged herself to the India Habitat Centre because she had to know … for sure, in person.

As she walked from the car parking to the designated venue, she could see posters announcing the event with his pictures splashed all over. The book launch was being organised by an eminent publishing company in the relatively cool environs of the Centre. There were huge standees announcing the launch of the book penned by one of India’s most prolific, much loved and highly respected writer/ poet/filmmaker.  She figured there wouldn’t be much of a crowd considering the weather and time for a weekend morning but she was overwhelmed when she saw the sea of eager, expectant faces at the amphitheatre. This was going to be more difficult than she’d anticipated.

She tried to push through the throng of people to secure a well-placed spot from where she could view the stage and more importantly, him.  Huge pedestal fans had been placed all around to make the heat bearable. People were huddled around the fans, trying to keep cool as they waited. Dodging past people, she had to make sure her shoulder-length hair didn’t get caught in the huge fans. She cursed herself for having left her hair loose in this heat as she felt the sweat trickling down her scalp. The amphitheatre was packed to capacity and the thought of squeezing herself between people didn’t appeal to her so she decided to wait in the aisle. Once the event started, she would just plonk herself on the floor.

As she waited with countless others, she gazed at the diverse crowd present. Quite a few old people (he was almost an octogenarian) who’d probably grown up listening to his heart-breaking, beautiful songs, many in their thirties and forties who obviously admired his poetry and lots of young people who probably idolized him and aspired to write like him some day. One thing was constant across the age groups though – they were all there for him. Not because it was a Page 3 event (where celebrities and VIPs would appear) or because it was fashionable to be seen there. They were there to listen to him speak and recite poetry; possibly even ask him some questions. That’s what she was banking on. All kinds of questions had been plaguing her mind since she’d read an article on the social media. She would have easily missed it (would that have been better?) had someone not shared it with her, knowing how she idolised him. Not only were the accusations preposterous but the subsequent reaction (or the lack of it, in this case) was unbelievable. It was just not him … the media always blew things out of proportion. They loved to slander and malign.  It was just so disturbing.  

She snapped out of her reverie as a sudden commotion stirred the crowd.  The murmur grew in decibels as the crowd parted to make way for the man. Her heart started thumping as the excitement enveloped her. Suddenly, he appeared. Dressed in his trademark crisp white kurta pyjama, retro, black-rimmed spectacles adorning his visage; he walked towards her in his fashionably rustic juttis. Her heart beat faster and faster as she watched him. She had grown up listening to the haunting songs he had penned and watching the sensitive movies he had made. His stories evoked nostalgia of a time and place unknown to her. His wonderful ability to play with words and create the most bafflingly sweet metaphors had always amazed her. What a gifted man! They don’t make them like him anymore.  As he walked past her to get on to the stage, she could have reached out and touched him. But, no, that would have broken the spell.

Thunderous applause resounded in the amphitheatre as he took his seat on the stage. The organisers scurried to and fro, trying to look in control. She felt sorry for them. She could imagine how difficult it would be to hold your own, in a calm and dignified manner, when you’re all nerves standing next to him on the same platform. Their announcements fell on deaf ears as the crowd continued to applaud. The heat and the waiting had whipped everyone into a frenzy. The mike was handed to him and immediately, a loud whoosh could be heard as the decibel level dropped abruptly, almost as if the air had been sucked out of everybody. He addressed the audience in his endearing mix of Hindi, English and Urdu as he talked about his new book. Smiles lit up everybody’s faces – some were benign, some indulgent, some dreamy and some were actually flirtatious!

For the next hour, the publishing team along with the moderator questioned him on his book and allied topics. His inspiration, his past, his films, his poetry, his new age lyrics. The audience was charmed as he connected with people sitting in the amphitheatre in his self-effacing, humble manner. The event took a turn for the better when he was requested to recite some of his poetry. His voice over the mike was like a soothing balm to the harried souls that had braved the heat and waited … it was their reward or the “phal” or the promised Heaven. Heaven and Hell – it’s all here. 

As the event came to a conclusion, there were shouts from the audience. Everyone wanted to speak with him, ask him questions, connect and be inspired. The organisers gracefully allowed the audience to do so. Her arm went up and stayed up as the mike was passed around between members of the audience. He answered all questions with ease and humour – be it his “utt-pattan” poetry or his bizarrely-worded songs or even his past relationships.

As the mike traversed the amphitheatre towards her, she stood up. She’d practiced wording this question so many times in her mind but now that her time had come, she was incredibly nervous. With sweaty palms, she held on to the mike tightly as if it would radiate strength and transmit courage. It’s difficult when you feel like a mouse at the feet of Lord Ganesha. As she made eye contact with him, she realised she had come here because she had to know. For sure. In person. He smiled at her sweetly, waiting for her adulation to sweep him off his feet. She cleared her throat and asked timidly, “My question is in relation to the Salman Khan hit-and-run case which has been the subject of heated debates and discussions recently. Your thriteen-year-old daughter crashed into a man on a bike which left him severely injured many years ago. You went to see him at the hospital and promised to pay all his medical bills if he didn’t report the matter to the police. Is it true that you didn’t live up to your promise? “ He looked at her with confusion and incredulity. The collective breath of the audience seemed to be hinging on his answer. 

She repeated her question, “Did you turn your back on him? Did you break your promise?” And there it was – the guilt in his eyes, Macbeth-like. He had been caught unawares. The man who had a way with words was left speechless. The audience was stupefied. The organisers were aghast. They couldn’t believe what they’d just heard. That had been the toughest question she’d ever asked anyone in all her life. A murmur began around her. People were shocked, incredulous, angry and hurt – all at the same time. As they were absorbing it in, the organisers jumped into action. Two men were by Avantika’s side in no time. One snatched the mike from her while the other roughly veered her out of the amphitheatre. She was rudely asked to leave the premises right away. Knowing the truth did not help her shattered heart, not in the least.

Later that morning, an earthquake shook North India. It had wreaked havoc in Nepal, where the epicentre was located. It had triggered avalanches, wrecked homes and killed thousands. It had flattened many UNESCO World Heritage sites, including well-visited, prominent temples. The temblor had been felt. Looked like the Gods were falling everywhere