A Son of the Circus

For most of his adult life, he’d lived with the discomfort (especially in India) of feeling that he wasn’t really Indian. Now how would he feel, living in Toronto with the discomfort of knowing that he’d never truly been assimilated there? Although he was a citizen of Canada, Dr. Daruwalla knew he was no Canadian; he would never feel “assimilated.” Old Lowji’s nasty remark would haunt Farrokh forever: “Immigrants are immigrants all their lives!” Once someone makes such a negative pronouncement, you might refute it but you never forget it; some ideas are so vividly planted, they become visible objects, actual things.

For example, a racial insult—not forgetting the accompanying loss of self-esteem. Or one of those more subtle Anglo-Saxon nuances, which frequently assailed Farrokh in Canada and made him feel that he was always standing at the periphery; this could be simply a sour glance—that familiar dour expression which attended the most commonplace exchange. The way they examined the signature on your credit card, as if it couldn’t possibly comply with your signature; or when they gave you back your change, how their looks always lingered on the color of your upturned palm—it was a different color from the back of your hand. The difference was somehow greater than that difference which they took for granted—namely, between their palms and the backs of their hands. (“Immigrants are immigrants all their lives!”)

The first time he saw Suman perform the Skywalk at the Great Royal Circus, Farrokh didn’t believe she could fall; she looked perfect—she was so beautiful and her steps were so precise. Then, one time, he saw her standing in the wing of the main tent before her performance. He was surprised that she wasn’t stretching her muscles. She wasn’t even moving her feet; she stood completely still. Maybe she was concentrating, Dr. Daruwalla thought; he didn’t want her to notice him looking at her—he didn’t want to distract her.

When Suman turned to him, Farrokh realized that she really must have been concentrating because she didn’t acknowledge him and she was always very polite; she looked right past him, or through him. The fresh puja mark on her forehead was smudged. It was the slightest flaw, but when Dr. Daruwalla saw the smudge, he instantly knew that Suman was mortal. From that moment, Farrokh believed she could fall. After that, he could never relax when he saw her skywalking—she seemed unbearably vulnerable. If someone ever were to tell him that Suman had fallen and died, Dr. Daruwalla would see her lying in the dirt with her puja mark smeared. (“Immigrants are immigrants all their lives” was this kind of smudge.)

It might have helped Dr. Daruwalla if he could have left Bombay as quickly as the twins had left. But retiring movie stars and ex-missionaries can leave town faster than doctors; surgeons have their operating schedules and their recovering patients. As for screenwriters, like other writers, they have their messy little details to attend to, too.

Farrokh knew he would never talk to Madhu; at best, he might communicate with her, or learn of her condition, through Vinod or Deepa. The doctor wished the child might have had the good luck to die in the circus; the death he’d created for his Pinky character—killed by a lion who mistakes her for a peacock—was a lot quicker than the one he imagined for Madhu.

Similarly, the screenwriter entertained little hope that the real Ganesh would succeed at the circus, at least not to the degree that the fictional Ganesh succeeds. There would be no skywalking for the elephant boy, which was a pity—it was such a perfect ending. If the real cripple became a successful cook’s helper, that would be ample satisfaction for Farrokh. To this end, he wrote a friendly letter to Mr. and Mrs. Das at the Great Blue Nile; although the elephant-footed boy could never be trained as an acrobat, the doctor wanted the ringmaster and his wife to encourage Ganesh to be a good cook’s helper. Dr. Daruwalla also wrote to Mr. and Mrs. Bhagwan—the knife thrower and his wife-assistant, the skywalker. Perhaps the skywalker would be so kind as to gently disabuse the elephant boy of his silly idea that he could perform the Skywalk. Possibly Mrs. Bhagwan could show Ganesh how hard it was to skywalk. She might let the cripple try it, using the model of that ladderlike device which hung from the roof of her own troupe tent; that would show him how impossible skywalking was—it would also be a safe exercise.

As for his screenplay, Farrokh had again titled it Limo Roulette; he came back to this title because Escaping Maharashtra struck him as overoptimistic, if not wholly improbable. The screenplay had suffered from even the briefest passage of time. The horror of Acid Man, the sensationalism of the lion striking down the star of the circus (that innocent little girl)… Farrokh feared that these elements echoed a Grand Guignol drama, which he recognized as the essence of an Inspector Dhar story. Maybe the screenwriter hadn’t ventured as far from his old genre as he’d first imagined.

Yet Farrokh disputed that opinion of himself which he’d read in so many reviews—namely, that he was a deus-ex-machina writer, always calling on the available gods (and other artificial devices) to bail himself out of his plot. Real life itself was a deus-ex-machina mess! Dr. Daruwalla thought. Look at how he’d put Dhar and his twin together—somebody had to do it! And hadn’t he remembered that shiny something which the shitting crow had held in its beak and then lost? It was a deus-ex-machina world!

Still, the screenwriter was insecure. Before he left Bombay, Farrokh thought he’d like to talk to Balraj Gupta, the director. Limo Roulette might be only a small departure for the screenwriter, but Dr. Daruwalla wanted Gupta’s advice. Although Farrokh was certain that this wasn’t a Hindi cinema sort of film—a small circus was definitely not a likely venue for Balraj Gupta—Gupta was the only director the screenwriter knew.

Dr. Daruwalla should have known better than to talk to Balraj Gupta about art—even flawed art. It didn’t take long for Gupta to smell out the “art” in the story; Farrokh never finished with his synopsis. “Did you say a child dies?” Gupta interrupted him. “Do you bring it back to life?”

“No,” Farrokh admitted.

“Can’t a god save the child, or something?” Balraj Gupta asked.

“It’s not that kind of film—that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Farrokh explained.

“Better give it to the Bengalis,” Gupta advised. “If it’s arty realism that you’re up to, better make it in Calcutta.” When the screenwriter didn’t respond, Balraj Gupta said, “Maybe it’s a foreign film. Limo Roulette—it sounds French!”

Farrokh thought of saying that the part of the missionary would be a wonderful role for John D. And the screenwriter might have added that Inspector Dhar, the actual star of the Hindi cinema, could have a dual role; the mistaken-identity theme could be amusing. John D. could play the missionary and he could make a cameo appearance as Dhar! But Dr. Daruwalla knew what Balraj Gupta would say to that idea: “Let the critics mock him—he’s a movie star. But movie stars shouldn’t mock themselves.” Farrokh had heard the director say it. Besides, if the Europeans or the Americans made Limo Roulette, they would never cast John D. as the missionary. Inspector Dhar meant nothing to Europeans or Americans; they would insist on casting one of their movie stars in that role.

Dr. Daruwalla was silent. He presumed that Balraj Gupta was angry with him for putting an end to the Inspector Dhar series; he already knew Gupta was angry with John D. because John D. had left town without doing much to promote Inspector Dhar and the Towers of Silence.

“I think you’re angry with me,” Farrokh began cautiously.

“Oh, no—not for a minute!” Gupta cried. “I never get angry with people who decide they’re tired of making money. Such people are veritable emblems of humanity—don’t you agree?”

“I knew you were angry with me,” Dr. Daruwalla replied.

“Tell me about the love interest in your art film,” Gupta demanded. “That will make you or break you, despite all this other foolishness. Dead children… why not show it to the South Indian socialists? They might like it!”

Dr. Daruwalla tried to talk about the love interest in the screenplay as if he believed in it. There was the American missionary, the would-be priest who falls in love with a beautiful circus acrobat; Suman was an actual acrobat, not an actress, the screenwriter explained.

“An acrobat!” cried Balraj Gupta; “Are you crazy? Have you seen their thighs? Women acrobats have terrifying thighs! And their thighs are magnified on film.”

“I’m talking to the wrong person—I must be crazy,” Farrokh replied. “Anyone who’d discuss a serious film with you is truly certifiable.”

“The telltale word is ‘serious,’” Balraj Gupta said. “I can see you’ve learned nothing from your success. Have