Last month, after the multiple failures of the entertainment team to find projects they could fund they had pivoted to a different model. They were now looking for people and not projects. They would fund their scripts and their trailers themselves. The trailer would then go up and the junta would be asked to fund them. They were flush with money at the moment.

  ‘We borrow Karunesh’s fancy equipment to shoot it. I will edit it. It’s not that tough, and neither is it expensive. We don’t need it to be overproduced anyway. It has to look natural.’

  It required several repetitions for her to buy into the idea. Internet taught me that. You repeat something—or make a bunch of people do it— and people start to believe in your idea. You can change governments on the back of it.

  ‘Are we making the video for your boyfriend, Gautam?’ she asked.

  ‘Actually, your boyfriend,’ I corrected her and gave her the script I had written.

  She thought it was a joke till she read it. Hiding her shock, she said, ‘Why can’t the parents do it?’

  This is why I like her; others would have said the parents should do it. Unlike others she knew there was a possibility that the parents weren’t the best choice.

  ‘When I see a truant, misbehaving child, I blame their parents, I don’t sympathize with them. I would say he was raised badly. This campaign is getting backlash from the young, and we need someone young to side with him. Who better than a devastated girlfriend?’ I asked.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Who else? You’re the only one who hasn’t questioned the moral and ethical boundaries we will cross when we make this video. I can’t think of anyone else who would say this is the right thing to do,’ I said.

  ‘But—’

  I interrupted her. ‘Also, you’re a good actor. I have seen footages from your theatre days. And you kind of didn’t ask why I couldn’t do it. After all, this is my idea. Only an actor can be that vain to put her talent over anyone else’s. You already know that you’re better than I am.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’

  She was lying. She was sure of it. Rachita had seen way too many people die to deny this. Numerous times, she would have felt shackled by the reach of WeDonate. The money was out there to be collected, but unreachable. And then, there was the rumour.

  ‘You know you want to do it, Rachita,’ I said. ‘I have heard the rumours.’

  ‘What rumours?’ she asked.

  ‘Of you losing someone you got close to, someone who couldn’t get the money?’ I said, a little unsure.

  She smiled sadly.

  ‘It’s true, then?’ I asked.

  She looked at me and said, ‘You think there was one?’ She added with a pitiful smile. ‘I fall in love pretty easy.’

  That was literally the last thing I would have ever expected Rachita to say.

  She continued, ‘Anyway, I’m guessing you have already told his parents?’ she asked.

  ‘I have.’

  I didn’t tell her that Gautam’s mother hadn’t been completely thrilled.

  ‘Why is she going to be Mohini? You’re his Mohini,’ Gautam’s mother had said rather forcefully. ‘You are Mohini. Tum hi Mohini ho beta.’

  ‘The girl from my office is a really good actor. She will do a good job,’ I had explained to Gautam’s mother.

  ‘Why do you need to act? You can say you like him,’ Gautam’s mother had said.

  For every mother, her son is their raja beta and if any woman is around him, it’s to fall in love and father his babies. I convinced her eventually.

  Rachita didn’t agree straightaway. Through the week I kept pecking away at her.

  When she gave in, she tried to make me believe that she was doing it to save my job, and not because she herself wanted to do it. She said, ‘The only way you won’t get fired for this is if I do this. Sarita can’t let go of both of us.’

  We are like two-thirds of the Powerpuff girls, I thought but I didn’t say it out aloud.

  She continued, ‘And I’m doing this because you like him.’

  ‘I don’t like him.’

  ‘Of course, you don’t,’ Rachita said.

  On the day of shoot, it was a Sunday. We dragged Karunesh’s lights to Gautam’s house. Technically, it was theft because neither did we inform Karunesh nor made an official entry of borrowing the equipment. I had thought of asking Karishma and Arvind to join me for the shoot and then decided otherwise. It was best that we kept it uncluttered. Though I missed them being around. Of late, Arvind and Karishma had begun to spend quite some time at Gautam’s house with me.

  Things between Arvind–Karishma and Gautam’s parents had now thawed but it had taken some work. His parents hadn’t taken their abandonment of Gautam lightly and held an undying grudge against them. The first time I took the two of them to Gautam’s house, his parents had refused to open the door for us.

  ‘First ask the two of them to leave,’ Gautam’s mother had said.

  ‘Let them enter,’ we heard Gautam’s father tell her.

  ‘OVER MY DEAD BODY!’ Gautam’s mother had said to his father.

  Even the donation of Rs 4 lakh hadn’t moved her. It was only after they went to Gautam’s house every day with me to apologize for a week that she cracked.

  Now every second evening, Arvind, Karishma and I found ourselves around his bed, chatting. It was sometimes a bit irritating to have them there. It would eat into my time with Gautam’s things, and my writing. But then, very often they would tell me more about how Gautam was.

  On those evenings, sometimes we would forget that he was right there, and sometimes, we would assume that he was listening and would address him and talk to him and answer on his behalf.

  ‘He would say Ganguly was the best captain.’

  ‘He would say get a degree but also not let that degree define you.’

  ‘He would say let’s invite some random people to our drinking session.’

  Unlike me, Rachita wasn’t nervous about the shoot at all. We rolled in the equipment to his room. I introduced Gautam to Rachita like he was an actor playing his part—lying on the bed, half-dead—to perfection.

  Rachita and I fixed everything in place and tested out the equipment. After a few rehearsals, we were ready to roll.

  Rachita blew it out of the water.

  The delivery, the tear peeking out of her eye, the gestures of her hand, the way she looked at Gautam—she landed everything perfectly. We took a bunch of takes so I could use the best parts when I edited them. I knew I would be spoilt for choice. Her modulation was just so believable.

  Once I got back home, I transferred all the files to my laptop, downloaded a crack version of Premiere Pro, opened YouTube tutorials on editing, and got down to editing the clips. The first half chugged along. Then something felt amiss. The more I saw the clips, the more they seemed acted, over-produced, staged. It was all wrong. It was apparent that the girl in the video wasn’t his girlfriend but a stand-in, an actor. The flaws stood out, magnified. This was too perfect. There was no way this would work.

  I closed the project file, packed up the memory cards, the camera and went straight back to Gautam’s house.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Gautam’s father, rubbing his eyes.

  It was 3 in the morning.

  ‘I need to shoot it again,’ I said.

  ‘Where’s Rachita?’ asked Gautam’s mother.

  ‘She’s not needed, I will do it,’ I said. ‘I will be Mohini.’

  ‘But she did well? I saw the clips,’ said Gautam’s father.

  ‘Let her do it, she will do much better. She knows my son,’ countered Gautam’s mother sternly.

  Gautam’s mother opened the door and led me inside. She switched on the light and placed the chair near Gautam’s bed. She was leaving when she turned around and said, ‘Let me know if you need tea.’

  ‘I’m fine, Aunty.’

  She nodded and said, ‘You should always have been Mohini, beta. I knew it.’

  I shot and re-shot through the night. It was 9 a.m. when I was woken by Gautam’s father pacing around the room. I found him clicking through the footage that I’d shot the night before. He looked at me and then at the camera. Seldom have I seen him with a frown on his face.

  ‘Is something wrong, Uncle?’ I asked him.

  He handed the camera to me, and said, ‘Rachita’s video was much better. Use that.’

  Before I could string together a sentence, he stormed off.

  I edited and uploaded my video later that afternoon.

  Neelima Ji

  Neelima ji reaches Mohini’s house a couple of hours earlier than the time Mohini’s mother had asked her to come. She knows one can always use some help, and more than that, company. It can be a lonely job caring for a comatose child. It’s the last thing a parent expects, but it’s also the first thing a parent fears. Fear is the foundation of any parent–child relationship and it starts even before the child is born. Being a parent means constantly cutting deals with god, promising more devotion for the child’s welfare.

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ says Mohini’s mother and ushers her in.

  ‘Can I see Mohini?’ says Neelima ji straight off the bat.

  ‘I was just about to—’

  Neelima ji interrupts her and says, ‘You make tea for us. I will do it.’

  Mohini’s mother nods and walks towards the kitchen.

  Neelima ji enters Mohini’s room. She has done this before, both for Ananth and for Mohini.

  ‘Hello, beta. Good morning,’ she says, ‘I hope you don’t mind that I will take care of you this morning.’ She runs her fingers on her face. ‘It’s the least I can do for you.’

  Her hearts brims with love for her, the girl who saved her son. Where would she be without her?

  She notices the bed. She remembers every creak, every bend of this bed. It was the same bed her son lay on when he was sick. As she takes care of Mohini—empties her urine bag, changes the catheter, readies the water to wipe her down—she wonders how strong Mohini’s mother would have to be to handle all what she has on her own.

  Neelima ji looks around the room and sees stacks of books. Every time she comes here, Mohini’s mother hands her a few books and insists she read them.

  She would then call at odd times of the day and ask, ‘Did you read it?’ Mohini’s mother would ask her piercing questions later.

  As much as Neelima ji hates being dominated by someone who would be her samdhan, an in-law, she very often ends up getting bullied, just like her son.

  Neelima ji is both scared and angry at Mohini’s mother.

  ‘You want to be like her,’ her husband often told Neelima ji. Neelima ji knew it to be the truth.

  Today Mohini’s new bed is arriving. The old one will be sold to a scraps dealer. Neelima ji never gives away or throws away anything, and yet, she’s happy that she would not have to see this bed again. She would have loved to give it away for free.

  It takes an hour and half for Neelima ji to finish with Mohini. Mohini’s mother had come to the room twice to check but Neelima ji had chased her away and asked her to rest.

  Neelima ji had been shocked—and a little angry—when she got to know that Mohini’s mother had a nurse that came over to take care of Mohini. She had come to the house and thrown a tantrum. But Mohini’s mother had said sternly that this was her final decision.

  ‘She’s ours too,’ Neelima ji had said.

  ‘She’s mine,’ Mohini’s mother had replied.

  Mohini’s mother makes another cup of tea when Neelima ji is done. They drink their tea and Mohini’s mother tells Neelima ji of all the new books she has read. She then checks if Neelima ji had read the books she had given to her the last time. Despite giving all the answers, Mohini’s mother doesn’t look impressed. She never looks impressed.

  A little later, the hospital bed comes. It takes the two women and the delivery guys two hours to replace the old with the new. When they are done, Mohini’s mother orders for food and they both sit on two sides of the sofa reading their books.

  ‘They found the girl who’s going to play Mohini,’ says Neelima ji after a while.

  ‘Rachita, I know. I like her. She’s Anusha’s friend,’ says Mohini’s mother without looking up.

  Neelima ji often wishes her mother would open to her a little more but Mohini’s mother always maintains a stoic demeanour. No matter how much Neelima ji tried to peel off the layers, find her pain and comfort her, it always ended in failure. It can’t be easy for a woman to go through this alone, thinks Neelima ji.

  Mohini’s mother doesn’t say anything for a while.

  ‘Main samajh sakti hu (I can understand). I have been though it,’ says Neelima ji.

  Mohini’s mother shakes her head.

  ‘Nahin (no),’ says Mohini’s mother calmly. ‘You can never understand what I’m going through.’

  ‘My son too—’

  Mohini’s mother cuts Neelima ji. She looks at her, and says, ‘Your son had a disease. It was his fate. No one but god could be blamed for it. But my daughter . . .’ Her voice trails.

  It was one of the rare moments Neelima ji saw Mohini’s mother falter. She gets back to her book.

  But Neelima ji knows she’s not reading the book. There’s something on her mind.

  ‘If you want to say something, you can,’ says Neelima ji. ‘Aap mujhse keh sakti hain.’

  Mohini’s mother looks up, tears in her eyes, anger in her voice, and she says what she doesn’t want to say but can’t keep herself from saying. It’s something Ananth’s mother has heard before and has prepared herself to hear over and over again if it lessens Mohini’s mother’s pain. Because it’s the truth.

  ‘My daughter is lying lifeless on the bed because of your son,’ says Mohini’s mother.

  It brings tears to Neelima ji’s eyes.

  There is nothing she can say to that. This is the truth.

  She watches Mohini’s mother go back to her book.

  Neelima ji says a little while later, ‘Please don’t hate my son.’

  Mohini’s mother smiles pitifully. ‘How can I hate him, Neelima ji? Your son . . . he’s my daughter’s life’s work. He’s her crowning achievement. People know her because she saved a boy who couldn’t be saved. Millions of people know her because of him. I can’t hate him but I can wish that things were different. I wish my daughter wasn’t lying lifeless in that bed because she met your son. I can wish that, can’t I?’

  Neelima ji nods and stares at her hands. Neelima ji knew it to be true. If the same had happened the other way around, she would have called Mohini a murderer.

  Her son had almost killed his own saviour.

  ‘You can,’ says Neelima ji.

  Mohini’s mother continues, ‘It’s because of Ananth that my daughter is not here sitting with me. Your son was responsible. Nothing changes that. He put her in the bed he was once in. He destroyed her, Neelima ji. Ananth destroyed her.’

  Amit Modi

  A few weeks ago, Amit Modi had ordered vegetarian biryani to celebrate Gautam’s death. His obsessive tracking of Gautam’s profile had yielded results. He couldn’t find the campaign. He couldn’t believe his eyes. His prayers had come true.

  He had died.

  That bastard had died.

  His happiness gave way to a strange emptiness. His hatred for Gautam had been his companion all this time. Now that he was dead, he started to feel a bit empty. But this emptiness, he could live with. He had thought once Gautam is dead, he would flush that madarchod, motherfucker, clean out of his life. And yet every day, he wondered about Gautam’s death. How was it? Do people like him feel death? He found himself googling after-life theories.

  Even now, out of habit and instinct, every day started and ended with him searching Gautam’s name on WeDonate. Of late, tired of seeing ‘no search results’ he had been browsing through other fundraisers on the website, people who deserved the money they were getting. Sometimes he would even donate a couple of hundreds to one campaign or the other.

  And then . . . he saw him.

  Bhenchod, sisterfucker.

  At first he thought he had gone a bit mad. He thought he had imagined Gautam. But then he was sure. He could recognize the face anywhere, with or without the hair.

  The more he read, the more furious he got. The rage, the loneliness, it all returned in an instant.

  They had changed the name: Gautam had become Ananth.

  He had felt cheated; Gautam wasn’t dead, and WeDonate was making further attempts to save the man who should have been dead a long ago.

  He had mailed everyone at WeDonate in all capitals telling them that what they were doing was unethical and wrong. Only after he had pressed ‘Send’ did he realize that he’d put in a few more expletives than required. He got a reply from Sarita that it wasn’t technically a lie and that he should mind his language.

  That bitch.

  But the rage settled down after he realized that there was only a minor inflow of funds. No matter what WeDonate does, Gautam would have to die. Apart from an anonymous donation of Rs 4 lakh, there hadn’t been a huge contribution. If he knew who the donor was, he would have chased them down.

  He had only started feeling a little better, sleeping a bit more, when in a couple of days, everything came crashing down.

  A couple of mornings ago, Gautam’s campaign had been given a complete overhaul. A new text, and a video. Video? He clicked the link to the video. It had made him lose his mind.

  The video was a complete fucking lie! He knew the girl on screen. She wasn’t Mohini; her name is Anusha Sardana and she was Gautam’s case worker.

  This was unfair.

  It had been two days since he had slept.

  Every few minutes, he refreshed the YouTube page and then the campaign page. The video was beginning to go viral. People were feverishly sharing it like their lives depended on it. Snippets of the video were being shared on Twitter and Instagram and being retweeted and reposted aggressively. Aggregator websites had started doing small articles on it. REMEMBER THE TROLL? LOOK WHERE HE IS NOW! The views were bumping up by thousands, there was no stopping it. There was some nonsense in the video about how Gautam, now Ananth, had been afflicted by a tumour that made him lose empathy, and hence he trolled people. That was fucking nonsense. What kind of a nonsense pretext is that? But the junta was buying into it. They were already forgiving him! When he scrolled through, the comments were all encouraging! People were lauding him, his love story . . .