Muzaffar Ali stared at the face of his dead wife.
He had stared at this face for 25 years. The face had remained smooth. A tiny crease where the nose touched the forehead. But the lips seemed to be turned to one side. It seemed to show distaste.
The neighbour’s wife, Pramila, put a consoling arm on his shoulder.
“It was a sudden heart attack,” he said. “She was only 55.”
“Yes Muzaffar Bhai,” said Pramila. “She had been so healthy. What a shock!”
Muzaffar knew that. Pramila and Ruksana were always in and out of each other’s houses. They gossiped about their husbands and the people of the other apartments.
“It is the will of Allah,” Muzaffar said, looking at Ruksana again.
Friends, relatives, neighbours, colleagues, and strangers, too, had dropped in. People stood with bent heads and palms joined in front of the body.
Muzaffar nodded as he heard the words of commiseration. Because of a pain in his lower back, he sat on a chair, with a small pillow placed next to the lower end of his spine. His two sons interacted with the guests, providing tea and coffee to them. One lived in St Louis in America and the other in Melbourne.
‘Ruksana has brought them up well,’ felt Muzaffar. ‘They are polite.’ His sons’ families had not come because of school and jobs.
His wife had passed away, but the veteran Bollywood scriptwriter was facing death in his career.
“Sir, this is outdated,” said one thirty-something director. He held Muzaffar’s script with both hands. “People are not interested in village stories. Young people want a lot of action, sex and hi-jinks. Music has to be rap or hip-hop or techno.”
Muzaffar had an expressionless face, even as he pressed his fingers into his palm. He knew trends changed in films. He had been in it long enough to know that. New heroes, new concepts, new ways of shooting. And, not to forget, new writers, who were keen to edge out the older writers to lessen the competition.
Muzaffar was not the only one in this situation. Other scriptwriters of his age were staring at walls. They did not bother to write. But Muzaffar, the most successful in his generation, had a writing itch.
He knew that till he died, he would write something every day. His instruments included his beloved Parker pen, Sulekha ink, and A4 size paper. Muzaffar stapled the papers only when he had
completed a story. Otherwise, he depended on the page numbers which he inscribed on the top right-hand corner.
“Write by hand,” he had told younger writers. “There is a neurological connection between the brain and the hand. Excellent stuff comes out. You can type it up later.”
But these young writers…they smiled and went back to their laptops and iPads. “Outdated old man” is what some of them said about Muzaffar behind his back.
But it didn’t matter to Muzaffar what they thought. He would not give up. He felt he should be ready when the tide changed. But nobody knew how long that would take. Muzaffar had a fear he could be dead by then.
At the peak of his career, he had several hit films based on his scripts. In those times, Muzaffar went to many parties. He puffed on Cuban cigars and drank Johnnie Walker whiskey. Many starlets approached him with fluttering eyelashes. They pushed their cleavages into his face and asked him to recommend him to directors.
Like most industry people, he took them to bed. But unlike the others, if he felt the girl had talent, he would recommend them. A few got breaks. They were always grateful to him.
One or two told him they could lift their family out of poverty from the money they earned in the industry. Since he had not seen them on the screen, he assumed they had become high-class call girls.
Of course, in these times of the #MeToo movement, it was a perilous time for actors. One tweet or a Facebook or Instagram post by an angry young woman and their career would implode.
Innocence was no longer presumed until guilt was proven. It was the other way around.
Muzaffar knew the police, based on a complaint, could arrest the stars. Somebody told him it came under Section 498A of the Indian Penal Code. But the police played both sides. When they registered the case, the police would inform the star. They compelled the star to pay a bribe. This was divided this between the woman who filed the accusation and the cops.
The stars had no option. They could not afford to bring shame to their wives and families, and ruin their public image.
He wondered how men in Bollywood tackled sexual temptations these days. A senior producer told him the starlets had to sign legal agreements that mentioned the physical relationship was voluntary. But he was not sure whether this was true or a rumour.
But he had read that American basketball superstar Michael Jordan kept similar agreements in his limousine. When he picked up women from a bar, they had to sign the agreement before proceeding towards his mansion. ‘Smart guy,’ thought Muzaffar.
Insecurity also plagued the stars. He had heard of an ageing superstar who, after picking up the ‘Best Actor’ award at the annual Filmfare function, had flown to London and went under the knife of one of England’s best cosmetic surgeons.
Some stars took steroids, apart from weightlifting, to get six-pack bodies. Others went on protein-rich diets. One star installed a mistress in a nearby house so that he could feel and look young. The wife agreed because she enjoyed the credit card her husband had given her.
What about the industrialist who enjoyed sex with young boys?
The pimps always took the boys to the house. Muzaffar wondered whether his wife knew. These pimps knew the danger. If they tried to blackmail the industrialist, they would end up as dead bodies floating in nearby ponds or rivers.
‘Wow,’ thought Muzaffar. ‘When you have too much money, fame, or power, you get into kinky sex. Sick.’
He knew of many actors and actresses who had faded away. The point is when your career is over in your forties or fifties, what do you do after that? It is difficult to embark on another career.
Fans would approach them in public places and ask, “Sir, when is your next film coming out?” The questioner knew very well that there were no roles to be had. This was the sadistic pleasure they got in plunging a knife into a man who was once up but was sliding downward.
But there were stars who lasted for a long time.
In Bollywood, there were people like Dilip Kumar and Amitabh Bachchan. In Hollywood, there were people like Robert De Niro, Al Pacino and Tom Hanks. They arrived on the set on time, learned their lines, and behaved well.
Muzaffar remembered a video he had seen of De Niro. In it, the star said, “When things are going well, be calm. Don’t think you are on top of the world. You always got to be wary. I have seen people come. I have seen people go. You should take what is good in your life and move forward cautiously. Everybody’s dispensable.”
Muzaffar had liked the video so much, especially the last line, that he had seen it many times. This was as true as it could get. And it was true for all professions, not only the film industry.
Muzaffar never imagined that one day his career would end. He had thought his success would continue forever. A friend told him he was lucky to have a successful run that lasted 20 years.
He knew of many scriptwriters who had one hit followed by a string of flops. Thereafter, everybody avoided them like as if they have leprosy. The industry people were superstitious. They felt these scriptwriters brought bad luck. Many of them lived in penury. Most ended up as alcoholics. A couple of them committed suicide.
Muzaffar realised that in a creative industry like films, it was very difficult to have a long career. What you thought was important was no longer relevant after a few years. The stories you wrote no longer had resonance. The audience kept getting younger.
Like the other members of the industry, Muzaffar drank and smoked. But he did it in moderation. He had the mental discipline to control himself.
He gave his two sons an excellent education. They now lived prosperous lives abroad. But they did not send him any money. And Muzaffar was too proud to ask for it.
What a different life he had compared to them.
Muzaffar was born into a poor family in a village in Uttar Pradesh, one of India’s poorest states. Lawlessness was rife. People shot at each other as and when they felt like it.
His father, Halim, was a farmer. Income was erratic. It all depended on the monsoon. If it was a good monsoon, the harvest was good. There was enough for the year.
But if the rain played truant, he could hear the sounds of his father weeping at night. The consoling voice of his mother, Fatima, followed this. There were no irrigation facilities. The government was absent. They provided nothing.
Everything depended on God. Many times, Muzaffar felt God was too busy. Billions of people were praying to Him with billions of requests. He didn’t have the time to listen to every prayer.
His mother was a homemaker. So, she did not bring money to the household. His father had encouraged her to work, but she lacked the confidence. Fatima was afraid to venture out. It was only near the end of her life, after her husband had passed away, that she told Muzaffar about this.
One night, when she was ten years old, she had gone to the fields to relieve herself. A youth spotted her. He was drunk. He slapped her and violated her. Muzaffar felt as if his chest had collapsed.
Now how to take revenge? Who was the man? Was he alive? His mother could not even remember the face. Was it a neighbour? Or a visitor from another village? How to know? The man may be dead. Or he could be a doting grandfather?
‘In Uttar Pradesh, many people escaped punishment after committing horrific crimes,’ he thought. ‘There was no justice.’
Once he remembered a man in a tea shop saying aloud, “The Constitution of India does not exist in UP.”
‘How true,’ Muzaffar thought. His father ground out his life. His grandfather ground out his life. And he was sure his great grandfather and forefathers must have all ground out their lives. In India, you cannot move from A to B.
The caste system, politicians, police and the bureaucracy caused all the blocks. You stayed where you are: poor, hopeless and miserable. Used as vote banks only.
From an early age, Muzaffar liked to study. He got good marks. He enjoyed writing. Muzaffar would fill up his notebook with short stories and poems. His father paid the school fees for him and his elder brother and sister till class 8. Then the rains played truant. There was no money to pay the fees.
One day, Halim met a man outside a mosque after Friday prayers. Naseer was in his thirties. A clean-shaven man with sideburns. He had come to see his relatives. He worked in an international IT firm in Oman. Halim pleaded with him for support for his children’s education. Muzaffar did not know what struck a chord in Naseer.
Naseer could have realised, through his own success, how education can transform the fortunes of a family. Or it could have been the desperation in Halim’s eyes. But Naseer promised to fund the education of his children. Thus Muzaffar and his siblings studied till college.
His brother and sister did postgraduate degrees and got good jobs. His brother settled in Delhi while his sister, after marriage, settled in Chandigarh.
As for Muzaffar, he stunned his family one day by saying he wanted to be a star in Bollywood. The family laughed all at once. It sounded to Muzaffar like a roar you hear in a football stadium, when a striker scores a goal.
“You are short,” said his mother.
“And dark,” said his sister.
He said, “I have to give it a shot.”
And so they agreed that he, being the youngest, could pursue his dreams. So, like millions of star-struck youth, he embarked on a train from the capital, Lucknow. He was in second class, non-air-conditioned, the breeze blowing in hot air throughout the day. It took 30 hours to cross 1376 kms.
In Mumbai, he rented a room in a lodge in the Dadar area. It had a narrow bed. A chair. A window overlooking a slum.
On the first day, he relaxed by wandering near the place he stayed. He drank coconut juice and ate Mumbai’s famous sandwich, the vada pav. He liked the tangy taste: it had mashed boiled potato, with spices and chillies added to it. It was inside two sliced buns. And they added chutney.
The next morning, he travelled by the local commuter train to Mehboob Studio in Bandra. It was only 8 kms away. He noticed that the main gate was closed. There was a watchman in a blue uniform standing outside. There were several young men standing nearby.
He realised they were like him. People from small-town India with dreams in their eyes. Muzaffar realised it would be difficult to get inside.
He approached the watchman.
“Bhaiyya,” he said in a polite voice. “At what time does your shift end?”
“Why do you ask?” the man said, his eyes narrowing.
“Sir, I am new to Mumbai, that’s why I asked,” he said. “I want to know the working hours in case I get a job.”
The watchman continued to stare at him. He looked towards the other young men. But none of them were looking at him. They were all trying to figure out a way to get in. He turned to look at Muzaffar.
“I come to work at 8 am, and I am here till 5 pm,” the man said.
“Thank you,” Muzaffar said and moved away.
He looked at his watch. 11 a.m. ‘Six hours more,’ he thought. ‘Might as well go back.’
So he returned to his lodge, took out a Hindi novel from his suitcase and began reading.
At 4.30 pm, he returned. He waited some distance from the gate.
When the watchman gave his place to a colleague, he followed him. It seemed to Muzaffar as if he was heading towards the station. Muzaffar speeded up and came abreast.
“Hello Bhaiyya,” he said.
The watchman turned and looked at him.
“Didn’t I see you in the morning?” he said.
“Yes,” said Muzaffar, as he gave a brief smile.
They exchanged names. The watchman said he was called Ramesh Bhendre.
“What do you want?” Ramesh said.
“I want to be a star,” said Muzaffar.
The watchman stopped, looked Muzaffar up and down and broke into a laugh. And it never stopped.
Muzaffar bit his lips.
Ramesh used a handkerchief to wipe his tears.
“What is your height?” he said.
“Five feet one inch,” said Muzaffar.
“The heroines are taller than you. What will you do? Stand on a stool and act?” Ramesh said and laughed again.
Muzaffar clutched his chin. ‘Oh God, have I made a mistake?’ he thought.
The watchman continued, “So many young men come to Mumbai to try their luck. They stand outside Mehboob Studio. What happens? Nothing happens. You need contacts. During the time of Dev Anand and Dharmendra, you could make it with no contacts. Remember, in the 1960s and 70s, people who worked in the industry were not that respected. So fewer people tried to enter it. Now, there are too many aspirants.”
Tears appeared in Muzaffar’s eyes.
Ramesh noticed it. He put his hand on Muzaffar’s arm and led him to a small hotel. He ordered tea for both of them.
“In your hometown, did you act in any plays? Did you attend any acting classes? Do you know anything about technique?”
Muzaffar shook his head.
“You are a fool,” Ramesh said. “Look, I am going to be honest. You have the least chance of success. Take the next train and go back.”
“I can’t,” said Muzaffar.
“Why not?” said Ramesh.
“The villagers will laugh at me till I die,” he said.
This statement seemed to hit Ramesh in his solar plexus.
“I can understand that,” he said. “I also come from a village in Bihar”
They sipped their tea in silence.
Car horns sounded. A truck emitted a blast of black smoke. Voices rose in the restaurant as conversations became arguments.
Finally, Ramesh said, “This is my suggestion. Join the technical side. Look to be a helper on a set. Then move up. Get an assistant director role. Work with a director for 15 years, and learn how to direct. Develop your contacts. Then you might get a chance to direct a film.”
Muzaffar shook his head.
“It doesn’t excite me. I don’t want to waste 15 years being somebody’s slave,” he said.
Ramesh did not take offence. Instead, he tapped his forehead with the tip of his fingers.
“Can you write?” he said.
“Yes,” Muzaffar exclaimed. Brightness flooded his face for the first time since he had arrived in Mumbai. “I love writing.”
“Come,” said Ramesh, as he stood up. He went to the counter and paid the bill.
Ramesh led Muzaffar to the station.
He said, “Get down at Andheri West, three stations away. Go to Grace restaurant where all the scriptwriters meet. Make your contacts there. Somebody will be kind enough to teach you the writing tricks.”
And so Muzaffar got down at Andheri West. Ramesh had several stations to cross before he could get down at Virar.
Muzaffar asked for Grace Restaurant.
“It’s in Four Bungalows locality,” said a passerby.
“How far is it?” said Muzaffar.
“Three kilometres,” said the man.
Muzaffar walked the distance. He needed to conserve the little money he had. Of course, his brother said he would send money as and when needed by postal order.
Muzaffar walked, flapping his leather sandals on the pavement. Now and then, he had to ask for directions. This was in the pre mobile phone era.
After half an hour, he arrived at the restaurant. Muzaffar went up the three steps and entered a large hall. There were tables and chairs everywhere. Several men were sitting around. They had cups of tea in front of them and plates of pakoras, samosas, and an occasional vada pav. Many were unshaven. Some wore juba and kurtas, while others had shirts and trousers.
The buzz of conversation sounded like several mosquitoes whining in his ears. Muzaffar stood and stared. He did not know what to do.
Then he saw on one side, near a window, a solitary man sipping a cup of tea. He had grey stubble on his face and bags under his eyes.
Muzaffar observed that the man seemed isolated from the rest of the crowd. He sat down opposite him.
The man had the beginnings of a smile.
“Do I know you?” he said.
“No Sir, I have come from UP,” said Muzaffar.
“You want to be a star?” he said.
“No Sir, a scriptwriter,” said Muzaffar.
“You have come to the right place,” the man said, gesturing with his hand. “All these people are scriptwriters, including me.”
“Sir, your good name?” said Muzaffar.
“Abdullah Khan,” said the man.
“Sir, I have heard of you,” Muzaffar said, an earnest smile on his face.
“I am happy about that,” said Abdullah.
Abdullah paused and said, “It’s been a while since someone turned one of my scripts into a film.”
“I am sorry to hear this,” said Muzaffar.
Abdullah waved his hand as if he was fending off a mosquito.
“That is part of the risk of being a scriptwriter,” he said.
The waiter came.
Muzaffar ordered tea.
“Have you learned scriptwriting?” Abdullah asked.
Muzaffar shook his head.
“I am not surprised,” said Abdullah. “Everybody wants to learn to act.”
“I love writing,” said Muzaffar as the server brought the tea on a tray.
“Good,” said Abdullah. “You remind me of myself when I started out.”
Abdullah told Muzaffar that he grew up in Ratnagiri, 334 kms from Mumbai. His father was a schoolteacher and an avid reader. That was how Abdullah became a reader. Then his father encouraged him to write.
He did so and began getting published in the local newspapers. But instead of becoming a journalist, the magic of Tinsel Town lured him.
So he came to Mumbai and did the rounds of the studios. Since he did not want to become a star, not everybody threw him out. Some directors were receptive. There was a shortfall of writers.
So he read books on the art of scriptwriting and produced a script, which a director liked. Someone made a movie. It did well at the box office. Abdullah’s career began.
“I will teach you the basics,” said Abdullah. “Come to my house tomorrow at 10 a.m. It is in this locality.”
“Okay Sir,” Muzaffar said.
Abdullah pulled out a napkin from a stash kept at the middle of the table in a holder. He wrote his address on a paper napkin and included his phone number.
Muzaffar folded it, kept it in his pocket and left the restaurant.
As he walked back to the station, he thanked Ramesh in his mind for his advice. Muzaffar could sense a door opening.
The next day, Muzaffar arrived at Abdullah’s apartment. It was a writer’s place. Books on bookcases and on the floor. Files, cigarette packets and matchboxes are on the table. Ash in ashtrays and on the floor.
Abdullah had no children. His wife was a teacher. So only he was at home, along with a maid who worked in the kitchen. Muzaffar could hear the clang of vessels.
The 58-year-old immediately began talking about the various aspects of a screenplay. Around two hours every day. Then Muzaffar left. He had lunch at a roadside hotel. Then he went home and assimilated all what had been told. He began writing scenes. Soon, he started on a screenplay. His brother sent money every month.
He showed Abdullah his work. From the beginning, Abdullah was appreciative.
“It seems you have a natural talent for this, especially dialogues,” he said.
For six months, this went on.
Then Abdullah suggested they work on a script together. It was while working on this project that Muzaffar understood the intricacies of writing a script.
After eight months, they finished the script. A producer bought it. They made a film. And it did well at the box office. This marked the return of Abdullah to the market after a hiatus.
To his credit, Abdullah shared the income 50-50. So, Muzaffar got good money, a little over a year after coming to Mumbai. He rented a flat, bought furniture and settled down. His family congratulated him on the phone. They had seen the film and felt thrilled to see his name in the credits. Muzaffar knew this was all thanks to Abdullah. ‘A good man,’ he thought.
They worked on two more scripts. That also did well.
“You are my good luck charm,” said a smiling Abdullah to Muzaffar as he lit a cigarette. Much needed money came to the Abdullah household. But unknown to Muzaffar, Abdullah was in stage 4 lung cancer. His health declined. After a few weeks, he could no longer lift a pen.
One day, he told Muzaffar, “When you came to me, I felt Allah was instructing me to help you. And I am glad I did.”
Muzaffar had tears in his eyes as he pressed his mentor’s hand.
Abdullah no longer had the strength to get up from the bed.
Muzaffar came every day. He stayed in the bedroom and worked on a script that they had been working on and looked after Abdullah. His wife, Mumtaz, thanked him for his kindness.
Abdullah lay on the bed for hours together. In the end, someone took him to an assisted living centre. They applied morphine so that he would not have to suffer too much. The end came finally.
After a few months, Muzaffar completed the script. He got it sold.
And he gave the entire money to Mumtaz. “I will never forget the kindness that Abdullah Bhai showed me,” he said. “Bhai showed me the way. I met many producers and directors through him.”
Mumtaz hugged him and murmured, ‘Thank you, thank you.’
And he remained in touch with Mumtaz. Occasionally, he would give her money. Soon, Muzaffar wrote scripts of his own and some of them became blockbuster hits. He had made a name for himself. He tasted success for the next twenty years.
Then the films based on his scripts started flopping. The calls by producers and actors became fewer. Until one day it stopped altogether. That was the way of the industry.
Zafar, the son who lived in St. Louis, patted his shoulders. And Muzaffar’s reverie broke.
“Upa, it is time for the burial,” he said.
Muzaffar stood up. A group of men held the four legs of the cot, on which lay Ruksana, and took it down the stairs.
Muzaffar walked along the road while prayers were being said. Other mourners followed him.
Worry had creased his face in the past few months. He was running out of money. Muzaffar had to break his fixed deposits one after the other. He never imagined that such a situation would arise. But he was reluctant to ask his sons. Neither did they ask him whether he needed any money.
On a recent morning, he did something completely out of character. When he got up, he saw his wife was sleeping next to him. They had a loveless marriage. She had turned away from him because she knew he was sleeping with other women. From a loving marriage, it turned into a partnership. She ran the household efficiently. Ruksana had been a homemaker all along.
Muzaffar got on top of her, placed a pillow over her face and pressed hard. He could feel her body struggling as she tried to push him away. But each time she did so, he felt a renewed surge of strength. In the end, it took about half an hour before she stopped breathing.
Muzaffar got off the bed and sat on the edge, his face in his hands. He could feel his entire body trembling. He couldn’t believe what he had done. But some deep, animalistic force had arisen in him and he seemed helpless in its power.
That there was a Rs 70 lakh life insurance policy in the name of his wife may have been the reason. And he was the sole beneficiary.
Muzaffar called his neighbour Dr. Homi Batliwala, who was the same age as him. When he entered the house, Muzaffar said, “It seems Ruksana has suffered a heart attack.”
The doctor checked for the pulse. Then he lifted the eyelids and pointed a torch at the pupils. “It seems so,” Dr. Batliwala said. And he wrote out the death certificate. It was as simple as that.
Everything went smoothly after that.
At the kabristan in New Mahakali Nagar, they lowered the white shroud into the ground. Soon, workers covered the grave with mud using long spades.
Muzaffar and his sons returned home.
Muzaffar would wait for a few months because he did not want to arouse any suspicion. Then he would cash the policy. His wife was already in Jannat (paradise).
Soon, on earth Muzaffar would be in financial paradise.
(Published in kitaab.org)
https://kitaab.org/2025/04/12/short-story-when-the-credits-stopped-rolling-by-shevlin-sebastian/
