The new item number is just too crunchy and juicy. Voluptuous moves. Raunchy notes. Suggestive lyrics. It grips the audience in the slanting ambience of throbbing sensuality. The choreographer, the lyricist and the music director have done full justice to the edifying undercurrents of her mystical curves. They have had their own set of imagination about her while working on their respective parts in the musical number. She gyrates in thigh-length, tight, gold-threaded dhoti and beaded choli.
She has perfect figure, finest
curves, very charming features and flawless skin. She flaunts her sexuality
with cast-iron certainty. And millions gasp for breath. She carries the aura of
a goddess around her: the queen of the forbidden--but most sought after--kingdom
of sex. They make as much noise as they do in religious processions with
cheering conches and clapping cymbals.
One thing, but, goes missing in all
this glamorous show. There is a shadowy dot in the incessant bustle of
revealing anecdotes. It’s her innocent laughter and child-like simplicity of
mind. When she smiles, it’s a pure, soft outburst of merriment untouched by any
trace of malice and shrewdness. When she laughs, it also is pure like a child
does when amused at a small, simple thing. But this unsophisticated self is
covered up by her dazzling sex appeal. Even if it shines at all, people prefer
to ignore it. They have more important things to gloat over, to quench the
hunger of mind, the famed Indian hunger of the opposite sex in the head, beyond
all outside taboos and evil talk of dirty acts like sex and all.
She has left swerving trailblazers
among young adults. She has earned quite a bit of name in the industry. She
gets interviews now and then in the mainstream media. On such occasions, she is
her usual unsophisticated self. However, the person on the other end seems on a
watch, like peeping over a fence, guarding himself from some strange reaction
inside. And all, the audience knows and understands the inhibitions running
inside the anchor’s head. They hardly seem to listen to her for their minds are
somewhere else.
The skimpiest dress covering the
barest minimum fuels the fire of repressed passion among the masses. For each
artwork of dance by her watched on the YouTube, they go back to the gray zone
on the Internet and draw out ghosts from her past. Yes, it satisfies the hungry,
invisible ghosts inside the well-behaved, civilised self. They repeatedly prey
upon those video clips where they can see all of her. Not even a shred of
clothing intervening. They gloat over her curves, the act, the ejaculations,
have theirs and come back to watch her feisty item numbers again. Her visuals
in the song and dance videos serving as a mass foreplay to rouse the heaving
humanity to take refuge in the purplish corridors of virtual sex. The storm
over, all is well in the civilised lanes of society. Everybody is clean and
upright. Only she carries the stigma permanently.
The ink of her past appears too
dense. More than the ink’s density, the people seem to just hold onto their
lusty fancy for that particular image. It’s their pride possession. They simply
don’t want to forego the dustbin to dump the ejaculations of their hungry
passion. It gratifies the most overpowering sense, sex. Her item numbers just
fan the fire even more.
It has been a massive effort: the
journey from hard porn to soft porn.
The roles she gets, apart from the
item numbers, involve sex, glamour, sensuous intrigues and extramarital
affairs: the sociable, bridgeable sexuality unlike the unchecked rampancy of
outright naked game.
She knows hers is a humongous task.
The road from being a porn star to the so called normal film star is riddled
with countless obstacles. Sexual zealots fire bullets from both sides. She exists
in the chambers of lust in their ever-greedy minds, so she just cannot escape
like this. They have to hunt her down. They have tunnel-vision about her and
don’t want to see beyond.
Only she knows the amount of effort
she has put in moving from full porn to semi porn. It is like traversing poles
at the opposite ends. From being a naked mannequin in full public glare, you
walk down as they run after you, and you struggle to cover yourself with normal
human sensitivities of respect and being treated like anyone around. People
somehow resent it, throw jibes and try their best to keep their goods to
gratify their lust. So the demonic retinue of the ghosts from her past follows
her like a shadow clings to a person walking in the open on a sunny noon.
She is struggling to come out of the
cloistered corridors, but the path ahead is nothing short of an ominous
labyrinth. She has to dilute the dark ink of the past. Wipe it altogether and
write a new identity, to feel normal like any other actor in the industry. It
is like bringing night and day together: from soft porn to normal roles.
She wants to go further. She is an
artist and works on her acting skills to the last ounce of her perseverance.
She wants the regular roles like any other actress around. But she cannot enter
each and every brain to wipe the pieces of her past lying there, allowing them
to see her present and appreciate her art. The directors who approach her have
ready-made, predetermined formula of a feisty woman, the woman for whom men
fall, creating ripples around. These are feisty tales of sex, murder,
extramarital relations and scores of lusty intrigues. All this but seems to set
up a prelude to the same urge to see her porn movies.
There are trolls as well, the social
media crusaders, who yank reputations to shreds, pour their boiling scorn and
burn the images from safe heavens. There are abuses, lewd remarks, copy-pasted
links of her online porn clips, gross invitations and still more. She no longer
takes them head on and simply blocks them. But the words haunt her for long
hours during the nights when she is practicing her acting skills.
With the big, bossy, disparaging
world buzzing around, she sometimes gets judgmental on her own self, and finds
herself at fault for getting into the porn industry to begin with. But wasn’t
that the launch-pad for crossing the jarring atmospherics of anonymity,
escaping her adolescent nightmare of just getting sold by life without leaving
any mark, and that too with such flawless skin, exotic features and dreamy
contours? It was a search for embryonic possibilities, to give life to her
dreams, to make a mark, to become something
from nothing. And with her
inexperienced self, she jumped into the pool with incisive sincerity. The
towering grandeur of success bathed her flawless skin with pointed flashlights of
riotous recognition. She wrote towering tales of her feats on millions of
craving hearts.
The art of sex! It was a wild river
toppling the mountains, eating the slopes and breaking boulders. Ruthless. Like
it will never stop. But beyond the fury, after falling over a huge cliff face,
in the slow-swirling waters of the after-fall majesty, the man lying sprawled, spent
under her, she laughed so innocently, with such unassuming vivacity that it
instantly changed her persona from an unsparing manhood-slayer to a simple
vulnerable girl.
Even in her movies now one can hear
that innocent trill, like a little bell softly chiming around the neck of a
mountain sheep. A little jaunt on the green slope. And the whiffs of tinkling bell
carried by the gentle air down the valley. It’s but lost in bigger noises. This
little insignia of her vulnerability, this tiny pause in the journey of the
stormy mountain river, this interlude amidst crazily heaving waves is missed by
almost all the spectators.
Most of the men, who comprise the
audience of her current movies, have masturbated some time or the other while watching
the porn clips portraying her as the temptress sucking away all the lust from
the planet. Her super-feminine force raises tornados of infatuation, obsession
and excitement. They own her in that part of their brain which stimulates
desire. They want the sensation to remain stuck in their groins. They fight to
stop it from sneaking into the aesthetic corridors of art and beauty.
The image, with its customary
stimulation, is too big and overpowering. It keeps flashing in their minds as
they watch her in the movies now. They expect the same gratification. While
they ogle at the character in the movie, a different scene is playing in their
minds. Parallel stories interlope: the one on the screen playing the part of
foreplay, and the one in the mind catching up on the more concrete, luscious,
lusty practicality.
The more she tries to prove her
acting credentials, the more they delve deeper into the spools of the Internet
to grab handfuls of lusty morsels to satisfy their hunger. With the scenes from
hard-porn blazing in their minds, they are mildly comfortable as long as her
roles are on the margin of soft-porn.
She is in the office of a famous
director today. There is a word that he is finalising the cast for his upcoming
pot-boiler. For the last two months she has been working on her acting skills in
a famous acting school.
“Well, it will be too revolutionary
to put you in the cast. The role is too, too….,” he hesitates, rolls his eyes
and draws his fingers over his bald pate.
His office is ensconced in luxury. There
is private grandeur and imposing ambience well managed by a famous interior
designer. She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. In the palpable silence, she
can literally feel his chain of thoughts at the time. Her past and that
iron-cast image seem to have seeped and submerged with the pulse of the ongoing
time. Its magnetic force is too strong for her to completely escape out of its
orbit.
He is in the pink of health for a
man in mid-fifties. His eyes are assured like they have the fully authorised
assessment of any situation related to film-making.
“The role is too mainstream for
you,” he says firmly and winks as if to convince himself of his logic.
She gets a pinprick and avoids a
visible shudder. It is a fight to maintain her dignity in the halls of fame
glittering with virtuous testimonies on the walls around.
“I have been working very hard for
this role. Please take an audition, of any duration, of whatever intensity
required for the character,” she tries to stay normal.
“Oh, audition. You know, umn, it’s
more about suitability for the character. Like, all actors have certain
affinity for the role they are most suitable. We simply spot that suitability,”
he is driving it hard.
“But it’s not fair. I deserve a
chance to be tested. I, I…,” her determination is melting, the typecast of her
past is too bold.
She avoids his gaze and is drawn to
the reticent muse of a famous heroine looking at her from some framed portrait
on the wall. Oh, that was the unhurried old world. Times have changed now. Her
brief eerie is broken by his drooling words.
“Why work so hard to bruise your
beautiful skin on a path that is new to you. By doing the kind of roles which
you have done so far, you have earned name, fame and money! You rule their
hearts like none of the actresses around,” he laughs and looks lividly.
“But, you know…,” he cuts her mid
sentence.
He seems to have set up his mind into
the pursuit of a fancy which lies inside all successful men. They have elastic
interpretations of the situation of a woman who wants a part in their success
story. They are naturally inclined to pull it for their advantage. He is no
exception.
“Ok, you can spread more pleasure
than you think. Let’s have an audition,” he leans back in his chair and his
eyes bore into her bosom.
He appears perfectly at ease with
himself, undaunted and untroubled by any doubt about the success of the project
at hand.
“You know, it’s a huge budget film.
A make or break for many. It’s not that easy as you think,” he knits his brows
and appears damn serious.
She takes his serious expression
even more seriously.
“Yaa, I understand. But at least
accept me as one of the competitors. I can prove myself. Hope you watched my
last movie,” she sits erect in her chair like a thorough professional.
He doesn’t remember anything except
the feisty dance on a raunchy number. Her curves swirl around in his
imagination. He closes his eyes and takes his memory still further, away to the
fantasy world of naked, unprohibited revelry. He recalls the minutest details
of her anatomy. The shade of pubic hair, the genitalia, like so many others,
still different, her rampant foray into sucking out all pleasure and spit
triumphantly, and that innocent trill of laughter.
She is surprised, watching him with
eyes closed for a long pause. She breaks the reverie.
“Sir, you know…,” she draws him out
of that other worldly charm.
“Hmmm!” he appears a bit irritated
like someone shaken out of deep sleep midway through a heavenly dream. “You
know it will be too revolutionary,” his eyebrows are drawn taught.
She doesn’t say anything. For his
age he is a strong, fit, confident man. He gets up to take out a file from the
rack by the wall. He is aroused. Possibly he has got up in that state to show
what is going inside him. She can see it. It’s protruding. He doesn’t want to
hide it even, as if wanting to convey the message. She feels insecure, even sad
and looks resignedly. On an instinct, she adjusts her knee-length skirt as if
to protect herself.
The office air hangs in suspension
as if jolted out of its senses by a startling, telling remark.
He gets back into his chair, more
relaxed now, sure that his arousal has been seen. The message is directly
passed. His bald head is glowing purple red.
“You know, it’s a fight. This world
of actors and actresses. Specially for the big banner movies. It requires
talent, skills, luck as well, connections, image and even personal inclinations
and choices,” he stops for her to absorb the bitter truth.
She feels saliva in her mouth and
swallows it nervously. The deep hum of sadness surfaces in her big eyes.
“You know ambitious young actresses
go to any length to grab the top spot. And of course there are gentlemen who
welcome such dedication,” he smiles, staring deep into her bluish-brown eyes.
“Well! I, I am ready for …audition,”
she mumbles.
She is losing confidence rapidly.
“Then go for the audition,” he
stands up.
He has already unzipped himself and
the audition phallus is out. It’s an open invitation. A simple give and take. A
short audition and the role for her.
He seems helpless. He is shivering
out of sheer excitement forced by the raw, scandalous adventure of
transgression into her modesty, of being able to propel his naked instinct
beyond the fence of law and decorum. He has transposed the dream onto the plain
of reality. It’s like grafting himself as the male character in all those plays
of naked flesh.
Just the mere sight of it fills her
mouth with the typical taste of it. She has done it many times in the past,
with such gripping greed and madness that it felt like she was out there to
drain all masculinity of its coffers of thirst forever.
He is shaking and imploring her to
drain him out of his misery, of his frustration born of unquenchable thirst.
“Come on! After this there is no
stopping for you. You will choose your roles,” he is gasping for breath.
There is a chance for her to be an
actress, a real actress like anyone around. It’s tempting. She is holding the chair
armrests very tightly. But something holds her back. She has been working too
hard, late into the nights to push herself further to come out of this
soft-porn mould. And the deal seems like going back again into the past to
redeem future.
She has a struggle ahead she knows
it. She is determined to face it. She is not ready to go into the future with
the life-support of the past she is cutting from her life. It seems
unjustified, even unethical to both the past and the future.
She gets up and turns around the
table to approach him. He is on the verge of fainting, with all those wildest
fancies just about to clutch him into the heavens of ecstasy. He feels her
touch on the protruding phallus of his life-long hunger. Helpless he surrenders
and closes his eyes.
He wakes up to the taut sound of his
trouser-zip. She has safely put his strayed self into the safety of his pants
and closed the doors on it. He cannot believe it.
“Do you even know what are you
doing! It’s over for you!” he flies into a blinding rage.
“Yes sir, this project might be
over. But not all is lost for me. I have a struggle ahead and would prefer to
work over months, even years, instead of taking five-minute short-cuts to reach
there. That will take me back to where I started from,” she is very calm, and
looks at him with unoffended, sad eyes.