Love blossoms on roller-coaster passage to India

E PULL into Film City and park in front of a dilapidated star trailer. There’s a satellite dish hanging off its bracket on the roof.

We are led to the trailer door. A dark-skinned man with navy slacks and a white shirt opens it for us. He looks like Homer Simpson’s boss: short, squat-faced with a sharp nose.

His eyes are fixed on us like a crow that’s just seen something shiny. We step up into the icy airconditioned trailer. Kiran Cooper beckons me to go first. There is a strong scent of sandalwood incense burning. As I pull myself up onto the first stair, my eyes are at floor level so that I see his feet first. They are in steel callipers. I’m surprised. I take another step. He is standing in long cream cotton trousers that drop in folds around his heavy thicksoled shoes. His shirt is also cream and long with a high collar and a long powder blue and navy paisley silk scarf that falls along either side of him catching on a pair of crutches in either hand. He holds himself up, balancing easily on one crutch to free his right hand and shake mine.

He reaches out to me. I am on his floor level now. My hand is in his hand and all I can do for the first few seconds is stare deep and long, long and deep. He is hunched but tall and very striking. I look down disturbed.

His electrifying, green crocodile eyes are not a common feature in Indian men. I force myself to look up again at his penetrating gaze, the strong contrast of green against brown skin makes me uncomfortable but I’m transfixed by their demand for attention. Black rings outline his irises, giving him a wild look like the photograph of the Afghan girl taken by Steve McCurry.

He is neither Asian-looking nor European but a subtle combination of the two. His eminence wraps around me like a fuzzy blanket on a stormy day. Kiran Cooper is behind me. He leans past my frozen form to shake Bly’s hand.

“Good Morning, Bly, it’s been a while hasn’t it?”

“Too long, Mr Cooper. I think time for you and I to make a feature film together.”

Bly’s eyes come straight back to mine.

“And you, madame, to whom do I owe the pleasure?” His voice is deep and seductive. I fumble. “Do you speak English Ma’am?” “Aaa … Sorry, yes, Sir, um … Bly … Avi … bbb.” F**k, this name!

“This is Gené, Bly, she will be my assistant on this job.”

Kiran Cooper squeezes my shoulders, steadying me from behind. I am immobilised.

I have never felt like this before, about anyone. What is wrong with me? He gestures for me and Kiran Cooper to sit on his tattered sofa, yellowing sponge escaping bulbously where the fabric has worn thin. His clothes and this trailer are remnants of a past enriched with plenty of money. All that is left of it is here in front of me, bleached by a scorching sun.

I sit quickly. My legs are jelly. He lowers himself with his crutches on the sofa opposite me. We stare at each other. His face seems unnaturally bloated. Maybe it’s the medication, Cortisone for pain or a bad lifestyle, alcohol and pills? Coke bloat even?

“And where do you come from, Gené?” “South Africa.” “That’s a very nice place. I have been, often. Are you from Cape Town, Gené?” “Yes, I am.” “Acha! Mind-blowing! That’s fantastic news yaar.”

W“Subsidised by the government. He took the press to court and won the case saying that social media had caused his trauma. He gets them ‘on the house’.”

Soon we are driving and Kiran Cooper is speaking, but I am still flying. “He’s had a big effect on you, aa … hasn’t he?”

I blink hard, my heart is still racing. I swallow hard. The magic goes down to my stomach and flutters gently, keeping me electrified and buzzing. He reads my thoughts.

“He is a real forgotten star, Gené. That’s what it feels like to be in the presence of a real star.”

“Sir, his effect on me makes no sense. I have never seen or heard of him before. My stars are people that I have followed from Hollywood, George Clooney, Brad Pitt, not this balding, cripple old man whom I never knew even existed.”

“I know what you are trying to say, aa … even the people of India have forgotten what a real actor should be. Today everyone thinks that a super star is a bulging muscled gangster with zero acting talent and silicone gels stuffed into any sagging part of his anatomy that may reveal signs of ageing. You see, my dear, he is the true meaning of forgotten talent. All because his polio has got the better of him. Just because his legs don’t work so good no more does not mean he cannot aa … act, but here in Bollywood aa … you see my dear it’s all about the dance and not the act. “What happened to him?” “So many things aa … his first big problems started aa … many years back. He contracted polio as a child. When Jonas Salk’s polio vaccine was introduced to India there was this frightening concept among our people that the polio drops were part of a conspiracy to sterilise their children and they were refusing to let them be vaccinated.

Sadly, Bly was one of the children who got the virus. He was lucky and did not get it as bad as some children. It only left him with a severe limp. He did not let his disability get to him yaar, he aa … became a fantastic dancer and started acting.

He was good and his life was good. He married and had two beautiful children. But one day his luck turned in a very sad way aa … he was visiting a friend with his 2-yearold son and 3-year-old daughter. The friend had a big swimming pool. The children were outside playing on their tricycles. You know those tricycles where you aa … strap the kids’ feet in so they can’t fall off ?” “Yes.” “Well, Bly went into the house for a split-second with his friend and the kids were gone.” “Gone where?” “Aa … they both rode straight, aa … into the swimming pool one after the other, poor things. Aa … they sank, silently drowning at the bottom of the pool, their feet strapped to the pedals.” “Oh my god and then?” “Aa … By the time Bly found them it was too late.” “That’s the most horrific …” “It is my dear, aa … and after that Bly could not cope. His marriage ended and he entered a dark place, a place that you do not wish on anyone. He adopted a lifestyle of selfpity and self-destruction, a reliance to alcohol and bad things, very bad things. His career has never recovered. He is too consumed with sorrow and cannot come to terms with the loss of his kids or his wife. It’s as if he’s waiting to die. I am hoping this game show will give him what he needs to turn what’s left of his career around.

“Sadly, aa … with age and a very bad lifestyle he suffers from a condition called post-polio syndrome.” “What is it?” “Aa … it’s a condition that affects polio survivors years after the initial acute attack. In his case, from so much neglect he is experiencing severe muscle weakness in new areas of his body. That is why he has gone from just being left with a limp to now, aa … having to rely completely on crutches. There are days when he has to remain in a wheelchair, especially when he gets tired. Hence the loss of work. No one wants to see a cripple dancing in the Swiss Alps or against the sky line of Manhattan. His current state is just not conducive to the genre of Bollywood film.” We return to the office to prepare for the shoot. The producer calls me into his cabin. “I believe you’ve met our actor.” “I did?” “And? Did he scare you? They say he’s gone completely mad in his old age?”

“‘No, he made such an impression on me.”

“That forgotten old man? Are you smoking something?”

“No. No one has ever made me feel the way I did today. I became numb and jelly-like. His green crocodile eyes pierced through me.”

“Really, did I not have the same effect on you in Cape Town?”

He is in a good mood and has taken it for what it is. I am getting very attached to the life the producer has to offer. My feelings toward him are growing and suddenly the idea of having to share him makes me jealous. I am becoming reliant and dependent on him.

“Here, sweets, I got you something to help improve your picture taking.” The producer pulls a long Canon box from his desk drawer and places it in front of me. A new zoom lens. I’ve never been able to afford a lens like this.

Later that night, I am in my element as we drive home. I lie on the back seat staring at the sky through my new lens. I have my starry night canvas inside my soul and it sparks, glistens and glows, igniting me forward.