The World Through Your Eyes

Synopsis

To most, actor Samar Khanna has the most aspirational life- a flourishing career in showbiz, the looks and prowess of a modern-day Apollo. An alumnus of Kolkata's JU, he rises to fame as a thespian in college, before finally cracking the formula for a successful Bollywood career. All the plays he's performed in as a lead actor happen to be scripted by elusive playwright 'Futsunushi' who in reality happens to be fellow student Swapnil - introverted and idealistic, and coincidentally Samar's doppelganger. As Samar makes it big in the film industry, Swapnil joins him in Mumbai, working as his body double. 

The story begins with the COVID 19 lockdown in Kolkata, India in March 2020, as Swapnil sits in one part of town and reminisces the past. Samar, on the other hand, is relieved to be home, but is also anxious about his partner Damini, a graduate student in the States and an acclaimed film-writer, stranded because of the flight restrictions. In a flashback montage, Swapnil recalls how Samar and he used to be active in the student politics circuit in Kolkata, both left hardliners and firmly anti-fascist. Samar was always the charismatic figure, the crowd pleaser who delivered speeches, while Swapnil would draft them, supporting him quietly. However, when Samar secures a nomination for Students' Union Secretary, and proceeds to win the election, he refuses to acknowledge Swapnil's contribution. 

In the present day, Samar's agent Aarti and Damini turn worried as Samar doesn't take her calls. Samar, meanwhile is spotted by paparazzi camera strolling far from his home without a mask or security protocols in place. As the images go viral, Samar faces trolling on the Internet and is fined by the police for violating the curfew and lockdown regulations. Samar retreats to anti depressants to deal with his anxiety. 

 Swapnil meanwhile wakes up again in his dingy apartment, overlooking Tollygunge and the studios there. He casts his mind back to the time Samar had been asked to audition for his first feature film in Mumbai. Due to the audition date clashing with one of their plays, Samar had chosen the former, and left for Mumbai, causing the severe losses and the sponsors humiliating the troupe. Swapnil had been devastated and resolved to shun his friend, but within a week, Samar's elder sister died of an accident, compelling Swapnil to return to support his friend. 

As the years passed, Samar's persona grew larger than life. The man who had earlier been so deeply invested in nuanced cinema and theatre had now succumbed to the trappings of mindless, unintelligent commercial cinema and endorsements just to earn the 'mainstream' tag. Samar also begins to find comfort in Damini's company and she and Aarti become his confidantes, forcing him to cut back on the time he spends with Swapnil. Aarti also eggs on Samar to subtly endorse and promote the ruling government and its programmes, though Samar had vehemently disagreed with their communal-undertone-laced politics and their sexist, casteist policies during his days as a student activist. However, Swapnil maintains communication with his friends from his Student Union days, one day showing up at one of their rallies as a show of solidarity to protest the custodial deaths of two of their comrades. Onlookers mistake him for Samar, and as the images go viral, Samar is quick to deny his presence and disassociate from the rally, denouncing the protestors as 'anarchists' and claiming that the photos were morphed by mischievous elements. Swapnil is hurt by Samar's radical volte face and his distancing himself from his core principles. 

In the present, Samar is still living with his parents at his Kolkata home, basking in the appreciation and good reviews from one of his latest movies that released on OTT. One film journalist who happens to be tracking Samar's career right from his theatre days asks him about 'Futsunushi' whereabouts. Samar nonchalantly claims that he himself is Futsunushi. Even as Samar receives accolades across the media and his fans for his brilliance as a playwright, Swapnil is deeply hurt by this betrayal, and in his anguish, he slits his own wrists, trying to bleed himself to death. 

Samar wakes up in a hospital bed, his arms tied to his sides. Outside, his family and Aarti are informed by his psychiatrist that he suffers from disassociative identity disorder, Swapnil being none but his alter ego. Samar's ruthless ambition, his transition to showbiz, the near-unscrupulous means he had to adopt on his way to success, his compulsion to ally with political stances that didn't align with his principles had frustrated Samar and his guilt had caused him to invent an imaginary friend, the idea of 'Swapnil' consolidating itself more effectively each time Samar suffered a blow in life and he turned to his friend for comfort. 

The book ends with Samar sipping on coffee in a hotel room, as he chooses to isolate himself from his parents, as he can no longer trust himself, when Damini arrives. While Samar strongly insists that they end their relationship, citing how he had turned violent, Damini staunchly refuses. She tells Samar she suffers from bipolar disorder too, and while her initial reflex was denial, she is gradually learning to accept and embrace her imperfections. In a seemingly throwaway comment, she tells Samar that she finishes her post graduate course in a matter of three months and besides securing an offer to write for a guest column in the Washington Post, she has also managed to rent am apartment, complaining that it's too large for her. Samar smiles at her, telling her he could find her the perfect flatmate, thus accepting her invitation to join her in the US. 

Chapter 1: 

Part I:

That evening, Kolkata's sky was a luxuriant shade of purple, liberally streaked with hues of orange and red. It'd just rained, and the petrichor-infused scent of freesia wafted in invitingly through the gaps in the green shuttered windows as Swapnil's fingernails scraped at the rotting damp wood of the windowpane. It'd been a rather vengeful kalbaisakhi storm, and the news anchor on the television set in the next room had taken a break from haranguing his hapless guests on his 'debate' to report on hail showers in Midnapore. The stray mongrels had crept out of their hiding places under garage sheds, trees and discarded cardboard boxes, and were now frolicking about in the street. The 

 Rather nice of the locals to allow the presence of so many strays in the neighbourhood, Aman thought. In Bombay, some geriatric pensioner would've relentlessly pestered the local municipality until they were neutered. Kolkata, in general, was a kinder, more generous city. People here could apparently reach work as late as ten in the morning, without much chance of being chastised by their higher ups who'd probably be as late as they were. The gyms here were frequented not by starlets and aspiring young actors striving to get into shape before they queued up to audition for the coveted role of the female lead's best friend, but by pot-bellied men with jowls trying to fend off diabetes and high cholesterol levels, and middle-aged women who went by the univalent moniker 'auntie', shuffling on to treadmills, battling their rheumy knees that ached in protest. In Bombay, every block had atleast one trendy Zumba and/or pilates club or MMA academy. In Kolkata, every locality had a dozen coaching centres boasting veteran teachers to help students crack engineering and medical entrance exams, so that they could fly the nest and relocate in greener, busier pastures. Most importantly, if you ended up saying Calcutta instead of Kolkata in a social media post, angry politicians and keyboard warriors didn't label you an anti-national with a colonial hangover. In a nutshell, if Bombay was a dainty keto meal of chicken and nuts, Kolkata was a warm homemade meal of curry and rice, just the kind of lunch that made you want to take a long siesta afterwards. 

Long story short, Swapnil was glad to be back. The country had gone into lockdown less than a week ago, and while most would've rued being away from home indefinitely, Nayan didn't feel the least bit stranded. His apartment in Kolkata, no matter how derelict, felt much more like home that the tiny dormitory he rented in Mumbai. Here, he could spend his quarantine reminiscing his days of being a theatre enthusiast, fresh off Jadavpur University's Dramatic Society. Besides, on the practical side of things, the COVID case load was far lighter here. 

"Look at me getting all self-indulgent and nostalgic about the 'good old theatre days'. Anyone would've thought I'd become some super successful megastar to be so introspective about my career graph," Swapnil grimaced bitterly. "It's been nearly a decade, and I'm still Samar Khanna's pet poodle on a leash."

He still remembered the day he'd first bumped into Samar. His first sight of him had been Samar chomping on piping hot samosas and washing them down with tea at the stall outside the JU campus, haggling with the lady at the counter for a discount. She'd ultimately given in, courtesy Samar's disarming lopsided grin that he flashed at all the right opportunities. The stall had been surprisingly deserted, considering it was a Wednesday, and the canteen and stalls should've been milling with broke students, pestering each other for a treat to celebrate some exam they'd aced or some new girl they'd wooed. But that evening, when Swapnil walked in, his left hand weighed down by his Mathematical Statistics: Kenny and Keeping, there had been only Samar, trying to charm his way out of clearing his long overdue tab at the shop. What I wouldn't give to be as confident as this guy, Swapnil was marveling when Samar turned. Swapnil stood rooted to the spot as though he'd been electrified. 

Even as the two men stared at each other, it was Samar who'd first broken into his trademark grin and exclaimed, "Holy crow! Bro, I could swear I was hallucinating when I first saw you. You're real, right?" 

Swapnil had read about doppelgangers - tabloids frequently wrote about how several popular actors had look-alikes, but to be perfectly honest, these so called duplicates looked like watered down, low quality photocopies at best. You'd have to peer at them closely from a certain angle to even spot some semblance of likeliness. But this was different. Looking at Samar had been like glancing at a mirror, only to find that this particular reflection didn't obey him compulsively. 

Before Swapnil could react, Samar reached out, pinching his forearm hard. "Ouch," winced Swapnil, as the fleeting impulse of pain shot through his arm, causing him to drop the 1709 page thick textbook right onto his toe. "Double ouch," Swapnil emitted a successive groan, collapsing on to one of the benches nearby to steady himself before he had a chance to embarrass himself further, and pressed a chilled bottle of soft drink from a nearby rack to his toe, as he signalled to the counter-lady with his free hand that he'd pay for it. 

Once the throbbing in his toe had eased from excruciating to bearable, he unclenched his teeth and looked up. Samar was seated opposite him, head lowered, sometimes sneaking contrite glances at his face, his fingers drumming some nonsensical Morse code message onto the table. 

"Does it hurt really bad?" 

"Well, it was no deep tissue massage, but I'm naturally clumsy enough to have developed some tolerance," Swapnil smiled. "Oh, by the way, I'm Swapnil," he added, almost as though it were an afterthought. 

"Samar, Samar Sen." Samar gave his outstretched hand a hearty shake, before stopping abruptly, as though suddenly scared that Swapnil would disintegrate into pieces like a porcelain doll at the merest of touches. 

"You may find this hard to believe, but a handshake won't dislocate my wrist joined as you seem inclined to believe," Swapnil said indignantly. "Most people I know don't resort to pinches on the arm as a form of greeting."

 "I'm sorry again, man." The sheepish look came back into Samar's eyes. "It's not everyday I run into a dead ringer of mine, I'm thrilled to bits about meeting you. For all I know, I might have been imagining things. Kishore(Pandey, the guy with the stubble, Economics, third year, you know) got us some excellent weed from his trip to Shimla and we spent half the last night smoking up on the terrace. It's really strong stuff, and I'm not sure it's worn off." 

Swapnil only smiled. Of course he knew Kishore. That guy's reputation preceded him; he was an institution in himself, the college's resident one-man drug cartel. He was your go-to person for sneaking bottles of beer and vodka, weed joints and occasionally stronger stuff into the hostels. 

"So, you majoring in Economics too, huh?" Samar asked. "Haven't really seen you around in the Eco department. I'm not surprised though, I'm barely ever in class. The only thing that makes college worth it for me is Dram Soc." 

"There's no one who doesn't know you here, you're JU's most famous thespian. I've written a few plays myself, a couple of them were performed by the troupe last winter, with you in the lead, coincidentally. I don't direct them though, I'm obviously not intimidating enough to yell instructions into a megaphone and bawl at my actors when they're not up to scratch." 

Swapnil didn't know why he'd told Samar this, he usually had a lot of difficulty with peer interaction, but talking to Samar came to him as naturally as breathing. Not a soul had known till date that he was an amateur playwright. He'd simply e-mail his drafts anonymously to Rehaan Chowdhury from the Dramatic Society, who'd approved of his scripts and proceeded to direct them. A month before the performance for his first play 'Tear Gas', a social commentary on dissent and the state's response to it, was staged, when the pamphlets were being rolled out, Rehaan had mailed back, asking him under what name he'd prefer to be credited as author. Swapnil had provided an appropriate one - "Futsunushi". He'd been officially obsessed with ancient mythology and pantheons since he was a child, and this particular Japanese God of war and martial arts had always held a special fascination for him. Besides, the ambiguous gender connotations of the name further helped him keep his identity under wraps. He chuckled as he recalled how Rehaan had replied with a rolling-eyes emoticon followed by a text, "Sure, but let's hope our audience doesn't twist their tongue into knots trying to pronounce that."

The play had been a roaring success. Swapnil's hard hitting script had anyway guaranteed glowing reviews from theatre pundits, but Samar Sen in the lead had carried the play on his able (as his growing female fan base would unanimously admit, leonine) shoulders. His mellifluous voice, impeccable diction and acting chops had kept the ticket counters ringing for over a month and a half. This had only been the beginning. Over the next two years, Swapnil had churned out two more scripts, 'Carpe Noctem' and 'Parchhaiyaan', the latter of them being in Hindi, all through his correspondence over email with Rehaan who proceeded to feverishly cast and direct them. The plays, both enacted with Samar in the lead found astounding resonance among theatre goers, the poignant dialogues began being quoted across the Internet, and a certain veteran lyricist and writer from the Hindi film industry too showered accolades on the cast and crew of 'Parchhaiyaan'. Samar Sen was an Internet sensation, his face plastered across Instagram pages, with tabloids doing polls on which Bollywood beauty he should be paired with, should he ever do a feature film. But what generated the greatest interest among film journalists was Futsunushi. There were all kinds of conspiracy theories about the former's identity - some said he was an established film writer trying to inconspicuously crossover to theatre, some Samar Sen fans believed it was the lead actor himself. 

Swapnil would only smile as he scrolled through the yarn of gossip that social media seemed to spin about Futsunushi everyday. He'd grown up a wallflower, he'd always been the person you'd notice last in a room, if at all. He'd always been the ordinary commonplace guy, the one people always seemed to find difficult describing beyond the words 'nice', 'harmless' and 'academically brilliant'. Now though, as Futsunushi, he discovered he could create entire universes that enchanted audiences enough to make them part with their money, he could create enough intrigue for his characters to be discussed for days on end. Swapnil would've felt immensely discomfited being at the centre of such attention, but Futsunushi wore his popularity like a well-fitting cloak. 

Part II- All That Glitters...

The residence of the Sens, an unassuming three bedroom flat nestled within a standalone apartment building in Gariahat's FernRoad, a little street peppered with tiny art galleries, cafes and car repair outlets, besides rows of almost identical apartment buildings. This street was inhabited by mostly septuagenarians - people who'd spent their lives working in either busier parts of town, or in other cities, and now, after having built a solid bank balance and an equally unquestionable sense of burnout had decided to settle in a cozier part of town, tending to the potted bougainvilleas on their balconies, watching mindless hours of daily soaps during the evening which inevitably resulted in frequent visits to their ophthalmologist, as they longingly awaited visits from their children and in some cases, grandchildren, most of whom were hustling away relentlessly in faraway cities, as they once had. 

Not that Gariahat had any dearth of activity or energy, Samar thought wryly, taking another sip of his camomile tea from an enamel mug. Walk half a mile, and you'd land up in Gariahat More, a veritable hotspot for the town's shoppers, arriving in throngs with their families on the weekends. There was nothing that you wouldn't find here - the stalls pitched along the footpaths sold dubious brands of shoes, watches, caps and other merchandise that'd ingeniously be emblazoned with brand names like 'Nike, 'Wersace', 'Guchi' and 'Abidas' among others. At every second crossing, there were boutiques owned by sweet talking ladies who would promise their patrons(mostly housewives or young college students looking to splurge before the wedding season) to immaculately rip off the latest Manish Malhotra or Sabyasachi creation to the most minute detail, sometimes including the logo, and darned be issues of intellectual property theft. The footpaths that weren't already annexed by nightie/salwar suit sellers were lines either with stalls selling pirated DVD, or fast food outlets that lured in passers-by with the fragrance of chicken kabiraji and fish fry being deep fried inside. FernRoad and the market place had such diametrically opposite personalities that Samar's twelve year old Harry Potter-fuelled imagination had once had once come up with the theory that FernRoad and Gariahat were actually Harry and Voldemort who'd been transfigured into towns by Professor McGonagall because she was tired of their constant clashes distracting the Hogwarts' students from their studies. Gone are the days of such blissfully ignorant, naive daydreaming, Samar mused. He now worked in an industry where the most nuanced art-house film released on the same weekend as the most formulaic masala-laden potboiler. He was no more a stranger to the concept of contrast. 

But thanks to the pandemic, the world as people knew it had shuddered to a halt. Movie releases in theaters suddenly didn't seem feasible in the foreseeable future, and even as production houses busied themselves negotiating with video streaming platforms to sell the digital property rights and ensure a release for their movies, Samar hoped to savour the break. His latest movie, A Flying Turbanator had been on the precipice of release and he'd been attending non stop promotional events, one mindless reality show and frivolous media interaction at a time. These 'journalists' dare ask such intrusive personal questions so unabashedly, I can almost see the clickbaity headlines they're planning to write back at their office light up in neon pink on their foreheads, Samar chuckled. It had been at the end of one such trying day that Samar sat in his plush office in Khar West, Mumbai, bargaining with his manager Aarti on how many interviews he should do the next day. Samar was positive he wouldn't be able to sit through more than three, Aarti was bullishly insistent that he do atleast five. Samar was on the verge of yielding when Aartis phone rang. It was her distraught sixteen year old daughter, informing her that her remaining board exams had been indefinitely postponed due to the surge in COVID cases. Even as Aarti muttered soothing platitudes in between her daughter's wails, promising to share her Netflix password with her as soon as she got home, Samar had had turned on the flat-screen TV in the room, and together they'd read the ticker running along the bottom of the screen, ''CBSE, ICSE board examinations canceled, flight services suspended from noon tomorrow, PM to address nation at 8 PM tomorrow." 

 "What a bloody reli- I mean calamity!" Samar amended under Aarti's corrosive glare. "But I should head to Kolkata, I don't want Ma-Baba to be alone during what I suspect could be an indefinitely long lockdown. There's no way I'll find a flight at this hour though. Aarti, mind checking if I could charter a flight to Kolkata tonight?" 

 "I'll do that," Aarti grudgingly conceded. "But I want you accessible on phone AT ALL TIMES, mind you, Samar. Post the PM's address, there are invariably going to be calls and requests from the PMO to share social media posts on awareness and stuff. I'd better not find you off the radar. I'll never know why you don't outsource your Twitter handle to your PR agency, it's what half the industry does. Maddock Films will probably release Turbanator on OTT and then I'll need you to do promotional tweets for that too. Don't go bury yourself under some rock........" Samar had already half-tuned her out as he managed to sneak out with a non committal nod. 

Driving to his three bedroom apartment in Juhu, Samar had pulled out his duffel bag that he always kept ready in case he had to travel at moments' notice, for you never knew when outdoor shoots got rescheduled or you needed to jet off for an emergency vacation. And yes, when you worked in an industry that demanded fourteen hour work days and and the paparazzi took notice if your undereyes turned a shade darker, antidepressants could do only so much to help you stay afloat. The only thing that seemed to help was to grab a suitcase and book a flight to some trendy Maldivean resort where you could spend a week undisturbed, catching up on lost sleep, even as the restaurants dished out plates of comfort food. Then 'emergency vacation' didn't seem like such an oxymoron anymore. By the time he threw in a few more sets of clothes, collected his car keys and credit cards and imbursed his wallet with some ready cash, Aarti had Whatsapped him tickets for a chartered flight trip to the Kolkata airport, scheduled to leave at midnight. With a thankful sigh, he locked his apartment, pocketed the keys, and drove off to the airport, resolving to grab a quick bite at the lounge itself. Even as he clambered the Aerotech Aviation Aircraft, a text from Aarti slid into his notification bar: 

'I could've wagered my right hand that you've forgotten to inform Carol, Sujata and Jaideep that you'll be out of town, so I went ahead and did the needful, and turns out I'm right. You do know you don't pay me nearly enough, right? Anyway, dunderhead, have a safe journey, give Kaku and Kakima my regards and IF I CAN'T REACH YOUR PHONE, I WILL HAVE YOUR SOUL FOR BREAKFAST.

XOXO.'

Samar chuckled. Carol was his housekeeper, Jaideep his bodyguard and Sujata his cook. Aarti was mostly a taskmaster, but she kept his life running on its usual undulating terrain. 

It'd been a smooth and extremely comfortable flight. His pilot had been thrilled to bits about flying THE Samar Khanna, and after clicking an appropriate number of grinning selfies, Samar was left in peace to chew on his almond pesto sandwich and watch The Crown, Season 4 on his phone for the rest of the flight. Around 2 AM, Samar, groggy-eyed and toussle-haired, stood at the Domestic Arrivals terminal of the Netaji Subhas International Airport in Kolkata. 

Antara had been elated to see her son. She'd immediately fussed over how he wasn't looking healthy enough, making mental notes to get his Vitamin and calcium levels checked, even as Samar tried to explain he was trying out intermittent fasting to look lean for his next film where he played an MMA trainer. The next morning as he sat at the breakfast table chewing on French toast and downing banana milkshake, she'd surreptitiously taken a picture of him and sent it to the family Whatsapp group with an evidently enthusiastic, all caps 'LOOK WHO'S HOME' caption followed by an assortment of emoticons. Paps in my house too, Samar thought bemusedly. Dilip Sen hadn't been nearly as effusive as her, but Samar could tell, he approved having his son at home, as they enjoyed lazy breakfasts in the mornings, debating who in the Indian cricket team would make a suitable captain after Kohli, and lamenting the scant budget allocation for education. They spent the nights watching American true crime documentaries documentaries until Dilip who had a weak stomach would complain of getting the creeps and bully them into watching a more palatable romcom or playing a round of rummy. 

It hadn't been all smooth sailing. The PM, in his speech, had urged citizens to remain home and observe a seventeen hour 'Janata Curfew' to enable social distancing and fight the spread of the novel coronavirus. As a gesture of gratitude towards frontline workers, he'd requested people to clap their hands and bang their utensils at 5 pm, which would've been a wonderful gesture of solidarity if the PR teams of several members of the Hindi film fraternity hadn't received requests (read: explicit instructions) to post a video of them clapping their hands along with the following message: 

'It was such a heartwarming experience to see and hear the entire country stand in solidarity with our frontline workers. Indeed, in these challenging times, it seems like a much needed moment of hope. I thank our Prime Minister for coming up with such a unique idea to boost national morale as we fight the pandemic.' 

   Samar's parents had burst into hysterical guffaws the minute they heard. Between peals of laughter, Dilip said, "All those dystopian webseries that Netflix makes aren't really dystopian anymore, Samar. Toh, korbi naki (translation: so are you going to do it?)"

"I just might have to, baba. Aarti can be relentless when she puts her mind to persuading me." 

And so she was. Aarti had called five times, each time from a different phone number until he'd finally given in. 

"Can I atleast vary the vocabulary, Aarti? The message looks like a half asleep copywriter drafted it." 

"Just do it, Sam, please. It's a harmless benign message, it doesn't even look politically motivated. Trust me, it helps."

"But it's basically endorsing what I think is a bit of a lame idea as some kind of genius master stroke. Isn't that-" 

"Sam, from what I've heard, Priyanka Chopra will be doing it too, and she's in the United States? Do you realise how awkward she'll look just sureally staring into the snow from her Beverly Hills House amd clapping away into nothing?! If she can afford that, you definitely can. This isn't a discussion. Oh, and don't try taking the video yourself, you're terrible at spotting your correct angles. Hand it to Kaku or kakima please. Byeeee!"

That evening, at 5, Samar stood on his balcony and clapped as well as he could, while a half-exasperated, half amused Antara recorded him, even as Dilip stood nearby, prompting her, "Make sure his hands are seen, or how will they know he's clapping?" That night, the video was duly uploaded with the message in question. By then, the situation had stopped being as funny, and Samar was left feeling a little hollow as the likes and comments began flowing in. 

But Samar shrugged it off. It was good to be home for more reasons than one. And one such reason was Swapnil. The boy fairly detested Mumbai, and Samar felt a gnawing sense of guilt when the former had to keep working in city he didn't like one bit, because he was Samar's body double. Swapnil performed almost all of the heavy duty action sequences and almost quite a good deal of the more intense, emotionally taxing scenes too. Not that he was credited for it, Aarti would never allow that. She said it was bad form for actors to use body doubles so extensively. First as Futsunushi and now as his doppelganger, Swapnil had always served as the stepping stone that Samar had grown to take for granted. It was to him that Samar owed his meteoric rise to stardom. Swapnil had called on the landline this afternoon, when his parents were settled in bed for their afternoon siesta, and he'd seemed happy to be in Kolkata. Samar had been relieved. Somehow, it was of optimal importance to him that Swapnil remain happy.