ast Sunday, I left the fate of Vidya, assistant cameraman, dangling in this column. Some years ago, my film unit was involved in a train mishap — while travelling from Hyderabad to Naraspur — which took a toll of 17 lives.
We could not determine whether Vidya was still breathing in a coach which had been terribly mangled. I felt helpless. I left my assistant E. Niwas and production manager Giri to attend to the situation and was directed to a jeep which was going towards Guntur. Many railway officers and passengers who recognised me greeted me with great respect. I certainly didn’t need attention at that moment.
As I told the jeep driver to move on he gave me a dirty look, pointing to a wheel stuck in the slush. Then he went into a tirade, peppered with expletives, cursing the railway officers for not listening to him on his prediction that the jeep would get stuck. So with some unit members, I trudged it out through the paddy fields to a nearby village. From the distance, I could see the train lying on its side but a tree blocked my view. I wished the tree was a bit to the left, so the visual would have looked better. Hello! Remember my disease of living constantly in a state of filmdom? From the village a family friend of Nagarjuna from Guntur drove me to his home. He was hospitality personified. Apparently, he was a huge fan of mine.
As I stepped into his house, I was unbelievably filthy — my clothes as well as feet. Immediately I was faced with a woman who took off on her Mr Hospitality husband, asking why he couldn’t get my feet washed outside the house. To that, he screamed back at her, “Do you know who he is?”
Caught between the crossfire, I volunteered to go but she said logically, “What’s the point now? You’ve already made the floor dirty.” Incredibly, a tragedy had occurred but there was a crazy comedy going on in this house.
Next, I got the news that Vidya had passed away. His face was completely burnt by a cutting torch. Next I was told that I would have to break the news to Vidya’s father who was on his way. The father had been told that Vidya was injured, not more. Pandu, a relative of mine, who came to the spot told me that he would handle it. When Vidya's father walked in, looking tense and fearful, Pandu slapped his back from behind and said cheerfully, “Sir, your son is very lucky. God loves him and took him away. We all are bastards. I don’t know when we will get that lucky.” I thought Pandu was being very insensitive but on second thoughts, it was perhaps the best way to break the news.
I tried to convince the father not to show Vidya’s burnt face to his mother. I said, “Let her remember him the way he was”, to which he countered that Vidya was their only son. His mother had to see his remains. I was upset that he wouldn’t see reason.
Later, I was told that the father did follow my advice. I felt triumphant about my counselling powers. How absurd was that? Now when I look back, I understand one thing completely: life’s really a comedy which pretends to be a tragedy.