fic: sholay, pg-13
never waver
fandom: sholay
rating: pg-13
disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
notes: Written for bolly_fics' Item Number Challenge. This is a story about the character behind Helen's item number in the film Sholay. I made up a name for the character, the guy who sang and played as she danced and the whole set up, basically. The gypsy thing is from the film itself, I recall Helen being named the Gypsy Dancer in the credits.
“Do you think I dance for fun?” you ask Rakesh as he packs up, wrapping his instrument in protective cloth and you notice his hands are shaking.
“We can't ask them for money,” he replies and doesn't look at you in the eye.
You frown. Typical Rakesh, always promising freebies. “We could use some money, I haven't eaten my stomach full for a week.”
“Shobha,” Rakesh sighs, frustrated and almost angry, which is not so typical of him. “They didn't ask. They ordered. They threatened my life, your life. They even threatened to cook up our pony. Gabbar Singh is a dangerous man, understand. If we want to travel past their territory, we have to do this.”
You look at him and know he's afraid. He rarely is that, because you have been in a lot of dreadful situations but have always survived so far. There are ways to survive, tricks and diversions, that both Rakesh and you know and have learned throughout the years.
It's not always easy, but it's what you know and how you've always lived and you couldn't imagine it any other way. Some girls are lucky and learn how to read and write aged seven - some girls, you, are luckier and learn how to dance aged seven. You learn how to project everything you feel into your dance steps, anger, happiness, sadness, fear, lust. Mostly you just learn how to act all these emotions, go through them as you dance and pretend.
There are times when you enjoy this, and the joy in your smile is genuine as you dance, and the other times, you fake. No one can ever tell the difference, except Rakesh but usually then he is too busy faking everything himself. Goes with the profession, you suppose.
*
It's disgusting, he's disgusting. They all are. If they paid you, their money would stink, stolen and dirty and you'd feel possibly worse than you do now. Rakesh is tuning his instrument and you're adjusting your dress, your jewellery.
"It's going to be fine," Rakesh says and sounds like he's not sure it's going to be fine at all. These people could do anything.
Rakesh has taken care of you since your brother died. He's a partner, a friend, more a brother than your brother ever was. You're not sure what the relationship between you two truly is. You guess it's just a necessity of sorts - liability, safety, trust, protection, care. You keep each other alive and sane, and there's something beautiful about that, and yet not. It's just your way to live.
There are you, Rakesh and the rest of the band, most of them friends of your brother or Rakesh. Sometimes one of them quits, settles down, marries, leaves you behind but there's always someone else to bang the drums for you to dance to. There are a lot of outcasts in society. There are many people like you, who just want to get away.
You look at yourself in the mirror and think about asking if you look fine but tonight it doesn't matter. You can't make Rakesh answer that question, at least not tonight.
*
And then you dance, and become someone else entirely. You act. You fake. You are seduction. You are lust. You laugh a naughty laugh and smile a sexy smile and you dance.
You don't think about how this man could kill you, rape you, how many of your kind he has gone through like this, or like that, you just dance. Rakesh sings, plays, pretends. Mehbooba Oh Mehbooba, you're not his beloved and he's not yours, but tonight, as long as you dance, you're everyone's beloved.
You try not to look at Gabbar Singh, you try to notice while ignoring him, you seduce but really you're far away, inside a shell of your own. Protection. Safety. You tilt your head and shake your hips. Faster.
Somebody blows up most of Gabbar's ammunition and in the chaos that follows, Rakesh doesn't hesitate, but grabs your hand and you run. Your jewellery makes the same sounds as they do when you're dancing, only faster, like your heart is beating faster. You escape with Rakesh, him making the cart you travel with go as fast as possible, your mare galloping faster than she ever has before.
You're shaking and you're not sure why. Fear, disgust, cold, you shake even as you fall asleep, content in the knowledge that tomorrow you won't be dancing before the eyes of Gabbar Singh. You'll be elsewhere. You'll be safe.
fandom: sholay
rating: pg-13
disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
notes: Written for bolly_fics' Item Number Challenge. This is a story about the character behind Helen's item number in the film Sholay. I made up a name for the character, the guy who sang and played as she danced and the whole set up, basically. The gypsy thing is from the film itself, I recall Helen being named the Gypsy Dancer in the credits.
“Do you think I dance for fun?” you ask Rakesh as he packs up, wrapping his instrument in protective cloth and you notice his hands are shaking.
“We can't ask them for money,” he replies and doesn't look at you in the eye.
You frown. Typical Rakesh, always promising freebies. “We could use some money, I haven't eaten my stomach full for a week.”
“Shobha,” Rakesh sighs, frustrated and almost angry, which is not so typical of him. “They didn't ask. They ordered. They threatened my life, your life. They even threatened to cook up our pony. Gabbar Singh is a dangerous man, understand. If we want to travel past their territory, we have to do this.”
You look at him and know he's afraid. He rarely is that, because you have been in a lot of dreadful situations but have always survived so far. There are ways to survive, tricks and diversions, that both Rakesh and you know and have learned throughout the years.
It's not always easy, but it's what you know and how you've always lived and you couldn't imagine it any other way. Some girls are lucky and learn how to read and write aged seven - some girls, you, are luckier and learn how to dance aged seven. You learn how to project everything you feel into your dance steps, anger, happiness, sadness, fear, lust. Mostly you just learn how to act all these emotions, go through them as you dance and pretend.
There are times when you enjoy this, and the joy in your smile is genuine as you dance, and the other times, you fake. No one can ever tell the difference, except Rakesh but usually then he is too busy faking everything himself. Goes with the profession, you suppose.
*
It's disgusting, he's disgusting. They all are. If they paid you, their money would stink, stolen and dirty and you'd feel possibly worse than you do now. Rakesh is tuning his instrument and you're adjusting your dress, your jewellery.
"It's going to be fine," Rakesh says and sounds like he's not sure it's going to be fine at all. These people could do anything.
Rakesh has taken care of you since your brother died. He's a partner, a friend, more a brother than your brother ever was. You're not sure what the relationship between you two truly is. You guess it's just a necessity of sorts - liability, safety, trust, protection, care. You keep each other alive and sane, and there's something beautiful about that, and yet not. It's just your way to live.
There are you, Rakesh and the rest of the band, most of them friends of your brother or Rakesh. Sometimes one of them quits, settles down, marries, leaves you behind but there's always someone else to bang the drums for you to dance to. There are a lot of outcasts in society. There are many people like you, who just want to get away.
You look at yourself in the mirror and think about asking if you look fine but tonight it doesn't matter. You can't make Rakesh answer that question, at least not tonight.
*
And then you dance, and become someone else entirely. You act. You fake. You are seduction. You are lust. You laugh a naughty laugh and smile a sexy smile and you dance.
You don't think about how this man could kill you, rape you, how many of your kind he has gone through like this, or like that, you just dance. Rakesh sings, plays, pretends. Mehbooba Oh Mehbooba, you're not his beloved and he's not yours, but tonight, as long as you dance, you're everyone's beloved.
You try not to look at Gabbar Singh, you try to notice while ignoring him, you seduce but really you're far away, inside a shell of your own. Protection. Safety. You tilt your head and shake your hips. Faster.
Somebody blows up most of Gabbar's ammunition and in the chaos that follows, Rakesh doesn't hesitate, but grabs your hand and you run. Your jewellery makes the same sounds as they do when you're dancing, only faster, like your heart is beating faster. You escape with Rakesh, him making the cart you travel with go as fast as possible, your mare galloping faster than she ever has before.
You're shaking and you're not sure why. Fear, disgust, cold, you shake even as you fall asleep, content in the knowledge that tomorrow you won't be dancing before the eyes of Gabbar Singh. You'll be elsewhere. You'll be safe.