Andy Warhol, Red Liz

In the mid-Sixties, when Elizabeth Taylor held sway over Hollywood and my consciousness, I had actually encountered her near a bus stop in front of my school in Beckbagan. The image that Liz projected was larger than any screen could hold, and the gossip magazines and mainstream newspapers were full of stories about her single-use men, her larger-than-life diamonds and her stormy affair with Richard Burton, whom she married twice.

Cleopatra was being filmed then, and the American media carried elaborate stories about the extravagant sets and costumes of this epic melodrama, and splashed technicolor photographs of ancient Egypt as created by Hollywood. And, of course, there was Liz in goldfish-scale dresses, braided wigs and gigantic headgear that would have looked ridiculous on anybody but this gaudy, overblown, regal woman. She had managed to reduce to sidekicks both Burton and Rex Harrison in the roles of Mark Antony and Julius Caesar, respectively. Millions of fans all over the world, including yours truly, would have happily given up their lives for a glimpse of those “thrush-startled violet” eyes lined with gallons of black paint, topped with blue or green grease, and generously sprinkled with sequins. Somebody had nicknamed her QE3 and she looked and lived her part.

So I couldn’t believe my eyes when I spotted Liz in the middle of a busy Calcutta road. It was mid-afternoon, and there she was on a hooded rickshaw wearing a nightie and lacquered jet black hair that gave her a baby-doll look. Indeed this apparition was a trifle blowsy, and the lines were drawn by an unsure hand, but overall, she was surprisingly close to the original. The same oval face, high forehead, jutting chin, exaggeratedly dark brows and eyes and rosebud mouth. She knew she was a mere shadow of the masterpiece, and fell back on cosmetic aid to turn into her doppelgänger.

The boys in school refused to believe me, and soon even I became convinced that Liz on a rickshaw was a chimera. A couple of years later when I was walking to college down Free School Street, my heart missed a beat when I reached the Kyd Street crossing. She stepped out of Evergreen, the most famous house on this infamous stretch, and went back in an instant. She still wore her Liz look and the same nightie. So she was no figment of the imagination.

About three-and-a-half decades later when I was telling a friend, who lives in Palace Court on Kyd Street, about this Liz double, he said that in the Seventies he used to see her frequently enough. Her name was probably Butterfield. About eight years ago, a woman from London, who claimed that Butterfield was her mother’s half-sister, had wandered into my friend’s flat. She hoped he would be able to help her trace Butterfield’s daughter, who lived in Assam. She had an heirloom tea service which she wanted to pass on to the daughter. My friend could not help. That was the last time Butterfield was heard of. Now Evergreen has turned into a respectable hotel.