Bollywood Confidential (6 page)

From his second-floor bedroom, Heeru Punjabi watched the
young woman exit the taxi.

This must be the niece from America, he thought. The one who was an actress. What was her name? Lavinia something or the other?

Heeru shook his head. What was she doing acting in a Bollywood film? Everyone knew the industry was a terrible place. Any decent young woman would refuse to work there.

Heeru knew either Nandini or Nanda, the two young sisters he employed as servants, would see to the guest, so he stayed in his room sprinkling bird feed onto the floor and along the windowsill. He considered all winged creatures godlike. Even if they did seem to defecate frequently on his head with abandon.

Heeru did not want this American niece of his staying with him. He did not like visitors. However, if he refused her room and board he would most likely return in his next life as a lizard of some sort.

Several gray pigeons and one pushy black one flew in and began pecking at the seed.

Yes, the film industry was a wicked place, and Heeru should know. He had once dreamt of becoming an actor.

Heeru continued to sprinkle seed and thought back to the year 1962.

The sixth of eight children, eighteen-year-old Heeru knew from careful study that he was the best looking of all of them. His four sisters had unfortunately inherited their mother's propensity to put on weight and their father's bulbous nose—which some had likened to a hard plum after the crows had picked at it.

Heeru and his three brothers were all slim like their father, but his eldest brother Arjun had already begun to lose his hair. Nanu, Heeru's younger brother and the smartest of all the siblings—the school principal's opinion, not Heeru's—was favored with a fair complexion and hazel eyes, but had no dress sense or style—Heeru's opinion, not the school principal's.

The remaining brother Jagdish was a lout, and Heeru's mother blessed the day he had moved to Hong Kong to seek his fortune.

Definitely, Heeru was the only one with the potential to make it as an actor. Admittedly, he could have done with a fair complexion like Nanu's—instead his skin was the color of toffee—but Heeru kept it glowing and radiant with nightly applications of his mother's herbal face tonic. The tonic was expensive, and Heeru had to wait until his mother was asleep before sidling into her room and slipping the small bottle off her dresser.

Basically, Heeru was all set to pursue his dream of a career under the lights when something happened.

The incident involved the park where Heeru “rehearsed.” He regularly took the bus to a secluded park where he could practice being a film hero. He didn't even consider practicing at home in his room, not with four prying plum-nosed sisters around. There in the park among the poplar trees he could rehearse in peace.

Heeru always wore the same outfit on these occasions. In his white slacks, matching jacket, red silk shirt and paisley scarf knotted dashingly around his neck, Heeru knew he cut a fine figure.

Then, with one arm around the tree trunk—pretending it was the ample waist of a lotus-eyed actress, Heeru would croon the latest melody, crinkling his eyes, moving his brows up and down and flipping the puff in his hair just like the latest heartthrob.

But then one day a group of young ruffians from the lowest rung of the caste ladder came upon Heeru embracing a tree and burst into loud laughter. They also made lewd gestures and called Heeru names, comparing him to mediocre actors he couldn't stand.

Heeru was tempted to yell and remind them of their class, but his legs had a mind of their own, and he turned tail and ran. The youths, sensing some fun in their unemployed, poverty-stricken lives, decided to give chase.

Heeru ran and ran. He tripped and fell a few times, sobbing like any heroine in a chase scene running to save her virtue. By the time he climbed aboard the bus and dropped into his seat shaking, his favorite slacks were torn
and covered with grass stains. He touched his neck and realized his paisley scarf was gone.

Heeru never rehearsed again.

For a moment, awash in the old memory, he looked wildly around, but the room was occupied only by pigeons, one of which was currently using his shoe as a toilet.

Raveena followed a slender, dark-skinned young woman with a
shy smile into the sitting room.

The young woman was dressed in a cotton housecoat with short sleeves. Her feet were bare. She indicated Raveena should take a seat and then disappeared into another room.

Raveena sat down on a lumpy white sofa, immediately sinking deep into the cushions. Directly above her were two ceiling fans. It was stuffy and muggy in the room, so she flipped the wall switch and the blades sprang to life on the fastest setting. Her long hair whirled around her face and the stack of newspapers on the coffee table blew across the room. Quickly, she flipped the switch back down, retrieved the newspapers and tried to smooth down her hair.

The young woman returned with a tall glass of water. “Safe,” she began and her smooth brow furrowed. Then with another shy smile she pointed at the glass and said, “Filtered.” Only, the way she said it made the word sound like “pilltered.”

Absolutely charmed by her sweet demeanor, Raveena accepted the glass of water. “Thank you.” The water was cold, and she practically downed the entire contents in one gulp.

The young woman smiled approvingly and disappeared again.

Raveena proceeded to sit alone in the room for the next twenty minutes.

Finally, she decided she may as well explore her new surroundings. In one corner of the room was a large wooden altar dominated by a white marble statue of Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, along with small framed paintings of the Goddess Lakshmi and Lord Krishna. There was also a large photograph of a round-faced man with a black Afro dressed in an orange robe. She'd seen that same photograph in other Indian homes. The man was Sathya Sai Baba. She moved closer and saw there was a caption at the bottom of the photograph.

 

Hurt Never. Love Ever.

 

Made sense.

So Uncle Heeru was a Sai Baba devotee. From what she'd read, Sai Baba was considered an avatar of God. In front of eyewitnesses, he had raised the dead, materialized jewelry out of thin air, turned water into gasoline when his car ran out of fuel, made sweets appear directly into people's mouths and managed to appear in two places at once.

Further examination of the altar was halted when she looked up to see another girl, shorter and darker than the first but dressed almost identically in a short-sleeved
housecoat, staring at her. Raveena smiled but was pointedly ignored. The girl's expression was decidedly sulky. Silently, she disappeared into another room and Raveena was once again left alone.

She returned to the sofa and stared at the large Toshiba television in the corner of the room. A black pigeon flew in through the open window, perched on the top of a bookcase and fixed its red gaze on her.

Raveena found this to be slightly unnerving and was about to get up and look for someone, anyone, when rapid footsteps sounded from the hall. All of a sudden a man came tearing into the room, stopped at the sight of her and ran his hands through his shock of thick white hair.

He was of average height, thin with a slight paunch, wore steel-rimmed glasses held together strategically with scotch tape and dressed in a faded white cotton shirt and what looked like a brand new pair of Levi's 501 jeans. The jeans were too long and his feet peeked out from beneath the cuffs in brown leather Kolhapuri slippers.

Raveena stood up. “Uncle Heeru?” she asked tentatively.

He ran his fingers through his hair again, causing it to stand up in tufts. “Yes, you're here,” he said. “Nice, ah, to see you again.”

“We've never met,” Raveena said.

His eyes darted right and left. “Yes, that's right.” All of a sudden he tipped his head back and shouted, “Nandini! Nanda!”

From another room a female voice yelled back, “What do you want?”

“See to the guest!”

The two servants, one smiling and the other sulky, came into the room.

“Show Lavinia to her room,” Uncle Heeru said.

“It's Raveena. And I wanted to thank you so much for letting me stay here.”

Uncle Heeru gazed at her blankly. She found this almost as unnerving as the pigeon.

“I just wanted to, umm, really thank you,” she repeated lamely. “I promise I won't be any trouble. If I can be of help—”

“What is the time?” Uncle Heeru interrupted. Before anyone could answer he looked down at his bare wrist. “Where is my wristwatch? Thieves have stolen my wristwatch!”

“Nobody stole it; you lost it yourself months ago,” the sulky servant said crossly.

“Never mind,” Uncle Heeru said to no one in particular. “Nandini, take Lavinia to her room.”

The young woman with the shy smile came forward and gestured towards the stairs.

So this was Nandini. Raveena definitely liked her.

The other girl—Nanda—continued to stand there, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Go find Chotu and tell him to bring in the suitcases,” Uncle Heeru said to her.

Nanda frowned and fired back in rapid Hindi Raveena could barely follow. Something about Chotu stealing a potato.

This caused Uncle Heeru to pull on his hair, yell, and then run out of the room, his slippers clopping on the cement floor.

Nanda sniffed and turned away, skirt swirling.

Raveena followed Nandini up the stairs and into what would be her bedroom.

It was a large space. A double bed was covered in a pretty, red embroidered bedcover. Directly above it a ceiling fan slowly circulated the heavy humid air. Across from the bed was a window that ran the entire length of the wall. It was screenless, shutterless and, Raveena realized, pigeon-accessible. It was also facing the sun, which meant sleeping in would be difficult. The walls were bare except for a Sathya Sai Baba calendar. The orange-robed man held his hand up in blessing.

Nandini crossed the room and opened the double doors of an ancient Godrej wardrobe. Raveena's mother had had one just like it in India. Smiling, Nandini gestured towards the empty shelves. Raveena smiled back and nodded. Nandini then crossed to a door Raveena hadn't seen. It led to a small guest bathroom.

Raveena was pleased to see the toilet was sparkling clean. There was a mirrored cabinet for her toiletries and an enormous green marble bathtub big enough for two people. Raveena was more of a shower person, but the bathtub looked fun. Not that she'd be doing any entertaining in it.

Raveena thanked Nandini and drifted towards the window. Looking down she could see into the courtyard. A young man was struggling with her suitcases. Chotu, she presumed, and continued to watch as Uncle Heeru came running out of the house and started shouting. Chotu shouted back. Uncle Heeru pulled at his hair again and stomped his foot.

Raveena's mother had said something about the family regarding Heeru as a sort of swami.

If that were true—

He was the most stressed-out swami Raveena had ever met.

The next morning Raveena was having breakfast alone when
Randy Kapoor's secretary called.

Nanda brought her the phone and silently handed it over.

“Thank you,” Raveena said.

Nanda's expression remained sulky.

Nandini was definitely preferable.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, ma'am, I'm calling from Mr. Kapoor's office. Mr. Kapoor would like you to meet him here at one
P.M
.,” a woman said in precise Indian English.

No wonder outsourcing was going to India. The professionals here spoke better English than Raveena did.

“Okay,” Raveena said. “The only thing is, I don't know where his office is.”

“Yes, ma'am, I will give you the directions. Where exactly are you residing, ma'am?”

Since arriving in India she'd been called madam and ma'am more times than in her entire life put together.

“Umm, I'm in Bandra. Portugal Road.”

“Very good, ma'am. A beautiful area. Our office is in Bandra as well.”

“It is?”

“Yes, ma'am, Bandra is home to many producers, directors and stars. Now, tell the auto-rickshaw driver to take you to Turner Road and—”

“Auto-rickshaw?” Raveena interrupted. No way was she getting in one of those things. “I was planning on taking a taxi.”

“Oh no, ma'am. A taxi will not take you such a short distance, and why pay extra money besides? Tell the auto-rickshaw driver to take you to Turner Road and from there 14th Road. We are located at 29 Jains Arcade, on the 2nd floor.”

Raveena was scribbling this down as quickly as she could. “Jains Arcade. Got it.”

“Wonderful. I will tell Mr. Kapoor to expect you at one. Have a nice day, ma'am.”

Raveena set down the phone and ate some more of the scrambled eggs Nandini had made. They were delicious, flavored with green chilies, tomato and cumin.

Stuffed, she pushed the plate aside and a large black crow immediately swooped in through the dining room window and scooped the egg off her plate. She screamed and threw up her hands.

The crow then perched on the ledge of the window, gazed at Raveena with a beady eye and promptly guzzled the piece of egg.

Since yesterday, she'd been startled by all manner of winged creatures flying in and out of the house. Because of the heat and Uncle Heeru's devotion to birds, all the
windows were open all the time. When she'd asked her uncle why he didn't invest in air-conditioning, he'd responded by saying he did not want to catch a cold.

The average temperature in Bombay that winter was eighty-eight degrees.

Earlier, Raveena had seen Uncle Heeru fighting with a crow over a piece of papaya.

With a sigh of acceptance, she pushed her plate closer to the window and addressed the crow. “Dig in.”

Wings outstretched, the crow once more swooped in and grabbed the last piece of egg. Instead of dining on the ledge, the bird flew up into the trees shading the house.

American crows definitely had better manners.

 

Two hours later, Raveena thought she was going to die.

The auto-rickshaw darted in and out of traffic, at times jumping up on the walkway, before zooming back onto the street. Open on both sides without doors, the contraption made her feel exposed. And she was guaranteed maximum exposure to exhaust fumes.

Raveena had done her hair for the meeting, setting it with Velcro rollers, but the wind and humidity wreaked havoc with the curls. If she was going to be traveling by auto-rickshaw, she'd have to do it Jackie O. style, with a headscarf.

Then again, Raveena saw plenty of Muslim women in
burkhas
walking up and down the street and thought about wearing one herself for practical reasons. Her hair would be covered. Her face would be protected from grime, and she wouldn't have to worry about her clothes getting dirty.

The heat was relentless. Not wanting to arrive at the meeting with foundation melting off her face, she'd wisely
kept the makeup to a minimum. Just some eyeliner and a dab of Chanel lipgloss.

However, Raveena was regretting her choice of clothing. Her parents had warned her to dress conservatively while in India. So she was wearing beige trousers and a white tailored Oxford shirt.

Meanwhile, right alongside the conservative Muslim women in
burkhas
were teenage girls in shorts and twenty-something women in tank tops, jeans and everything in between.

Obviously, Bombay was to India what Los Angeles was to the rest of America.

A whole different world.

Raveena especially liked the cute cotton tunics or
kurtas
she'd seen many women of all ages sporting. They looked comfortable and stylish. Raveena decided to buy half a dozen for Maza and herself while here.

“Fourteenth Road,” the driver said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the gutter. He was thickset and heavy, sweat visibly seeping through his khaki-colored clothing.

“Okay,” Raveena said, happy the tobacco spray had missed her nether regions. “29 Jains Arcade?”

The driver didn't reply, so she repeated the question. He gave her an impatient nod.

“Fine,” she said, sat back and watched the scenery chug by. Cars, buses and auto-rickshaws battled each other for the road. Skinny cows walked alongside, nosing through rubbish for food. The barking of stray dogs was everywhere.

The driver stopped beside a small stand where a man was busy rolling bidis—cheap tapered cigarettes that looked like marijuana joints.

Not realizing they'd arrived at the place, Raveena continued to sit in the back of the rickshaw until the driver turned, looked at her and pointed to the right. She turned and saw a large building.

Raveena paid the driver twenty rupees, about forty cents, and very carefully crossed the street, dodging bicyclists, auto-rickshaws, cars and a hungry cow.

There was a guard at the entrance to the building who stopped her before she could go in. He had an AK-47 strapped to his back.

One of them was seriously packing too much metal.

“I'm here to see Randy Kapoor,” she said, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

The guard looked her up and down, decided she didn't pose a menace, and nodded. Raveena opened the door and nearly let out a sigh of relief as the air-conditioned coolness washed over her.

She took the elevator up to the second floor and found herself confronted by a set of thick glass double doors. Engraved into the glass were the words:

 

Karma Productions

 

Behind the glass she could see trendy twenty-something Indians walking back and forth, answering phones and working on computers. Raveena entered the bright purple and orange lobby—very MTV—and went up to the black circular front desk.

“I'm Raveena Rai, here to see Randy Kapoor.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Rai,” the woman smiled. “Please come with me.”

Raveena followed her through another set of double doors and into a lavish waiting room done up in marble. Two beautiful gold statues of Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth, occupied alcoves on opposite walls. A second woman sitting behind a black marble desk rose at their entrance.

“Raveena?” the second woman asked, and Raveena recognized her voice from the phone that morning. The woman came forward smiling. “I'm Millie D'Souza.”

Millie was petite, her black hair cut in a shiny bob. A slender gold cross gleamed against her throat. “Mr. Kapoor has yet to arrive. Can I get you some coffee? A cold drink?”

“I'd love something cold. Ah, you don't happen to have Thums Up, do you?” Raveena had been craving the drink since yesterday.

Millie looked surprised. “Yes, we do. It's my favorite, but most people prefer Coke or Pepsi.”

Raveena took a seat on a plush burgundy sofa while Millie returned to her desk and pushed a button on the intercom.

A few moments later a young boy entered the room carefully balancing a tray with two tall glasses, his bare feet moving soundlessly across the floor.

Millie waited until he had left, then took a sip of her drink. “In America you do not have people like our office boys?”

Raveena thought about certain personal assistants in Hollywood who were expected not only to make calls, but wash the star's Chihuahua's butt, plan parties for the star's kids, arrange for sex escorts and bring coffee. But she knew what Millie meant.

“No, we don't. I mean, secretaries will make coffee for their bosses and get lunch, but that's not their main job. And they're usually eighteen years old and over.”

Millie nodded.

Raveena sat back and drank her Thums Up. She was getting addicted to the stuff.

By the time she finished her drink, Randy still had not arrived. Millie was busy taking phone calls and working on the computer but would shoot Raveena sympathetic looks now and again.

To entertain herself, Raveena thumbed through several glossy Bollywood magazines. That was how she got two pieces of very bad news.

The first was from an article on, yes, Randy Kapoor. Apparently, his last five films had all been expensive flops. The very last had been a Bollywood rip-off of
Runaway Bride.

She peered closely at a picture of a thin, balding gray-haired man in a suit. He was wiping his brow and looked like the worried accountant of a mobster. According to the caption, it was Randy Kapoor's financier and father, Daddy.

The picture of Randy himself was blurry, and she could barely make out his features. She did, however, make out the bright yellow Tommy Hillfiger jacket he was wearing.

Very Ali G.

The second piece of bad news was from the gossip pages of a Bollywood rag called
Stardust.
Raveena was shocked to see her name mentioned. Well, not her name per se, but it was pretty obvious who they were talking about. She quickly scanned the lines:

Great. Raveena had barely been in Bombay for two days, and already her reputation was being battered and splattered across the pages of India's answer to
Variety!

About the randy Randy business—sure, the casting couch was a fixture in Hollywood as well. But Raveena had never encountered it.

She couldn't decide whether to be flattered or offended about that.

Raveena was still deciding when the door opened and Millie looked up. “Mr. Kapoor,” she said.

Raveena put the magazines away and prepared herself.

She was finally going to meet Randy Kapoor.