by Sonia Singh
“It can’t be easy,” he said. “Away from your family and friends. Thrown into the masala moviemaking.”
“Masala?”
He smiled. “Another word for mainstream Indian filmmaking.”
“Oh.” She laughed. “I like that.”
Siddharth liked her laugh. For some reason, it made the tension in him ease away.
“How do you like working on this film?” Raveena asked.
Siddharth shrugged. “It’s the same kind of role I’m used to. I’m tired of being typecast.”
Raveena snorted.
Siddharth turned to her in surprise.
“Sorry,” she said, “but you don’t know the first thing about being typecast. You’re the biggest actor in India. This is the first leading role I’ve ever been offered in my entire career, and it’s not even in the same hemisphere.”
“I have my pick of roles?” Siddharth said, outraged. “The audience, the producers, the directors only want me to play the same character over and over again. The strong romantic hero. I want to play drug dealers and mafia dons or maybe even a transsexual who dresses in saris and sings at weddings.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
Siddharth hesitated. He wasn’t used to spilling his secrets, but Raveena seemed truly interested, not just pretending. “I played a man who seduces young women and then forces them into prostitution,” Siddharth smiled in remembrance. “It was wonderful fun.”
“What happened?”
He was suddenly bitter. “The movie failed miserably. It was a total bomb.”
Raveena crossed her legs and adjusted her dress. Siddharth was distracted by the smooth curve of her thigh. There was something very sexy about that dress, the way it seemed so conservative but then revealed a sudden flash of creamy skin. He gazed at Raveena thoughtfully.
“Big deal,” she said. “So the movie bombed.”
“So? So people in Bihar actually began rioting and threatened to burn down the theater. They didn’t spend their hard-earned money to see me play a villain.”
“What I mean is…didn’t you ever have one of your so-called formulaic films flop?”
He thought about it. “Yes, two or three actually.”
“Well, see!”
“See what?” he demanded.
“Maybe your villainous film just sucked? Maybe it had nothing to do with your performance.” she said. “But that was one film! Even Tom Hanks doesn’t have a super hit with each and every film.”
Raveena had a point, Siddharth thought. He’d enjoyed Tom Hanks’s film The Terminal, but it hadn’t struck a chord with audiences, and it had been directed by Steven Spielberg! “Now, this is what my manager Javed should be telling me,” he said aloud.
Raveena laughed. “You know,” she mused. “I can’t remember what I was crying about before.”
“Sid! What are you doing out here?”
Bani Sen stood before them.
“Oh, right,” Raveena murmured. “Now I remember.”
Chapter 24
Raveena wondered if anyone had ever thought of constructing a BOLLYWOOD sign amid the parched hills above Bombay.
Then again, what with the heat haze, exhaust fumes, sea mists and monsoon showers, the sign would most likely be barely visible.
Anyway, Raveena didn’t need a sign to remind her she was in Bollywood.
The fact that there was a Moroccan dance number in the middle of a film about the Taj Mahal…that was sign enough.
Raveena was lifted up by a team of male dancers and placed before Siddharth in the makeshift tent.
The dance didn’t seem to advance the plot at all. All Lollipop had said was, “It’s a slave dance, very come-hither, seductive and sexy. You’ve been captured by Siddharth and are his slave. But he will become a slave to your heart.”
Got it.
Randy had spent the previous winter in Marrakech and wanted to incorporate the look into his film.
Raveena was sort of proud of herself for learning the dance moves in one solid hour.
She swayed before Siddharth, her veils flying as she spun, and prayed the material wouldn’t snag on her teeth.
She hadn’t seen Siddharth after their conversation at Randy’s party. He’d been quiet on the set as well, staying in his trailer and watching movies.
Raveena felt he could have at least invited her in to join him.
She didn’t have a trailer.
She did have an air-conditioned dressing room, though, and had spent most of her time there finishing Hurray for Bollywood.
But now, as Siddharth placed his hands around her waist and pulled her against his chest, she could swear the intense way he gazed at her wasn’t just acting.
Or was it?
And what was up with him and that Bani bitch?
“Cut!” Lollipop shouted.
The music stopped, and Siddharth dropped Raveena as if she had an infectious skin disorder.
“I’ve got it!” Randy shouted, running into the studio and waving a stack of bound paper.
They all turned to face him.
Looks like Randy has finally finished the script, Raveena thought.
“I just finished the first five scenes.” Randy said happily.
Several of the people in the studio began clapping.
Raveena glanced at Siddharth, but he had a bored look on his face.
Oh well, she shrugged.
It was time to start memorizing lines.
And then she realized something.
Mumtaz Mahal, the seventeenth-century Mughal Empress of India, was going to have an American accent.
Raveena decided to go to the Karma Productions office and approach Daddy instead of Randy with her request.
It wasn’t a hard call. Daddy never ogled her breasts or pinched her ass and ran away giggling.
“It’s essential for suspension of disbelief that my Hindi be flawless,” she pointed out after she’d taken a seat. “The audience needs to feel like they’re in seventeenth-century India.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Millie said, entering the office. “But the set designer is on the phone and would like to know when she should begin production on the Eiffel Tower replica.”
Raveena cocked an eyebrow. “Eiffel Tower?”
Millie smiled. “Oh yes, ma’am, for the eight wonders of the world song sequence. The designer has done a wonderful job. Wait until you see.”
The Eiffel Tower was built in 1889. Mumtaz Mahal and Shah Jahan had met in 1607.
Raveena uncocked her eyebrow.
So much for suspension of disbelief.
“Thank you, Millie,” Daddy said. He reached for the telephone and smiled at Raveena. “I think a dialect coach is an excellent idea. I know just the one.”
Exiting Karma Productions, Raveena sucked in her breath as the air-conditioned coolness was replaced with intense heat.
She sucked in her breath again when she was nearly side-swiped by a familiar green BMW.
Randy lowered his window and winked at her. “Raveena, baby, can I give you a lift?”
She opened her mouth to say no when the cool, recycled air inside the car bathed her face. Auto-rickshaws filled with sweaty passengers zoomed up and down the road.
On one hand, she’d have a cool ride but one shared with Randy and his cologne-doused body. On the other, she’d be Randy-free but sucking exhaust in the back of a rickshaw.
She made eye contact with the AK-47-wielding guard in front of the building, but he didn’t help her with making a decision.
“Screw it,” she muttered and jumped in Randy’s car.
“So what were you doing here?” Randy asked. “Looking for me?” He pursed his lips suggestively. “How about dinner tonight? I’ll drop you, go home, have a shower and change.”
Raveena had an image of Randy in his black leather chaps minus the jeans and gagged. She cleared her throat. “Actually, I came to see Daddy about hiring a dialect coach. He agreed.”
Randy’s e
xpression became sulky. “Daddy’s not the director. I am. You should have approached me. I would have said yes.”
The next few minutes were decidedly sulk-filled.
“So,” Randy pouted. “Will you have dinner with me tonight? There’s no shooting tomorrow.”
Raveena had another decision to make. She longed to say no. Still, she was working hard to make her role a success. It didn’t seem smart to hire a dialect coach to help her perfect her acting ability and then annoy the director.
“Dinner sounds like fun,” she spit out.
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow would be better.” She needed twenty-four hours to mentally prepare herself.
“Tomorrow night then,” Randy agreed. “It’s a date.”
Raveena stared out the window as Randy turned up the volume and began rocking out to the Turkish techno beat.
She gave him a sideways glance. His arms were soft and flabby.
Tomorrow night with Randy, if worse came to worse…
She could easily take him.
Chapter 25
The next day was Tuesday, and Raveena spent the morning with the dialect coach.
Mrs. Mirza lived in a brightly decorated one-bedroom flat with her husband. Both her children were grown and settled in America.
Mrs. Mirza had a doctorate in Hindi and had been a lecturer at St. Xavier’s College before she retired. “We will work on accent reduction and modification,” she said in her light lilting voice.
After a morning spent with the jolly, gray-haired woman, Raveena learned how tongue placement and the usage of different mouth muscles could make her indistinguishable from a native Hindi speaker.
She couldn’t wait to try her accent out on her parents. They usually laughed at her when she tried to say certain Hindi words. Raveena thought their behavior rude, which only caused them to laugh more.
As a result of their excellent session, Raveena was back at Uncle Heeru’s for lunch.
Her uncle was pleased to see her, and for a moment she couldn’t understand why.
And then it dawned on her.
It was Tuesday.
Temple time.
Uncle Heeru took Raveena to Siddhivinayak.
The 250-year-old temple was devoted to Lord Ganesh and located in central Bombay.
It was also the first Hindu temple to go online.
Uncle Heeru explained that followers from across the globe regularly made donations to the temple via the Web site.
Apparently, all you had to do was Google Ganesh.
Uncle Heeru went to Siddhivinayak every Tuesday.
And as they pulled up in his old white Ambassador, Raveena realized that a majority of Bombayites did too.
Tuesday was the most auspicious day of the week and the crowds rivaled those of Disneyland on a summer afternoon.
Uncle Heeru had already crossed the busy street and was heading into the thicket of devotees without looking back to see where Raveena was.
Praying to Lord Ganesh she wouldn’t become road kill, Raveena took a deep breath and darted across the traffic-clogged thoroughfare.
Barefoot, Uncle Heeru was waving at her from the side of the temple. “Lavinia!” he shouted.
“You must remove your shoes here,” he said as she joined him.
“Here?” Aghast, she looked down at her favorite pair of Cole Haan slides.
She knew she’d have to remove her shoes but she hadn’t expected the hordes of suspicious-looking worshippers.
Raveena spied a man who was taking shoes and giving people a ticket in return. She ran over to him and handed over her shoes, the required ten rupees and took the dirty paper slip with a number on it.
He then let loose a stream of betel juice from the corner of his mouth, and half of it splashed on her bare feet.
“What are you doing?” Uncle Heeru demanded. “This man is not to be trusted.”
“Well, I can’t just leave my shoes by the side of the road. Won’t they be stolen?”
“Most probably,” Heeru said philosophically. “Come now.”
Having been well-trained by her mother, Raveena had brought a scarf and now wrapped that over her hair and joined the snake-like queue of people waiting to get into the temple.
As they neared the door she noticed they didn’t have any offerings.
She poked Uncle Heeru in the back. “We can’t go inside empty-handed. I’ll go and buy some flowers.” An old woman was selling marigolds near the entrance.
Uncle Heeru reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out two Almond Joy bars and handed one to her. “This will make the God happy. He loves coconut.” He cast a disdainful look at the flower-seller. “What will he do with wilted blossoms?”
Holding the candy bar and whispering a prayer of apology to Lord Ganesh if it was melted, Raveena shuffled her feet and entered the temple.
The smell of sandalwood inside the darkened interior was intense.
The combination of smoke and heat made her head spin as she was jostled and pushed forward by the crowd.
“You will only get thirty seconds in front of the God,” Uncle Heeru said.
“What?”
Maybe it was due to the close proximity of their Lord, or the heady scent of sandalwood, but the worshippers behind Raveena began to shove with abandon.
People began to chant.
Jai Ganesh! Deva!
Before she realized it, Raveena found herself mumbling. “Jai Ganesh. Jai Ganesh.”
The air grew thick, and as the smoke parted she realized Uncle Heeru was no longer in front of her.
The crowd, overcome with divine love and passion, surged forward, and Raveena was nearly knocked to the floor.
She grabbed hold of the railing, looked up and found herself directly in front of an immense black marble statue of Ganesh.
It was magnificent.
The people behind were pushing for their turn to stand in the line of God, and she quickly put the Almond Joy at the feet of the statue and closed her eyes in prayer. An immense feeling of serenity washed over her. She prayed for her family and friends. And since Ganesh was the remover of obstacles, Raveena prayed her time in Bollywood would turn out for the best.
Well, she did have a career to think of.
The next moment the woman behind her shoved and she was forced to move forward.
Outside, she took a breath of fresh air and her head immediately cleared.
Raveena returned to the shoe guy and retrieved her slides—intact and safe.
She then bought a bottle of water to wash her feet before sliding them back into her shoes.
It was almost three, she was ravenous, and Uncle Heeru was nowhere to be found.
However, his ancient white Ambassador was still parked by the side of the road.
Her growling stomach couldn’t wait, so she headed for the nearest snack stand.
Raveena bought a large paper plate of Bombay chaat. A spicy mix of rice krispies smothered in potatoes, tamarind and mint chutney, yogurt and various masalas.
It was heaven.
And she wasn’t just saying that because she stood near a temple.
Ever since her illness, Raveena had been able to eat anything and everything without a hint of indigestion. It was like she’d developed a gut of iron.
She wolfed her snack down and looked for a trashcan.
There were none, of course. She’d yet to see a single trashcan in the entire country.
People were throwing their empty plates onto the street.
Raveena nudged the little girl who’d just thrown her can of coke into the gutter. “You know the best thing about India?”
The little girl looked at her curiously.
Raveena smiled. “You can toss the trash on the floor.”
The girl walked away.
“I’m kidding!” Raveena called after her.
She took her empty plate back to the vendor. “Please dispose of this. I don’t believe in littering.”
T
he man took her plate and then chucked it into the bushes behind him.
Whatever.
Turning around, Raveena finally spotted her uncle.
He was weaving drunkenly through the crowd.
“Uncle Heeru!” She ran towards him.
His white hair was sticking up in all different directions, his glasses were hanging precariously on the end of his nose, and his shirt was stained and partially unbuttoned.
“What happened?” she asked.
He smiled sluggishly. “Do you know how to drive?”
Raveena looked out at the traffic-clogged road. Buses careening wildly, taxis weaving in and out ignoring stop-lights, and street kids and beggars darting between the cars.
Raveena turned back to Heeru who was tilting from side to side.
Damn!
Chapter 26
By the grace of Ganesh, Raveena hoped to make it safely back to the house.
As it turned out, Uncle Heeru had mistakenly drunk what he thought was ordinary buttermilk, but really was buttermilk spiked with an opiate.
Not as uncommon as it sounds.
The drink, bhang, is commonly sold in many religious spots throughout India.
The alternate reality produced by bhang is thought to bring one closer to god.
So as Raveena negotiated Bombay traffic, her hands clenching the wheel in a death grip, Uncle Heeru deliriously described the sexual encounter he’d just had with the Goddess Lakshmi.
“Why don’t you try and sleep, Uncle Heeru?” Raveena said, as she shifted clunking gears.
“Very good, Lavinia,” Heeru mumbled, closing his eyes.
Luckily for Raveena, the city of Bombay was basically composed of one main road. All she needed to do was keep going straight until she hit Turner—the large petrol station on the corner would serve as her landmark—and then make a left. Unfortunately there was only one lane going each way and the traffic was horrendous.
Raveena had a sudden longing for LA gridlock.
She focused on just going straight, driving at a snail’s pace, and trying not to get sucked up into the melee of taxis, motorbikes, buses and, yes, once again, the odd cow.
At every junction, demigods of the Indian screen gazed down on her from enormous billboards. The muscle-heavy actor Salman Khan brandished a machine gun in the ad for his new movie. The star of Bride and Prejudice, Aishwariya, pouted behind designer shades.