by Sonia Singh
Poonam wagged a finger. “Your brother would never talk to me like that.”
“That’s because you don’t bother him with talk of marriage and children,” Sachi argued.
“Actually, darling, I do. I nag him about it incessantly.”
“Oh, right,” Sachi said glumly.
Poonam sat back as the family servant, Juggu, entered to clear away the dishes. “Thank you, Juggu,” she said and lit up a cigarette with a fancy gold Zippo.
Raveena was surprised by Siddharth and Sachi’s mother. In Bollywood films, widows were always portrayed as subdued, white sari-wearing women whose only purpose in life was to see to their children’s happiness.
Poonam’s social calendar was full, she was very attractive, wore makeup, cut her hair short and wore a beautifully cut salwaar kameez that highlighted her trim figure.
When Raveena had commented on the lovely outfit, Poonam had patted Raveena’s cheek and said, “Thank you, darling, it’s a Ritu.”
Raveena’s Page Three reading was coming in handy. She knew Ritu Kumar was one of the top designers in India and regularly designed the outfits for India’s entry into the Miss Universe pageant.
“Sachi, I can’t stand it,” Poonam said, tapping her cigarette into the ashtray. “Please, darling, thread those eyebrows of yours.”
Sachi folded her arms across her thin chest. “Why? So I can become a sexual object like Siddharth? No thank you, Mummy.”
Mother and daughter continued to argue.
Meanwhile, Raveena realized the numerous Thums Ups she’d consumed at the studio were catching up with her.
“May I use your restroom?” she asked and then wondered if she should have waited for a gap in conversation before asking.
“Of course,” Sachi said. “But you’ll have to go upstairs. The downstairs loo isn’t working.” She pushed back her chair. “I’ll show you.”
“Finish your dinner,” Raveena said. “I’ll find it.”
“Darling, it’s up the stairs and the first door on your right. Directly across from Siddharth’s bedroom,” Poonam added.
Hmm.
After washing her hands, Raveena really had every intention of going back downstairs.
Well, maybe she’d only take a quick peek at Siddharth’s room.
She was only human.
In fact, she’d be considered rather odd if she were totally devoid of curiosity.
Ten minutes later Raveena was taking a casual peek into Siddharth’s closet to see if he favored the preppy or club look when his bedroom door swung wide open.
Damn.
Caught in the act.
How clichéd could you get?
Chapter 30
“What are you doing?” Sachi asked.
Raveena let out a deep breath. Thank God it was Sachi and not her brother. Still, the situation was a tad awkward. “I’m, ah, snooping through your brother’s things.” she admitted.
Sachi walked into the room. “Well, then, let me show you where he keeps the good stuff.”
Forty-five minutes later, Sachi and Raveena were sitting on Siddharth’s bed flipping through his photo albums after going through his drawers.
Raveena did feel a bit guilty about the drawer thing, but it had been Sachi’s idea after all.
“What’s going on here?” Siddharth demanded, standing in the doorway.
“Oh, hey, Sid,” Sachi said. “We’re just going through your stuff.”
“What’s this?” Raveena held up a heavy bronze statue.
“That’s his CineStar Award,” Sachi answered. “He won it for best actor. Stupid, huh?”
Raveena disagreed. “I don’t think so.”
“In a way, Sachi’s right.” Siddharth took the statue from Raveena. “The award shows are all rigged. It’s not like the Oscars.”
“Well,” Raveena said with a small smile, “Some people say the Oscars are all politics. If you play it right…”
“Darlings, where are you?” Poonam flowed into the room. “Siddharth, your dinner is getting cold.”
“Ma, I told you I ate dinner out.”
“Darling, you’re too thin,” Poonam protested. “All of you are too thin.”
Raveena was suddenly nervous she’d get stuck eating dinner again as well. “Actually, I think I’d better get going. Uncle Heeru will be worrying.”
Truth be told, when she’d called her uncle from the studio to tell him she wouldn’t be home for dinner, it had taken him a few minutes to remember who she was.
“This is Lavinia,” she’d said finally.
“Lavinia isn’t home,” Uncle Heeru said and hung up the phone.
“I’ll give Raveena a lift,” Siddharth said quickly, practically grabbing Raveena’s arm and propelling her towards the door.
“Wonderful, darling,” Poonam called out. “It’s too late for her to be taking an auto.”
“Bye,” Sachi leaned against the banister and waved.
“Bye,” Raveena waved back. “Come by the studio again, okay?”
“I will,” Sachi answered. “If I can get past all of Sid’s girlfriends.”
“Brat,” Siddharth muttered.
They exited the front door, and Siddharth punched the button for the lift. “Listen,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “I could use a drink. How about you?”
Uncle Heeru didn’t approve of alcohol, and Raveena hadn’t had a drink in ages. Her liver was happy, but she wasn’t.
“You read my mind,” Raveena said.
Chapter 31
Siddharth drove to Zenzi.
The sumptuous, glass-paneled, wood-floor lounge struck just the right chilled-out ambiance. Since it was the middle of the week, the room was populated but not crowded.
The manager nearly jumped when he saw Siddharth and immediately led them to a discreet table in a dark corner. He then insisted the first round would be on the house—a vodka martini for Raveena and a Scotch, neat, for Siddharth.
The music was low, soothing, a funky mix of western, Indian and Arabic notes, and Raveena recognized the beats of Buddha Bar. She had all six Buddha Bar CDs.
For a moment, surrounded by the décor and designer labels, sipping her expensive cocktail, Raveena felt as though she were in London or Tokyo, rather than a mile or two from some of the planet’s largest and most squalid slums.
But that thought was sort of a downer.
“Sachi invited me over for dinner,” Raveena explained, just in case Siddharth thought she had found out his address by stalking him.
“I knew Sachi would like you. I told her you were easy to talk to.”
Easy to talk to? She and Siddharth had hardly exchanged more than a few words.
Then again, according to Griffin, Raveena did a lot of emoting with her eyes.
“Sachi’s great,” Raveena said. “She may just be my first friend in Bollywood.” Although she and Nandini had sort of a bond. Nandini was teaching her Marathi—a local dialect—and Raveena was teaching her English.
There was a long gap of silence.
“Siddharth,” Raveena said suddenly, “what do you think of this film we’re doing? I don’t mean to be negative, but what was up with the scene we filmed today? The script doesn’t fully explain why Mumtaz hates Shah Jahan so much.”
Siddharth finished his drink and signaled the waiter for another round. “You have to understand. We need to appeal to a mass audience. These movies are pure entertainment. It’s an evening of escapism for poverty-stricken people, and the uneducated are not going to walk out of the theater asking, ‘Now what did the filmmaker mean by that?’”
“I think you and Randy Kapoor are underestimating the Indian audience,” Raveena said. “I was reading in Screen that out of every 250 films released in Bollywood, only one is a super-hit and five are hits. The producers of most of these movies are spending millions on shooting scenes in Switzerland and trying to cram in as many shots of the Alps as they can, but the audience—poor, rich, whatever—d
oesn’t buy it.”
Siddharth sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know…in my heart I try to stay hopeful. The Indian film industry is so important. What with all the communal violence in India…Muslim against Hindu, Hindu against Sikh and Brahmin versus untouchable…well, just look at the cast and crew of our film. Veer, our cinematographer is Sikh, I’m Hindu, and you’re—”
“Half Hindu, half Sikh.”
“Right, and the music composer, Hassan, is Muslim, Audrey D’Cunha, the makeup artist, is Catholic, and Lollipop…”
“What is Lollipop?” Raveena asked, curious.
Siddharth scratched his head. “I, ah, don’t know. But my point is that Bollywood is a unifier. And by the way, I hate the word ‘Bollywood.’ The Indian film industry is unique and complex, not some Hollywood offshoot. The South Indian film industry based in Madras—”
“Ah, Tollywood,” Raveena said with a smile. The regional language of Madras was Tamil. Tamil plus Hollywood…well one got the idea.
Siddharth looked as though he was going to argue, and then shook his head and smiled.
Damn those dimples, Raveena thought.
“I wish my mom could meet you,” she said.
A look of pure panic passed across Siddharth’s face.
Shit! “No, wait, I don’t mean…it’s not that I want to marry you or anything…”
Siddharth was now looking very afraid.
God damn it!
What was wrong with her? She’d only had two drinks, and she was by no means a lightweight. She took a deep breath. “When I was a kid, and I’m talking like four or five years old, my most vivid memories are of my mom and I curling up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and settling down for a three-hour Indian film. Inevitably, I’d fall asleep before the end, and my dad would come downstairs, pick me up and carry me back upstairs to my bed. We watched Sholay, Qurbaani, Laawaris…”
Raveena carefully watched Siddharth’s face and was relieved to see him relax.
“Your mom is a fan?” he asked.
“She’s seen every one of your films.”
Siddharth cocked his head and smiled.
Raveena felt her stomach clench, and it wasn’t from the rice pilaf.
Relax, she told herself. So you haven’t been on a date since the Clinton era. Get a grip.
Determined to not freak Siddharth out again by looking lovelorn, Raveena babbled on. “There was even this movie theater in downtown LA that used to show Bollywood movies. I would dress up in my pajamas, my mom would put pillows and blankets in the back of the station wagon and we would drive into LA with her friends and their kids. On the way home all the kids would curl up in the back and sleep.”
Siddharth opened his mouth to say something when the waiter sidled up. “Sir? Ma’am? Another drink?”
Siddharth looked down at his watch. Raveena noticed it was a Rolex. “We’d better go,” he said.
Raveena would have liked to stay the whole night, but that didn’t seem like something to say out loud. Siddharth paid the bill, and within minutes, his Mercedes had pulled up in front of Uncle Heeru’s house.
“Thank you for the drinks and the ride,” she said. She placed her hand on the door handle and waited, but it didn’t look like Siddharth was going to grab her and press his lips on hers.
Finally, he turned to her, his hazel eyes looking almost black in the darkness. Raveena caught her breath. “Is the door handle stuck?” he asked. He reached across her and opened the door.
“Thanks,” Raveena said flatly.
As soon as she was safely inside, Siddharth sped off, the smooth motor of his car soundless in the night.
Chapter 32
Days turned into weeks.
Siddharth continued to ignore her on the set except for the polite nod here and there.
Raveena continued to email her family and friends every morning from the Internet Café.
She and Sachi also began hanging out at least once a week, trying out different coffeehouses and restaurants. Their favorite place unanimously was the Dosa Diner in Bandra.
Raveena also got used to dialogue changes being scribbled on napkins moments before the camera rolled.
And Raveena refused to wear the wig that kept causing her to break out in a rash. It didn’t make sense anyway, how in one scene her hair was down to her butt and in the next she was sporting a curly perm—especially when both scenes supposedly took place on the same day.
Raveena was also not invited to any more Page Three parties. That’s what happened when the current “it” girl, Bani Sen, turned out to be your arch-nemesis.
Wasn’t that dramatic?
Raveena also began spending her off hours going to the movies with Nandini and Nanda.
And she finally began to get the Bollywood formula.
First of all, people burst into song in all kinds of unlikely places. The movie they saw on Monday featured the hero, chained up in a dungeon, breaking into song and executing a few dance moves with his shackled feet.
Secondly, while Raveena would begin rolling her eyes at the whopper of a plot—like the one where the bullet-ridden, unconscious son spurs to life when his mother’s honor is insulted and soundly thrashes the offender—the audience would burst into tears. Nandini and Nanda held each other and sobbed.
Third, Masala style basically meant a film that combined comedy, drama, romance and music together.
There were also a few key differences between a movie theater in India and one in America. American theaters didn’t carry masala-flavored Ruffles. American theaters didn’t have Nescafe coffee machines in the lobby. In American theaters your soda came in a plastic cup with ice.
Then again, one didn’t really want to order ice in an Indian movie theater because it was probably made from tainted water, and besides, all sodas were served in glass bottles, which you had to guzzle in the lobby before you returned to your seat.
American theaters did not have audience members whistling and stomping their feet every time a musical number came on. Nor did they have male audience members shouting at the heroine to “Shake it, baby!”
Lastly, American theaters did not have a special section for “ladies” where women could sit and not be bothered by the whistling, foot-stomping males.
When her movie came out, would the males in the audience whistle and shout, telling Raveena to “shake her rump!”?
Most probably.
Still, by spending all her off hours with Nandini and Nanda, she was able to learn a few things about Uncle Heeru. Like why he was so odd.
After seeing the latest Bollywood offering with the girls—a story that revolved around a beautiful village girl who enjoyed bathing under waterfalls and a handsome city boy whose parents forbade him to ever consort with village girls—Raveena returned home with the girls and learned that her uncle had been jilted at the altar by the love of his life.
“She was a Chinese woman,” Nandini whispered as she shelled peas for dinner.
Nanda, who was peeling potatoes, nodded in agreement.
“What happened?” Raveena asked.
“Your uncle joined his brother Jagdish in Hong Kong. Together they opened a jewelry store. One day this Chinese woman came into the store to buy some diamond earrings and that was it. Love at first sight.”
Raveena was in shock. One of Uncle Heeru’s favorite rants was against caste mixing. One should only marry someone from the same caste. And here he had fallen in love with someone not only from a different class, but a different culture.
Nanda picked up the rest of the tale. “Heeru and the Chinese woman began seeing each other in secret. But Jagdish found out and informed the other brothers and sisters. They were all dead-set against the match. But Heeru ignored his family and proposed to the woman with a ring he had designed himself. She agreed and a date was set. Heeru arrived at the church—”
Raveena interrupted, “A church?”
“Yes,” Nandini said. “The woman was Christian.”
Nanda threw the last peeled potato into a bowl and wiped her hands. “When Heeru arrived at the church, it was empty. He waited and waited, but neither the bride, nor her family, came. You see, the Chinese woman’s family was just as opposed to the marriage as Heeru’s. Only, she did not have the strength to disobey them in the end.”
“That is so sad,” Raveena said.
For the first time, Nanda smiled at Raveena and lightly touched her hand.
“Yes, it was very sad,” Nandini agreed. “Heeru left Hong Kong and returned to Bombay to take care of his aged mother. When she died she left the bungalow to him.”
Raveena suddenly empathized with her uncle’s bizarre behavior. However, his tragic romance did not fully explain why he continued to snooze under tables and inside the TV cabinet.
Maybe there was a story there as well?
Chapter 33
Raveena stopped insisting on a bound script and plot coherency from Randy.
It was like talking to a brick wall.
An extremely thick brick wall.
Especially when everyone else, even Siddharth, seemed content not to rock the boat.
Speaking of the boat scene…
Mumtaz—the warrior princess—escapes from Shah Jahan’s men and commandeers a boat to take her back home. She is halfway down the river when Emperor Shah Jahan leaps out from behind a mast and surprises her.
Mumtaz immediately pulls a scimitar she had somehow hidden inside a skirt that barely grazes her crotch and lunges at the emperor.
The two scuffle from the bow to the aft of the boat until Mumtaz finds herself positioned under Shah Jahan’s body. She struggles wildly, but he subdues her by pinning her arms above her head.
Mumtaz spits in his face, which apparently turns the emperor on, and his lips loom closer and closer until it looks as though the two are in for some tongue-twisting.