Busted in Bollywood

by Nicola Marsh

  However, I didn’t have time once we arrived. In Drew’s absence he’d entrusted us to his deputy, Desiree, a striking Eurasian woman of indeterminate age, who guided us through the extensive grounds.

  We skirted around the mayhem on two sets—a fight scene and a chase scene complete with galloping horses and cowboys, my latent paranoia kicking in as I surreptitiously checked for authentic Stetsons and sniffed the air for Brut. Unable to tell the cowboys apart, I was nonetheless relieved when we stopped at another set, this one featuring a huge fountain as a centerpiece. Fake Roman columns surrounded it, with a covered walkway leading to a gazebo, where a harem of women wearing buttercup, amaranth, and lilac saris spilled down the steps in riotous abandon.

  They clapped and twirled and cast coy glances at the male chorus, resplendent in burgundy turbans. My head spun with the noise and color and sheer numbers of extras involved.

  Watching a scene shot live would change the way I viewed Bollywood films forever, the vibrancy and animation astounding. The fantastic blur of color and music mesmerized me as I tapped my foot in time with the catchy tabla rhythm, wishing I could demonstrate the same joie de vivre of the actors. I was particularly impressed with the stunning sari-clad women dancing chakkars (pirouettes) and dhak dhaks (a dance step involving loads of titillating breast jerks), their grace and liveliness inspiring.

  Apparently, most male movie fans loved the dhak dhak. Not surprising, considering onscreen kisses were rare, and nudity nonexistent, so the odd breast shimmy—often in the rain for a little extra attention—was about as raunchy as it got. Movie audiences would have a group coronary if Stanley Kubrick produced here.

  As the music picked up tempo and the dancers whirled in compelling color, I didn’t know where to look first, like a kid on a trip to Disneyland.

  “You’ll like this, child. Holi is the Hindu festival of color and often used in film sequences. Look.” Anjali grabbed my arm in excitement and I followed her line of vision.

  “Wow.” I stared as a cast of hundreds threw bright powders and sprayed water on one another, dancing and singing and leaping in an astonishing kaleidoscope of color. Peacock blue mingled with emerald, ruby with sunshine yellow, a gorgeous mayhem free-for-all like a bunch of hyperactive preschoolers let loose with finger paints. I yearned to play.

  “Watch the heroine,” Anjali said, giggling at my goggle-eyed surprise. “More titty action.”

  Sure enough, the beautiful heroine with exotic almond-shaped green eyes and thick black hair falling to her waist in a sleek curtain emerged from the writhing masses, drenched from head to foot. Color speckled her sheer white chiffon sari and clung to her voluptuous body.

  Anjali shook her head. “Men are perverts.”

  I watched the heroine’s graceful movements, perfect body, and gorgeous smile, not blaming guys for a second.

  “If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” I said, a small part of me wishing I had one-tenth of the va-va-va-voom the actress had.

  “Girls of today have no shame,” Anjali said as the heroine flounced off with the handsome hero hot on her heels.

  I switched to watching another scene, where a group of women wearing micro-minis and crop tops was trying to entice a tall, leather-clad guy—the hero—away from a demure village girl, the love of his life by the way she made sickening goo-goo eyes at him.

  “The vamps in these films always wear scandalous Western clothes,” Anjali said, her frowning glance flicking over my own tight white bootleg jeans and flowing pink peasant top as if assessing my vamp factor.

  I must’ve passed the test because she returned to watching the action, including barsaat (rain) and wet saris, jhatkas (the jerks and dhak dhaks of many choreographed songs) and shy glances from the Queen Bee, the industry’s top heroine at the time. I’d never seen anything like the constant whir of motion, the frenetic pace, or the mind-boggling spectacle that went into making a Bollywood film.

  When the action wound down half an hour later and the director called ‘cut,’ sweat trickled down my back in rivulets from standing too long and I jumped at Desiree’s offer of a drink.

  We wound our way between giant sound stages and trucks filled with electronic equipment to a small refreshment tent teeming with actors. Desiree parted the crowd and we bustled to the front, organizing our tea before I gratefully sunk into a canvas chair.

  I sipped my chai, half-listening to Anjali and Desiree gush, debating the assets of megastar hotties Shah Rukh Khan, Salman Khan, and Akshay Kumar while ogling some seriously prime beefcake. If I didn’t live half a world away and had sworn off guys, I could’ve easily fallen in lust with any number of the buffed guys strutting around the tent.

  When we’d finished, Desiree took us behind the scenes of another film, an epic featuring star-crossed lovers, a murdered father, a vengeful son, and a ghost, making my taste in rom-coms seem decidedly tame.

  We watched a dazzling dance sequence; a huge cast of whirring, gyrating, hand-thrusting demons dressed in rainbow-colored saris bounced around in the scorching heat. They maintained smiles during the high-octane performance, until the cameras stopped rolling and they flopped onto the nearest crate/chair/piece of ground to moan about the bastard producer and the lousy pay.

  The chai revived me because I could’ve sat and watched Bollywood at its best forever. Every aspect fascinated me. When the scene wound down, we moved indoors to a vast area where musicians dubbed the score for the films.

  Anjali glanced around. “Is Senthil Rama here today?”

  “He sure is,” Desiree said, with a beaming smile for the first time today. “He’s the best tabla player in Mumbai and we’re lucky he works here. Do you know him?”

  Anjali shrugged. “We’re old friends.”

  “Then you must say hello.”

  “Just a quick one. I’m sure he’s busy.” Anjali appeared disinterested but I couldn’t figure why she wanted to say hi to Senthil. It wasn’t like she had to impress the guy on my behalf considering I wouldn’t see him again once I headed back to NYC. And Anu wasn’t around, so it couldn’t be to aggravate her. Unless her deviousness extended to hoping Senthil would report back to Anu? Considering her loathing for the woman, I wouldn’t put it past Anjali. Or maybe the mystique in Rita’s plan was getting to me and I was searching for clues that weren’t there.

  Desiree nodded. “Yes, he’s in great demand.”

  I didn’t feel like greeting my pretend father-in-law. In fact, I’d been extremely lucky so far, only seeing the Ramas at their house once. Though I knew my luck wouldn’t hold, as Rakesh had mumbled something about a farewell dinner when I’d left Eye-on-I yesterday.

  A dinner party with Mama Rama ranked right up there with my annual gyno visit: things we have to do but hate.

  I waved them away. “Go ahead. I’ll rest here while you say hello.”

  “We won’t be long.” Desiree and Anjali chattered about their favorite Bollywood films as they went in search of the Tabla King.

  I sat on the nearest director’s chair, wondering whose famous butt graced the canvas before mine. Hoping Senthil’s groupies wouldn’t be long, I slouched into it, the combination of a full stomach and the heavy afternoon heat acting like a sleeping drug. As my eyelids drooped, I caught a strong waft of Brut as someone sat next to me and I registered their feet before I dozed.

  Nice boots.

  My eyelids drooped.

  Fancy cowboy boots.

  I needed matchsticks to pry open my eyelids, they were that heavy.

  Shit.

  My eyes sprung open as I registered where I’d seen a pair of these great boots recently. And the psycho they were attached to.

  Faking a yawn, I sat up straighter and reached for my bag, rummaging in it for any weapon I could find. My choices were limited: stab him with a Sky High Curl mascara wand, clamp him with a
n eyelash curler, or gloss him with Glam Shine.

  Fight wasn’t an option so I prepared for flight, not that my heels had anything on the Nikes I kept in storage back home. Before I could spring/leap/dash like I’d seen Cameron Diaz do in Charlie’s Angels, I sensed movement and braced for the Lone Ranger’s lasso.

  “Excuse me, but I had to tell you I’m your greatest fan, Miss Rai. I know you must hear this all the time but your work far surpasses anyone else’s and your screen presence alone brings joy to my heart.”

  A polite stalker. Who would’ve thought?

  Ready to settle this confusion once and for all, I deliberately voided any expression from my face and turned toward him.

  Yep, it was the guy who’d stared at my window that night and probably the same one who’d delivered the stinky note. The Lone Ranger in the flesh, complete with Stetson shading his face.

  Though his body could’ve rivaled Mr. Universe, his face was nothing to rave about: average brown eyes, average nose, and thin lips. In fact, everything about his face read average, which probably helped in his line of work: Stalking 101.

  “Sorry, there’s been a mistake. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not an actress. Never have been, unless you count my pathetic rendition of Sandi from Grease in high school and—”

  I came to an abrupt stop, realizing I was babbling and the Ranger’s eyes gleamed now that his supposed idol had deemed to talk to him. Not that I wasn’t the teensiest bit flattered. He thought I was Aishwarya Rai Bachan, a former Miss Universe and stunning screen star. If he had to confuse me with someone, she was a glamorous start.

  His lips stretched into a scary smile, underscoring the fanatical glint in his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend with me. The minute I spotted you at the airport, I knew who you were. I saw that you’ve left your husband and are staying with some relative, doing your best to act poor, but I’ve seen you’ve reverted to taking limos, as you should. You deserve the best and hopefully, someday soon, you’ll realize I can give you that.”

  The guy was seriously loco, and, worse, he’d been watching me. At the airport, at Anjali’s place. I knew I’d seen him when I’d entered the limo. And what about the other times I’d glimpsed that hat… yikes! I remembered: the guy who’d bumped into me near the terminal when I’d first arrived, then again when I’d visited Film City first time around and rushed to Anjali’s aid.

  Shit, the guy had Stalking 101 down pat. A thousand bizarre scenarios ranging from kidnapping to chloroform flashed through my mind, and I knew I had to end this right here, right now.

  “Listen, buster. You’re way off base. I’m not Aishwarya Rai Bachan.” I stressed the star’s married name, which he’d probably deleted deliberately in his delusional state. “And if you want proof, hang around ’til my aunt gets back. She’ll set you straight.”

  Knowing Anjali, she’d probably take one look at the Lone Ranger’s body and start interviewing him as prospective husband material.

  For the first time since we’d started talking, his dazed, starstruck expression gave way to fear mingled with admiration. “I saw what she did to Kapil. She’s quite a woman.”

  My panic bordered on hysteria and I calmed my voice with effort. “You were stalking me the other day, too?”

  “Stalking? This isn’t stalking. This is destiny.” He drew out the last word, the apparent fear at what Anjali might do to him replaced by a hopeful expression.

  “Destiny my ass,” I muttered, tired, grumpy, and craving New York like I never had. At least the psychos there settled for mugging you, not pledging their undying love. “Does Miss Rai star in films made here?”

  I used her well-known single name so I wouldn’t rile him un-necessarily.

  “Yes, you do. I’ve worshipped you from afar for too long so when fate intervened and I saw you at the airport without that stupid husband of yours, I knew I had to make my declaration. Being so close to you, yet not having contact, has acted like an arrow through my heart.”

  Nice. He was taking the Western theme to poetic extremes now. Being so close… uh-oh. “You work here?”

  Didn’t places like this have screening tests for psychos?

  He nodded, puffing out his pecs with pride. “I’m an extra. I play bad guys because of my body. I’m very good.”

  Risking a quick glance at his broad chest, I took his word for it.

  Inspiration struck. “I’m filming today?”

  He looked at me like I’d sprouted horns. “Of course, that’s why you’re here. Luckily, I’m in the same sequence, too, and we get to be onscreen together for the first time. Told you it was destiny.”

  I had two options. Wait for Anjali and Desiree to return and go through the rigmarole of convincing him I wasn’t Aishwarya—which he probably wouldn’t believe because he thought Anjali was in on the hide-my-identity thing—or go with him to the set and show him the real actress.

  No-brainer.

  “Speaking of filming, you better hurry,” he said. “You need to get into costume. I’d be honored if you accompanied me to the set.”

  Nodding, I stood before he could offer me a hand and tried not to look too indecisive. Knowing the Ranger’s one-track mind, he’d probably take it as another red herring I was throwing to my adoring public.

  Thankfully, the set wasn’t far and we reached it without incident. This guy must be seriously blind not to realize I wasn’t the stunning actress. Apart from the occasional smile from people who passed, no one fell at my feet, thrust an autograph book in my face, or begged for a photo.

  “It has been a privilege.”

  Before I could react, he’d taken hold of my hand and bowed over it, the rim of his Stetson colliding with my fake Fendi, which I hung onto for grim death. If nothing inside it was weapon-worthy, the gold clasp might prove useful to take out an eye if swung in the right trajectory.

  With further protests wasted, I waited for him to release my hand, then spied a woman exit a nearby tent, followed by an entourage that would’ve done the president proud. I couldn’t see her face, cloaked in a chiffon veil. Or her body covered in a billowing cerise sari. But the phalanx of foot soldiers around her was a dead giveaway.

  I turned to the Lone Ranger. “You still think I’m Ms. Rai?”

  He nodded, his guilty expression indicating he was tiring fast of me refusing to acknowledge the truth. I’d give him the freaking truth.

  “Then who’s that?”

  He followed my line of vision and, thank you God, his eyes bulged as he registered his object of lust and computed it wasn’t me. “B-but—but—”

  “Butt is right,” I muttered. Butthead. “Now do you believe me?”

  Eyes wide and stricken, he stared at the movie star and her entourage disappearing onto a set. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. Sorry. Please don’t report me. I’ll atone for my mistake. I’ll offer up many prayers. Please, I beg you.”

  I should’ve kicked his sorry ass to the studio gates for being an obsessive weirdo, but I knew what it was like to lust after someone only to have the veil ripped from your eyes. I frowned, putting on my best disgruntled face. “Next time a woman tells you something, believe her. As for Ms. Rai, quit stalking her. She’d be less forgiving than me and have you arrested, capish?”

  He nodded, his mouth downturned, and as I walked away I’m sure I heard him mutter, “Destiny is dead.”

  …

  Only one thing could distract me from my brush with a lunatic. Retail therapy.

  In the car on the way to Crawford Market, I listened to Anjali rave about the music scores she’d been privy to for the latest blockbuster thanks to Senthil. She loved showbiz and I waited a while for a lull in conversation to tell her about my stalker.

  When she took a breath, I said, “Remember that hand-delivered letter?”

  “F
rom the handsome young man?” She held her arms a yard apart. “With shoulders this big?”

  I nodded. “That’s the one. Turns out he was stalking me. Thought I was Aishwarya Rai Bachan.”

  She laughed so hard, kohl streaked her cheeks.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Glad some crazy guy following me is so amusing.”

  She patted my hand, the odd chortle escaping. “Men are so stupid.”

  “Why? Because he mistook me for a gorgeous movie star?”

  She shook her head. “No, because if he liked you, why not approach you directly rather than skulk around?”

  Not appeased, I mock frowned. “But you laughed at the case of mistaken identity.”

  She sighed. “Shari, dear, any fool would know you’re not Aishwarya. You’re living in my house, you’re driving around in a battered Beamer, and there’s no sign of Aishwarya’s gorgeous husband anywhere.”

  I forgave her for the raucous laughter, considering she hadn’t mentioned I was nowhere near as beautiful as the stunning Aishwarya Rai Bachan.

  She made odd clucking noises with her tongue. “Shame, though, he could’ve been good husband material for you—”

  “Is that the market?” Happy for the distraction as Buddy stopped the car, I pointed at the huge building, which looked like it’d been transported from Paris to Mumbai.

  Anjali nodded. “Not what you were expecting?”

  Stunned, I noted the artistic blend of Norman and Flemish architectural styles, the clock tower adorned with beautiful Victorian carvings, and the impressive frieze over the main entrance depicting peasants in wheat fields.

  “Wow,” I mouthed, as we stepped from the car and Anjali took my elbow, her proud strut making me smile.

  As we entered the main pavilion, a heady wave of aromas washed over me. Pungent, freshly ground spices—cumin, coriander and garam masala—interspersed with tangy lime and succulent mango and petite Lady Finger bananas.

  I inhaled and my stomach grumbled. Looked like I’d caught Anjali’s ravenous disease.