Busted in Bollywood

by Nicola Marsh

My head leaned on his shoulder for a moment, my heart filled with warmth for this genuinely nice guy. “Rita’s a lucky girl.”

  He squeezed my shoulders. “If you can convince her of that I’ll be eternally grateful.”

  I chuckled and elbowed him away. “Sorry, you’re on your own, buddy. I’ll arrange a meeting, that’s it.”

  “Fair enough.” He bundled me into his arms for a quick hug before setting me back. “See you in New York.”

  “You bet.”

  I watched him stride down the cracked path toward his car, crossing my fingers Rita would fall for him. She deserved someone like Rakesh—she just didn’t know it yet.

  As the driver pulled away from the curb, Rakesh waved and I waved back, strangely nostalgic my stint as a stand-in fiancée had come to an end. Not that I’d want to repeat the craziness but it’d been fun, in a stressful, lunatic kind of way.

  The tickets weighed in my palm and I squinted at them, filled with a mix of curiosity and optimism, intrigued by what I may find in my birthplace and hopeful it would stand me in good stead for what was still to come.

  …

  A day later, after a two-hour train and bus trip, I arrived in Arnala, my mom’s hometown and the place I popped into the world, kicking and screaming by all accounts.

  A small fishing village north of Mumbai, and nestled on the Arabian Sea, Arnala boasted a population of 8,000, about 6,000 of those fishermen and their families. No prizes for guessing where my love of seafood came from.

  Mom had regaled me with tales of the town’s landlord predecessors, who’d lost their land to farmers after Independence, but the stories had meant nothing. Until now. The weirdest thing? The moment I stepped off the bus and a bunch of locals sitting under a huge banyan tree checking out the new arrivals ogled me, I felt at home.

  Inherently corny, but I was grasping at something, anything, to fill the void inside me, an emptiness that had blossomed over the last three months with every failed job interview, with every night I lay in the boxlike spare room in Rita’s apartment, with every crying jag over my stupidity at falling for some loser’s lies.

  I’d traveled halfway across the world to participate in a crazy scheme for my best friend’s benefit, yet it was this day trip that had me more excited than I’d been in a long time.

  Since Rakesh had given me the tickets and a map with directions to my mom’s house courtesy of his online PIs, I’d been mulling my past, particularly the last three months. While my heart had healed I still harbored deep resentment. Toward Tate for his duplicity and toward myself for being stupidly naïve.

  I needed to move forward, and I’d pinned my hopes on this side trip bringing me some sense of wholeness, a sense of completion that would propel me forward, allow me to release any residual bitterness, and embrace what the future held.

  Philosophical bullshit? Maybe. Whatever it was, stepping onto the dusty path that led to my mom’s old home felt right.

  I strolled through the town, unsure where to look first, surprised to find it exactly how Mom used to describe it: three grocery shops, two small restaurants, several tailors, a pharmacy, and a few paan-wallas, the Indian equivalent of a tobacco shop. A huge Catholic church dominated the scenery, as did a nearby lighthouse, and I wished I could remember the first three years of my life that I’d spent here.

  I couldn’t recall a snippet, and I trudged along the narrow road, wide enough to allow one bus max, hoping that seeing my ancestral home would give me half the pleasure I’d anticipated.

  My first glimpse of the house blew me away.

  Two stories, pale-lemon, with blue-trimmed windows, a balcony on the second floor, and a veranda on the ground leading to a duck-egg blue double door. A door I could imagine opening to welcome visitors, a door closing to secure its occupants.

  I struggled to remember, rubbing my temples, closing my eyes… but when I reopened them, the house remained the same, my memories of time spent here as a toddler long gone. I glanced past the house, set amidst two acres of coconut and mango plantations, the humid air heavy with the fragrant jasmine growing in wild abundance.

  The house, the plantation, the flowers overloaded my senses as pride, nostalgia, and regret warred within me.

  Proud this was part of my heritage.

  Reminiscent over the stories Mom had told about this place, this village, this country.

  Regret I hadn’t visited sooner.

  I might be a New Yorker and proud of it, but standing in front of this house, taking in the pineapple and jackfruit trees, the garden overflowing with sunflowers, Duke of Tuscany, and an old-fashioned well, was incredibly humbling.

  Being here shamed me. I should’ve embraced my heritage long before this but I’d snubbed it, preferring to immerse myself in a multicultural USA without a thought for where I’d come from or what it meant. Yeah, Mom was Indian and yeah, my best friend was Indian, but basically, Indian in New York meant take-out and Bollywood DVD rentals to me. Sad but true. Thankfully, coming here had changed all that.

  I stared at the house a few moments longer, trying to picture a small child with long, black, plaited hair running among the mango trees, playing hide and seek with the ayah. Mom told me that had been my favorite game, but the harder I tried to conjure up the memory, the more my eyes blurred.

  Blaming the stinking heat and the omnipresent dust for the tears, I dashed a hand across my eyes and walked another 200 yards to the beach. Rather than the deserted, tranquil stretch of black sand Mom had described, progress had hit with a vengeance as hordes of Mumbai-ians on day-trips crowded the sand, buying food from hawkers and littering the beach with plastic.

  Ignoring the messy crowd, I slipped off my sandals and strolled across the hot sand, focusing on the fort rising majestically out of the ocean like a watchful landlord casting an eye over proceedings. It sat on an island a few miles out to sea, with a mosque and a temple peacefully co-existing inside.

  I’d have to take a ferry to check it out. Mom had told me a weird story about the community of fishermen who lived inside and I’d never forgotten it. Despite being surrounded by ocean, the fort had a large hexagonal freshwater reservoir inside. No one could explain how or why this freshwater never diminished over the centuries despite minimal rain and no source. Probably another of her tall tales, but India was the land of mystery. While I was here I’d learned to open my mind to a world of possibilities.

  When Mom had first told me I’d thought the tale ranked right up there with wearing black bangles to ward off the evil eye, but after Kapil’s stint at telling my fortune and his uncanny accuracy so far, I reserved my judgment.

  What were the old coot’s words? Something about a rich man and me making decisions? Harmless at the time, or so I’d thought. Yet here I was, contemplating my future and doing just that.

  Would anything happen with Drew? Would I ever trust a guy enough to let him close to my heart again? Would I ever have the HEA I’d always hoped for?

  Damned if I knew, but somehow, standing near the place I was born seemed to infuse me with calm and clarity of purpose I never dreamed possible.

  Being here felt right. Fated.

  Perhaps all I had to do was believe in myself again and let the cosmos deal me the next karmic hand.

  I hoped to return sometime in the future. There was something seductive in the chaos. India charmed me with its boldness and excitement and energy, and tempted me to see more of this intriguing country.

  Mom would be thrilled when I told her my plan to save money and tour her homeland. Added incentive to find my next job when I returned to NYC. Maybe I could try something new, something utilizing my legal secretary skills. I enjoyed preparing, proofing, and editing documents. Excelled at it, according to my last HR performance review. Something in publishing, perhaps? An intern position to get me started? Something fres
h and new that paid enough for me to get back here ASAP.

  I’d been going through the motions job-searching the last three months, trying to heal emotionally while surviving physically. No more. No more bumming on Rita and staying in her apartment, no more lackadaisical interviews. When I got back, I’d nail a job and start saving. Whatever I ended up doing, I had this country to thank for my renewed enthusiasm.

  For now, time to head home. Ol’ Blue Eyes (Frankie, not Drew) couldn’t have summed it up any better when he crooned about wanting to be a part of it. I’d found a new lease on life in Mumbai and discovered inner resilience… but New York was definitely where I was at.

  chapter eight

  “Can’t believe I’ve come home to this.” I spun a 360 as Rita opened the blinds, late afternoon sunlight spilling into the loft apartment and bathing it in a welcoming glow.

  “Believe it. My cuz won’t need it for six months, you’ve come up with the rent, it’s yours.”

  I absentmindedly rubbed my third finger, where Tate’s ruby had once resided. Thanks to that ring and the rest of the expensive trinkets he’d bought me, I’d been able to pawn it all and make rent on this place for the coming months. Another step in purging the past and embracing my future. It felt good. What would feel even better? Not having to rely on my amazing best friend to keep coming through for me. Rita’s help had been invaluable but now I was back, I was more determined than ever to find a job and regain my independence.

  Rita threw her arms wide. “Did I come through for you or what?”

  “You sure did.” I embraced her and we squealed, jumping around and around like a couple of teenagers until we fell down laughing.

  When we’d picked ourselves up, I gestured at the polished floor-boards, the exposed brick walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows, and stainless steel steps leading upstairs. “Is this what you were busy organizing all those days you didn’t email me?”

  Looking deservedly smug, Rita folded her arms. “Yep. Had to convince my cousin not to sublet to a stranger when I had the perfect tenant just waiting to move in.”

  I blew her a kiss. “I owe you.”

  I plopped into the nearest chair—yeah, the place came fully furnished—and pinched myself. “Ow! Yep, this isn’t a dream. I get home from Mumbai, my best friend’s lined up a downtown apartment, and helps me arrange my finances.”

  “All the girls at work go to that pawnbroker when their engagements break up and they make a quick thirty grand on their Tiffany rings.” She tapped the side of her nose. “Apparently he’s the best.”

  Considering what I’d gotten for the ruby alone, I had to agree. I’d been foolish, hanging onto a trinket from sentiment. Considering my bulked-up bank account, I should’ve done it sooner.

  “After what you’ve been through, you deserved a break.” Rita sat in a chair opposite me, slipped off her mules, and tucked her legs under her. “Now start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I pointed at the mojito jug and glasses I’d glimpsed in the breakfast nook during my tour of the apartment. “It’s Monday, right?”

  Not that the day would make a difference. I’d been craving a mojito like Anjali craves ladoos.

  “Coming right up.” Rita bustled around the nook, grabbing ingredients while I relaxed in my apartment. How good did that sound? I grinned like an idiot as Rita placed mint leaves in the bottom of the jug, added crushed ice, rum, sugar, lime juice and soda water, stirring it with a cocktail stick before pouring into highball glasses and garnishing with mint.

  “Here, get this into you.” Rita handed me a huge glass filled to the brim and I tried not to drool as a hint of mint and rum hit my nostrils, the tempting scent triggering an instant image of Drew and his invitation to buy me a mojito in NYC. We hadn’t made definite plans that night at the bar, because soon after he’d delivered my Perrier he’d taken a call on his cell, which turned out to be urgent business from London. I hoped his regretful expression as he shook my hand and headed out the door was for my impending departure and not some deal that had hit a snag.

  Rita tapped her glass to mine. “Start talking. By your emails, you’ve got plenty to tell.”

  I could’ve skirted around the issue of Drew and made it sound inconsequential that I’d dipped my toes in the guy wading pool. Or in my case, the quagmire. But I’d missed Rita, missed our chats, our teasing, our soul-searching. If anyone could put some perspective on the crazy two weeks I’d spent in Mumbai, she could.

  Taking a healthy mojito slurp, I savored every drop as my taste buds did a happy dance. “Okay. Remember I mentioned Drew?”

  She smirked. “Bollywood Boy, the Hugh Grant look-alike?”

  I nodded. “We clicked after I came clean about my part in your charade. If I hadn’t been posing as you, I could’ve seriously gone for him.”

  I dunked the mint leaves floating on the top of my drink. Seeing them go under made me hope I wouldn’t do the same. Under threat and under fire of falling for Drew’s charms, underwhelmed by my vehement self-protestations it wouldn’t go beyond a mild flirtation.

  Rita’s eyes widened. “Clicked in an I’m-hot-for-you-babe way, or clicked in an I-want-more-than-your-body way?”

  “The first, of course. What do you take me for, a moron?”

  Moron… moron… moron… my voice of reason chanted.

  At my age, eligible, sexy guys were sized up for more than their bodies and I was definitely lying by telling Rita my interest in Drew was purely horn-bag.

  “You’re not telling me everything.”

  My best friend, astute as ever.

  “He’s backing a film and it’s shooting a couple of scenes in New York, so we may catch up for a drink when he’s here. That’s all.” Deep down, I knew that wouldn’t be all. If Drew and I ever met for a drink sans the chaperones that had followed our every move in Mumbai, I’d jump him, no doubt.

  Rita placed her half-empty mojito glass on the coffee table and leaned forward. “This guy is hot, travels the world, looks like Hugh Grant, you dig him, and you’re trying to tell me that’s all?”

  “Yeah.”

  She held up her hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just calling it as I see it, and what I see is my best friend acting way too casual about a guy who means more than she’s letting on. Bet you didn’t know those weird green spots in your eyes change color when you’re talking about your passions?”

  “Like cheesecake?”

  She snorted. “Distract me all you want but I’m looking forward to meeting Bollywood Boy. Don’t forget, I’m your new yardstick when it comes to guys. No one gets past me without the stamp of approval first.”

  “When did I say that?”

  “After the second jug of mojitos the night you found out about the Toad becoming a daddy.”

  “Oh.” I had a vague recollection of stuffing half a choc-chip cheese-cake and pouring copious mojitos down my throat before sobbing for hours while Rita passed me tissues, topped off my drink, and hugged me. She was the best.

  “I guess you can play watchdog. Just take it easy on this one. I want his bone all to myself.”

  Rita shrieked and clapped her hands. “I’ve missed you. Now, tell me about the imbecile my parents had me married off to and how I can wriggle out of this meeting you’ve scheduled.”

  I couldn’t wait for Rita to catch a glimpse of her imbecile. She’d deliberately not looked at the photo her parents had pressed on her, tossing it in the trash the moment they’d left the first night they’d announced the betrothal. I’d been curious but she’d refused to let me sneak it out of the trash, citing bad karma. Maybe if she’d snuck a peek at Rakesh’s pic, would’ve saved us both a lot of angst. But then I never would’ve traveled to Mumbai, never would’ve met Drew…

  “You can’t get out of t
his. Rakesh did the right thing by us in Mumbai and you owe him. Besides, how bad can it be?”

  “You tell me.” She picked up her glass and took a healthy slurp. “You’ve met the guy. From what you said in your emails, he sounded almost human, so he wouldn’t want an arranged marriage any more than I do. He’s seen the lengths I’d go to get out of it, he went along with the charade, yet wants to meet up? It’s totally bogus.”

  “Been watching Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, have we?”

  “It is bogus. I don’t trust him. What if he’s coming out here to blackmail me into marrying him? Or worse, meeting his mother?”

  An image of Anu bearing down on me, screeching about being my new mommy, popped into my head and I struggled not to cringe. Maybe Rita had a point. “He’s a good guy. He’s seen your picture, he’s interested. That’s it. Honestly? I think you’ll like him. Funny, smart, good-looking, the works.”

  A flicker of interest lit Rita’s eyes but she quickly masked it by lowering her lashes. “Bod?”

  “TDF.”

  “To die for? That good?”

  “That good.”

  She shrugged and semi-turned away but not before I’d glimpsed a smile. “Guess it won’t hurt to say hi to the guy. When’s he arriving?”

  “Next week. He’ll email me the details. And one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “You’re picking him up from the airport.”

  She leaped to her feet. “What?”

  “One of his stipulations. Sorry.”

  It was my turn to shrug and act nonchalant.

  Rakesh hadn’t made that little stipulation—I had, considering Drew would be accompanying him on the same flight. Excited as I was to see if there was anything more than a mild flirtation between us, showing up to JFK as he stepped off the plane would be too much. Appearing eager was one thing, looking like I was ready to lie down and spread my legs another.

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Not that I can think of. Want to see what I brought you?”