“It’s beautiful,” she said, and the compliment made him hone in on her face. The expression was one he recognized when she was putting some serious consideration into things.
“Have you ever thought about putting your words to music?”
“What? No!” He waved her off, wondering how much she had actually read. “They’re just my thoughts.”
“I’ve heard you sing in the shower,” she countered, giving him a megawatt smile. “I don’t understand anything you’re saying, but I recognize a man who can carry a tune.”
Devesh’s gaze lowered. Her robe had opened to allow a smooth curve of her thighs to show through.
She followed his line of vision and whipped it closed. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course, honey,” he said, trying to ignore the furious pounding of his heart and the fact that his erection was making an untimely visit—again. Lord, he wanted this woman so bad.
“Then give me permission to use this one,” she whispered and held up a piece from his journal.
“What are you thinking?”
“You’ll see.”
She placed the page gently on the coffee table. “Devesh, if you don’t mind me asking, what actually happened in Bollywood? You never gave me any details and it seems like some dark hole in your life.”
Devesh crossed one leg over the other. “I did something that no Indian actor had done before,” he answered. “I saw all the poverty around me, and I wanted to help. Mostly, I wanted to understand. So I took some time away from the glitz and glamor of Bollywood and moved to the poorest part of India. I lived as they lived. Depended on the kindness of strangers. Never knew how people could be so mean to other human beings.”
Devesh adjusted himself on the sofa until his thighs were closely touching hers. Reign laid her head on his chest as he said, “Someone took pictures, and word got around that Devesh Maharaj, the Bollywood star, was homeless and living on the street.” He grimaced and the fury he felt at how the media and fellow actors he once admired had ripped him apart, still simmered under the surface. “No one would hire me after that. No one wants to be associated with poverty. It’s cool to say you’re helping the homeless and the less fortunate, but to actually get in the trenches to understand? Not the right move to make. But I … How can I know how to help unless I understand what help is needed? Throwing money at people only lasts so long. It’s temporary. That’s the main reason I take an interest in charities that help children.”
Reign placed a hand on his cheek. “Let’s see where this new direction will take you. Alright?”
“Alright.”
Reign sent the poetry to a friend in Chicago. Percy, a former classmate, was one of the best underground musicians and producers in the Windy City. He had given up his dream of working with some of the big names in the industry when the politics of it all proved to be too much. But the man’s skills were unlike anything she’d ever heard. She gave him a little of Devesh’s background and sent him links to a couple of music videos Devesh shot in India. Then she sang the melody that came to her mind, using the poem that Devesh had written as lyrics.
Twenty-four hours later, she received a track from Percy that was so beautiful it nearly gave her a heart attack. The sound incorporated some of the instrumentation that was used in Devesh’s one hit that had landed on the music charts in India. She rushed home from the Montessori school with the children and played the music for Devesh. At one point he closed his eyes, tapped his feet before his body swayed to the beat.
“I love it,” he said, smiling. The music had a blend of everything that was summer; that was him; that was a little of India, a little R&B, a little of what was mellow and could remind people of enjoying life.
Then she parted her lips to let the words come forth—his poem, his way of pouring his heart out to a woman he wanted, but wasn’t sure if she wanted him. Devesh’s jaw lowered, and it took a few seconds before he closed his mouth again.
He dropped down on the sofa. “Honey, I can’t sing like that,” he whispered as his smile disappeared.
“Mr. Woods, my high school music teacher, is going to Facetime with you every day to work on your vocals.” She gestured to the iMac, then clicked a few keys, pulling up the application. “You’ll be able to sing this song and others in your own way.” She removed her hand from the keyboard and cupped his face in her hands. “You said you trust me. Now I’m going to need you to prove it.”
“Why?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the desk, putting his focus on the screen that became filled with images of him in different poses. They were in slideshow mode so the images would shift to a new one every three seconds, but then it morphed into a brand new interactive website.
“You’ve had your image, face, and body in front of Bollywood and the advertising community for years. You need to do something different. Something to make the industry you’ve been trying to break into come to you instead of the other way around. You’ve gone to them hat in hand all these years and haven’t been given a chance. You have to switch gears, Devesh. Take a risk and do something different.” She saw the way his jaw tensed and said, “People see you all the time. Now they need to hear you. Hear those beautiful words. Your words.”
Devesh pondered that for a minute. “Are you sure this is the way to go?”
“Trust me.”
And he did.
While he didn’t regret taking the job of a credentialing agent; checking backgrounds on people applying for passports or government jobs, wasn’t the kind of work that he wanted to do for the rest of his life. Charities were where he wanted to put his focus and heart, but none of the places he’d applied paid the kind of salary that would afford him the best opportunity to take care of a wife and two children.
But singing? Really?
Thanks to Mr. Woods and Percy, Devesh learned how to do his own backing vocals. Reign added her touch by having him listen to her singing and Devesh imitated the vocal acrobatics until they became second nature for him. And it worked, mostly because she was able to get him to hear how close some of the runs that R&B singers were known for sounded to East Indian chants and inflections.
At her insistence, they kept his family in the dark about these new developments so no one could throw salt or negativity on their plans. But Anaya and some of the others were curious because Devesh was humming all the time, had headphones on and was singing in a way that made his parents and even the twins smile.
Meanwhile, Percy was working on more of the poems and her melodies, bringing them to life for them to have an entire lead album of ten unique songs that would hit the world music scene, not just the States.
“Now, I’m going to need to get you into the studio to record it and a few others,” she said to Devesh.
“This has never been my thing,” he protested, one night after they had a scrumptious dinner with his family. “It sounds good, though.”
“Think of this as one looooooooong commercial,” she said, grinning. “You’re telling the world who you are through your words. You’re opening your heart to them. Let’s put one song out, gauge the response, but let’s be ready to release an entire album when it does well, and there’s a huge buzz.”
Devesh had worked hard to deliver the songs in a sound that was true to himself, his culture, and his upbringing in America.
“Honey, I think it sounds amazing,” he said, listening to the final tracks a month later. “But do you think other people will think so?”
“I know they will,” she replied, with enough confidence for them both. “I asked Percy not to over-mix the songs, to make sure it sounds as close to how you would perform live as possible.”
They recorded the first song in English, Hindi, Spanish, and French. They also had a version with a smoother beat geared toward the mature Steppers crowd in Chicago. Then the track was put to a faster rhythm—a dance version—to appeal to the younger audience. The song ended with a musical prayer/chant that blended in subtly with what
ever version was created.
On the back end, Reign had Jay totally dismantle the last remnants of Devesh’s current website—mostly stock photos that he had for sale, images he’d taken with too many women to count—Black, White, Asian, Latina, petite ladies and big mamas. A good majority of the front line images were of him and Amy. Those were the first to go. New images from Pete Stenberg arrived, taken on one of those weekend trips to Chicago for recording sessions with Percy. Devesh stayed with Jay who was finalizing the details of Devesh’s new brand.
Jay’s Columbia College skill set and experience in graphic design and brand marketing, helped create a whole new website with social media pages that had a consistent theme; as well as promo material, promotional clips, and print material that focused on Devesh in a more simple and streamlined manner than he was used to.
She had Pete make a trip to California with his wife, Kay, so he and his son, Erik, along with Jay, could shoot a video at Devesh’s favorite place—the ocean. The video was simple, majestic, and put the focus squarely on where it needed to be—Devesh, his voice, and the words. No half-naked women. No flash or bling. Just the basic elements—earth, wind, fire, water—and Devesh.
One song—seven versions. One simple video.
All released at the same time. Twitter. Facebook. iTunes. Amazon.
The song hit number one on the American music charts within that first week and hit a heavy radio rotation right after—driven by listeners, and not from any additional efforts of Reign or anyone on Devesh’s team.
The album uploaded two weeks later, and the sales were off the meter.
Devesh had placed his ultimate trust in his wife. She had spun his bricks into pure gold. Platinum. Multi-platinum. His family was every bit of shocked, amazed and proud.
The money flowed into his bank accounts and rolled into ones that belonged to the people who helped with his new brand imaging and the music. So no need to work that 9-to-5 any longer. All of a sudden, an industry that hadn’t taken an interest in Devesh Maharaj before was ringing his phone.
Devesh became well-versed in another set of words. “You’ll need to talk to my manager.”
Then passed the phone to his wife.
Reign and Devesh, reeling from his sudden onslaught of success, also became aware of a completely new issue that a famous rapper once pointed out—Mo’ money, mo’ problems.
Chapter 14
“Why does she keep pressuring us to watch that old movie?” Anaya asked, taking the old recording of Prem Granth from Reign and pressing it back into Aunt Kavya’s hands. “No one watches it anymore,” she said in Hindi since her aunt did not speak much English.
“It’s so outdated. Let me get her something new, something with subtitles,” Devesh offered, also in Hindi, but translated for Reign, who seemed confused by the exchange.
Aunt Kavya shook her head, thrusting the package back at Reign, then patting her on the shoulder before ambling away toward her room in the first level sleeping quarters.
“Do you have something we can play this on?” Reign asked Devesh, with a lingering gaze on the disappearing view of the older woman draped in a fuchsia and silver sari.
“No, but I’ll check online and see if there’s something on eBay.”
“Or maybe a pawn shop?” Reign suggested, taking the old VHS tape out of its beat-up box. “There has to be one of those around here somewhere.”
“What’s that?”
“You really don’t know?” Reign said, tilting her head at him. “And I thought you grew up in New York.” She tapped a finger on the cassette. “There’s a message in here for us. She’s been pushing for us to watch this since the first day I came.”
“Pawn shop?” Devesh asked, frowning as he took a glimpse of the cover.
“It’s our best shot.”
“I’m on it.” He kissed her lips and was out the door.
Anaya extended an invitation to Reign to join her in the kitchen to experiment with new recipes. Pranav followed both of them through the house and took a seat in the solarium, almost as if he didn’t trust his wife to be alone with her sister-in-law. That action put Reign on notice.
“May I ask you a question?” Anaya said, leaning on the center island.
Pranav perked up, snatched from the newspaper he was pretending to read. His warning look focused in on Anaya who bristled under his scrutiny. At least he didn’t say anything.
“I guess,” Reign hedged, her green-eyed gaze taking in Pranav’s body language and that entire silent exchange.
“What made you so interested in East Indian Culture? I mean, you do have a culture of your own, but …”
Reign blinked for a moment, possibly trying to gauge Anaya’s reason for asking. “I took a trip up north to Devon Street in Chicago. That’s the place where a great deal of the East Indian population resides. A lot of restaurants there; electronics, fabric stores, places like that.” She inhaled and let out a long, slow breath before she smiled. “I went into this one place, Gandhi Indian Restaurant, and for the first time, I tried something different. The owner and his wife, treated me like royalty. They had never seen me before, but I noticed that the way they interacted with me was a little different than other patrons. They encouraged me to try so many things—put tastings on small plates in front of me and took the time to explain what they were and how they were made. This was my first introduction to East Indian culture and cuisine, and they made it so pleasurable that I came back week after week. Later, I branched out to Tiffin, another restaurant on Devon, and India House, yet another one in the downtown area and the exact same thing happened.” She peered up from the glass she held and put her focus on Anaya. “Being treated well can be addictive. I enjoyed the food, the people, the music, and soon went into wearing the garments. I thought all East Indians were like the wonderful ones I met—and like Devesh who proved to be as warm and welcoming as they were.” She scoffed at that sentiment and added, “And then I came here and learned something entirely different.”
Reign kept her focus on Anaya for a moment before going to the fridge to select a few items to prepare for the meal.
“I’m going to set up the theatre,” Pranav said with a parting look to Anaya.
The moment Pranav cleared the threshold, Anaya whispered. “Why my brother?”
Reign stiffened and glared at her, as though she expected that there was some ulterior motive behind Anaya’s initial request.
“I’m not saying this to insult you,” Anaya confessed over the rim of her coffee cup. “I’m just trying to understand.”
Reign shelved the cookbook that Mumma had given her and turned to face Anaya. “I didn’t want to love him. But from the very beginning, he did everything a kind, compassionate, and loving man would do. He showed up in my life every day, through voicemails, texts, private messages, and emails. Sometimes three times a day or more. He would ask my advice on anything and everything. I looked forward to talking to him, seeing him at the conventions. He made sure I knew I was important to him, that he appreciated me and valued our friendship. I didn’t see it as anything more than that—friendship.”
Anaya placed the seasonings on the center island in the kitchen, processing Reign’s explanation.
“We are so different,” Reign confessed. “He believes the best of everyone. I see the worst.” She abandoned the meal prep, went back to the fridge and poured herself a glass of juice. “He’s trying to get me to have some balance when it comes to that. I’m trying to get him to understand that telling people no when something is not in his best interest is a good thing. He’s so free with his yes that he doesn’t realize that the only thing people remember is when he doesn’t give them what they want. He gets so hurt by their reactions.”
Anaya absorbed that and realized Reign really did have a handle on how things were with Devesh. “I’ve tried to get him to see that for so long. It’s one of the reasons I stopped helping him with his career. I was frustrated by the fact that he trusts ev
eryone.” She poured herself another cup of masala tea. “People he helped get started in the industry stepped on him on the way up and forgot all about what he did for them.”
“Loyalty is important to him,” Reign said, over the rim of her glass. “But he keeps attracting those who aren’t loyal in any way.”
Anaya’s penciled eyebrows drew in. “You really love him.”
Reign looked away. When she focused on Anaya again, she said, “I love him, but I’m not in love with him,” she replied, placing her glass on the center island. “Amy was in love with him.”
“Don’t be fooled,” Anaya corrected. “She was in love with what she believed he could do for her, nothing more.”
Reign locked a gaze on Anaya who moved until she was next to Reign.
“Don’t break his heart,” she pleaded in a voice just above a whisper.
Reign scoffed and said, “I hate to break it to you but the fact that I’m only giving him eight years of my life means that there’s a great possibility that I will do just that.”
“Why only eight years?”
“It’ll give the children a good foundation,” she said, then leveled a stony look at Anaya that sent chills up her spine. “And also by that time, he’ll find an East Indian woman that will be more to your family’s liking.”
Reign turned away, giving Anaya her back to ponder.
Anaya looked up in time to see Pranav glaring at her and knew a full-blown discussion was on tap the moment she got home.
Pranav crooked his finger, and Anaya’s heart slipped to her toes. Evidently, he wasn’t in the mood to wait until later. Bummer.
He hooked his arm under hers and quickly escorted her out to the solarium and further onto the patio. The late evening sun had splayed the last of its rays across the California sky. None of its beauty swept away the chill coming from Pranav. “Anaya I’m seeing the worst side of you since Reign has come here. It’s like I don’t even know who you are.”
Anaya scanned the padded lounger where Reign had stretched out that day when she returned from Chicago. “Did you see the way he kissed her? That day by the pool?”
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