What is calling to Mr. Soli Dustup is his work, his life, the movie business he loves, and the rupees that it makes for Starlite Studios. And in order to make those rupees—preferably lots of them—he needs Dolly back. He has tried to call her a hundred times, but her phone rings and rings and no one answers it.
Does she even know what hard work it was to send out those hundreds and hundreds of “Dearest Friend and Fan” letters on her behalf?
He has even tried to resign himself to the prospect of no Dolly. He has tried out a dozen different female leads for the next movie project, but it’s no use. All of them are flops. Worst of all, he has had to fend off (practically with his bare hands) a dreadfully nosy reporter from Filmi Kumpnee magazine.
Soli needs Dolly back, but more, Starlite Studios needs her. The fillum world needs her.
That is why Soli is now trudging up and down this very steep street trying to find a florist in Swapnagiri. He has the vague idea that taking Dolly a dozen roses may help to win her back. Maybe, he thinks, they can come to some agreement. Maybe he will say, “If you just take back that nasty name you called me—Jug-Handle-Ears . . .”
But no, he thinks with a sigh, Dolly is not the kind of person to reconsider a thing like that.
Dolly is a difficult person. A temperamental person. But then, he thinks, of course she is. She is an artist. In his mind he even adds an e to the word, which is what movie types do when they want to show that their work is sensitive and important at the same time. There is no question, Soli thinks distractedly. An artiste is what Dolly is.
Finding roses is proving harder than Soli thought. It is not that there are no roses in this town. There are lots of roses. Red, yellow, pink, they are in full flower. They are bursting out of people’s gardens. They are budding on canes in parks marked NO SPITTING. NO BLASTING LOUD MUSIC INTO PEACEFUL GARDEN. ABSOLUTELY NO FLOUR PICKING.
Soli Dustup is a fussy reader. It annoys him greatly that the painter of this sign thinks he is talking about a bakery and not a garden. Soli debates picking a dozen roses from this place and pleading superior spelling when he is caught, which he will be, because right there is a policeman walking up and down and wearing a stern look. “I was not taking any flour,” Mr. Soli Dustup can see himself bravely protesting. “If these people want their local laws to be obeyed, they should learn how to spell.”
But he is a practical man, Mr. Dustup, and courting arrest is not what he has come to this silly town to do.
Here is the thing. Soli has walked up and down Blue Mountain Road, the main street in Swapnagiri, until two blisters (one on his right heel and one under his left big toe) have begun sending small, screaming signals to his nerve endings. And in all this walking he has not spotted a single shop where he can buy even one measly blossom.
People come to Swapnagiri for a restful vacation, or because they always wanted to work in the clinic and somebody is now paying them to do so. Sometimes they come because they have lost their way while trying to go somewhere else in this part of India. Or else they come to grow tea. They do not come to buy fancy bouquets. Soli is finding out that long-stemmed roses are not a concept known to the business people of Swapnagiri.
“Roses?” says the cloth-shop lady when Soli knocks on her door. “Sorry, I don’t need any roses.”
Soli tries to tell her he wants to buy, not sell, roses. He points to the bush of yellow roses in a pot outside her shop. Yellow is not Dolly’s favorite color, but Soli is desperate.
“You want to cut my roses?” the lady says, brandishing a large pair of shears and missing Soli’s ear by inches.
Such a thought, Soli swears, backing away, was never in his mind.
Out on the road he looks around. Then he spies an oasis in this tomfool, madcap place. It is a bakery. He decides to go there. If roses are not to be had, then that chocolate fudge in the window will do. Dolly is mad about chocolate.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Early Retirement
“SPEED POST TO SEND A LETTER from one end of this town to another?” Ramanna the Swapnagiri postal carrier has to sit down, so taken aback is he at this extravagance. “And how many letters, I ask you? Back and forth, back and forth.” He shakes his head. “I do not think my heart can stand it.”
“What do you mean?” says the postmaster. “It’s only a few more letters than usual.”
True, the mail between Sunny Villa Estates cottage number one and the guesthouse of the Blue Mountain School has been keeping Ramanna busier than usual. True, he had to make three extra trips just to handle it. Speed Post means expedited delivery—India Post is clear about that. And the Swapnagiri postmaster has only one letter carrier to rely on. Not since it was founded in the days before Indian independence has this post office ever handled so many speedy letters all needing to get there in superfast time.
“What do they think I am, a blasted whirling dervish?” says Ramanna.
“It is your job to deliver the letters,” the postmaster protests.
Ramanna thinks. He counts on his fingers the number of years of service he has put in. He does not have enough fingers. He could retire today. He could. Then he would not have to run around at the bidding of every fool person who decides to dash off a letter by Speed Post on a whim.
“I have made up my mind,” he says to the postmaster. “I am taking early retirement. I will write you a letter to that effect. Naturally, I will not be sending it by Speed Post.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” murmurs the postmaster. Life is very unfair, he thinks, always making more work for people who already have enough.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Getting a Grip
THE DAY AFTER CHICKOO UNCLE’S visit Mom is humming her way through her morning coffee. “What is that tune?” she says. “I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Mom,” Dini says, “that’s a Dolly song. ‘Sunno-sunno! Dekho-dekho!’” Mom is humming a Dolly song? If that is not a miracle, Dini does not know what is.
“Is it? I’ve probably heard you playing it over and over,” Mom says. “How are you today, darling?” She gives Dini an anxious look, no doubt worrying about her because she thinks Dini is having a hard time and behaving oddly as a result.
But Dini is willing to let bygones be bygones. Right now she is seeing the big picture, although maybe not quite the one Chickoo Uncle was talking about. “I’m fine,” she says.
And she is. Seeing the big picture has that effect. Dini is not only fine, she is ready to start listen-listening, look-looking, all over again. Reading that Filmi Kumpnee article helped her to make up her mind. She is so ahead of them. She can’t give up.
And here before her she sees Mom. A parent, sure, with many of the faults that come with that job description. But also an example of not giving up. “Mom,” Dini says, handing her mother the bag and lunch she will surely need, “did you really apply for this job six times before they gave it to you? Six times?” It does seem like a lot. She opens the door for Mom.
“I had to write a grant,” Mom says. “And yes, it got turned down five times before they gave it to me. Why?”
“Just asking.”
Then Mom hugs Dini, and hurries down the red dirt road toward the bus stop. Dini watches from the front step until Mom has rounded the bend and disappeared. She goes back inside the little house with the blinky shutters, and she is thinking hard.
In her movies Dolly is often beautiful and charming and witty and all the things you would expect of a fine and proper star. But when the time comes to do something, there is also no doer like Dolly. Didn’t she throw the villain off the pier in MJTJ, making him swim a dozen shivery miles home? Didn’t she haul in a whole fishing boat of smugglers just two scenes later and show the hero that she was on his side when he thought she wasn’t?
It is, of course, more difficult to be a doer in your own life than in the movies, where a whole boatload of scriptwriters, makeup people, costume and set-design and location people, not to mention special-e
ffects people and body doubles and whatnot, are there to help you. Even that person who is rather peculiarly called a grip, and who is perhaps there to help the star get one when she needs to.
This is why Dolly undoubtedly needs help—and she will get it. Maddie is right. No one can do this but Dini because no one else gets the big picture.
Dini must keep trying. If Mom can write that grant over and over, and be turned down five times before she got it, Dini can get this story line to where it needs to go.
But someone else needs to get a grip now, and Dini has to go take care of that first. She tells Dad, “I’m going to Priya’s house, okay?”
“Oh?” Dad says, pushing his chair back. “Mending broken fences, are you?”
Dini can see if she hangs around, he may look up at the crack in the ceiling, and then she’ll be stuck for goodness knows how long. “Daddy, later. I don’t have time right now.”
“All right, you busy person,” he says. “Stay inside—”
“I know, the main gate,” Dini finishes for him, and she’s already running to the road. Soon she is turning into the driveway of Sunny Villa cottage number 1, which is bigger than a couple of the other cottages, at least, put together.
When Dini knocks, Veeran’s wife, Mala, opens the door. It turns out she sweeps and mops the floor in cottage number 1 and sometimes also cooks dinner, because left to himself, Mr. Chickoo Dev would be useless at such things.
Mala waves Dini in and says she’ll go get Priya. Then she grins at Dini, tucks her sari up, and walks off to the kitchen, with her toe rings on her bare feet going clink-clink on the shiny polished tile floor. Dini thinks it must be fun to wear toe rings like that, going clink-clink on things when you walk.
“I thought I’d find you on the roof,” Dini says when Priya shows up.
“I couldn’t stay there all Night,” Priya says. “Even if I Wanted to.”
And that is when Dini sees that it is not Priya who needs to get a grip, it is Dini herself. All the time she’s been chasing after Dolly, here was a person who could be her friend, and Dini has not even given her the time of day. Which is a Dad way of saying she hasn’t paid her any attention and now she is so very sorry about that.
“Priya, I don’t want you to go to Washington, D.C.,” Dini says, and she means every word.
“You Don’t?” Priya’s face has surprise all over it. “Why?”
Dini swallows. “Priya,” she says, “I’m Sorry about that Party, and I want to be Friends.” She thinks she’s getting the uppercase, even if she can’t do the sound effects.
“Well, if you put it like That,” Priya says, and chirps like the green birds that hang upside down from the bottlebrush flowers.
And so they talk. They talk about Bombay and Washington, D.C., about the Gateway of India and the Washington Monument, around both of which you can find—what a coincidence!—pigeons. They talk about this Blue Mountain School, which seems quite nice, but it will be strange to be new there.
Priya says, “Want to take the Bus into town with me? I have to post some Letters, and Sampy took the basket Out already.”
“Sure,” says Dini, “but I need to call my dad first.”
Priya makes a sound like a ringing phone, and hands Dini a cordless.
Dad seems pleased and surprised. “To town, by bus?” he says. “With your friend Priya?”
“Uh-huh,” Dini says cautiously.
“So she’s your friend again?” Dad says.
“Uh-huh.” She hopes this won’t take too long, but she is prepared to keep saying “Uh-huh” if she must.
“Be careful crossing the road,” he tells her.
“Uh-huh!” says Dini, greatly relieved.
On the bus, going past the tea-gardens and then the shops and houses, she talks to Priya about a hundred things, but not about Dolly and Chickoo Uncle. Not yet.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Pepper
WHEN LAL THE POSTMAN and his new wife, Lila, get off the mountain train at Swapnagiri Station on a Tuesday morning, they are at once enchanted by the beauty of the place.
“Such scenery . . .,” says Lal.
“And such fine air,” says his wife.
“A person could ride a bicycle for miles here . . .,” says Lal.
“And not even be out of breath,” says his wife.
Being newly married and all, they are delighted to be able to complete each other’s sentences.
They drop their modest bags off at the tiny hotel (called the Open Arms, as in “We Welcome You With”) where they have made a reservation all the way from far-off Mumbai. The Open Arms is right behind a tea and spices shop run by the husband of the woman who owns the hotel. Lal and Lila pop in at the shop to take a look and meet some of the locals.
“Chai masala . . .,” Lal marvels.
“So many kinds,” adds Lila.
The tea-and-spices man is pleased at their interest. Indeed, he has several varieties of tea spice—some heavier on pepper, others on cardamom, others running more to ginger, or cinnamon and cloves. “Also, we have some very fine freshly ground pepper,” he says. “Would you like to buy some?”
Lal is about to say, “No, thank you,” but his wife says, “Fresh pepper? Oh, we should take some back to your mother in Mumbai.” So they buy a small bag. Even if it makes them sneeze a little, they agree that it is very fine pepper.
Bidding good-bye to the tea-and-spices man, Lal and Lila proceed up Blue Mountain Road. Soon they arrive at the Dreamycakes Bakery.
“Oh look!” says Lila.
“Oh no!” says Lal.
An unexpected customer has arrived at the bakery before them. The customer has two beady eyes, little grasping hands, and a tail. And it is terrorizing the owner of the bakery. Years after the last unfortunate time that this happened, a monkey has once again found its way into Dreamycakes Bakery.
“Help!” yells Mr. Mani. “Help me!” He is cowering on the floor, hiding his face in his hands, while the monkey sits on the counter, helping itself to a freshly baked curry puff.
“My cakes! My bakery! My reputation!” sobs Mr. Mani.
But Lal has not been a Mumbai postman for nothing. Granted, he has been on the job for only six months. But in that time he has dealt with rogues, ruffians, and pickpockets of all sizes and shapes—this one is not human, but it makes no difference.
“Hey!” Lal says to the monkey. “What do you think you are doing? You want to rob this fine bakery of its number one menu item or what?”
As he is talking to the monkey, Lal notices something that he has never noticed before. When he is dealing with rogues and ruffians, he stops stuttering. This is quite a realization. It makes him stand up taller. Then he thinks that perhaps it was that Mumbai postmaster who made him trip and stumble over his words.
The monkey chatters at Lal. This hill monkey does not know that it is supposed to be afraid of a Mumbai postman.
The monkey offers Lal a curry puff. Lal is so surprised that he sets the bag of pepper down on the counter and takes the curry puff from the monkey.
In a flash the monkey grabs the pepper bag.
The monkey shakes the bag. Fine pepper flies everywhere. The monkey begins to sneeze.
Now, pepper (freshly ground, from the pepper vines of the Blue Mountains) is a powerful thing. The monkey sneezes and sneezes from that fine pepper. It sneezes so hard it sneezes itself right out of the door, and all the way down the hill as well. It goes off to relay the message to all the other monkeys up and down those hills to stay away from that bakery forever.
“Oh-aah-bushku! Thank-choo!” sneezes Mr. Mani.
“No problem,” says Lal.
“Oh, Lal,” says Lila.
In the moments that follow, everyone is overcome by a round of grateful sneezing.
A man with a mauvish tint to his face has been watching the whole monkey episode with great interest. “Was that a movie scene?” he says now, muffling a sneeze with a large white handkerchief. “A mo
vie scene or what, my darlings?” His face has now settled into a more even hue, quite close to the color of the flowers that Lal and Lila saw cloaking the hillside on the way up.
It is the mention of movies that jiggles Lal’s memory into place. He knows who this man is! It is Mr. Soli Dustup, to whom he delivered that Speed Post letter in Mumbai. He is about to tell him this, but he does not stand a chance in the avalanche of words from Mr. Dustup.
“Monkeys,” says Soli Dustup, shaking his head. “If I’d thought of that two movie projects ago, I would be a rich man, I tell you.” He sticks his hand out. “Soli Dustup, pleased to meet you. Mani, my gracious host, curry puffs all round.”
Lal shakes the outstretched hand that swallows his own in its grip. “It’s an honor to meet such a famous executive . . .,” he begins.
“In the movie business,” Lila finishes for him.
“You are familiar with the movie business?” Mr. Dustup inquires.
Lal and Lila explain that they are merely fans. And that they are newly married and here on their honeymoon.
“And I . . .,” Lal begins.
“We . . .,” Lila adds.
“Oh, yes,” says Lal. “We . . . well, that is to say . . .”
He finds he has forgotten what he meant to say. No matter, Lila takes over. She tells Mr. Dustup how nothing would please them more than to catch a glimpse, just a glimpse, of Dolly Singh, who is their very favorite movie star. They are humble people and they do not ask for much.
“Me too,” says Soli Dustup, happy to find kindred spirits. “I have been trying to phone our Dolly for weeks, literally. Weeks. The blinking woman has stopped answering her phone, or the blinking number is on the blink, or what? Sit, sit, sit, those curry puffs will be here soon. They’re out of this world.”
The Grand Plan To Fix Everything Page 11