by Shobhaa De
The girl came back with Nescafé. Aasha Rani flung the cup at her. “Don’t you even know how to prepare good coffee? Where is the damn filter?” The maid looked stricken and said, “Madam, in Bombay people drink this type of coffee.” Aasha Rani saw red. “Don’t tell me about what people drink in Bombay. I know it too well. They drink piss and think it’s coffee! I want mine done the way we do it in Madras. Don’t ever bring me this rubbish again!” The maid hung around with a surly expression. “What do you want now?” “Madam, saab coming for dinner or shall I tell the cook to just make dahi bhath?”
“Goddammit. Tell him to make whatever he wants!”
“But, madam, Akshay saab doesn’t like dahi bhath. What about murgi?”
“Just make what you bloody well want.” Aasha Rani’s voice was shrill.
AKSHAY HAD OBVIOUSLY FORGOTTEN her birthday. Just as well, she thought bitterly. How did it matter? What was he to her anyway? Yet, she couldn’t move from the telephone. Akshay was not that selfish, that thoughtless. A call? Just one lousy telephone call? Even his secretary could have made it for him. My God! What if he was sick? In the hospital? If that ever happened, she’d be the last to know. Maybe there was an income tax raid on at his house even at this moment. Maybe Malini had had an accident; perhaps she was dead.
She wanted to call but didn’t dare. That again was one of the rules. She could never make calls; she could only receive them. She thought of contacting Linda and asking her to phone him; kind of pretend she wanted an interview and then pass on her message. No. Akshay would be furious if he knew Aasha Rani discussed their relationship with journalists. Bloody newshounds. The gutter-press who wrote filth about the stars, about him. No way.
Aasha Rani sat by the phone and waited. She didn’t even go to the bathroom. She had a cordless machine but didn’t trust it. What if it conked out just when he called? At the crucial moment? He’d think she was out shooting and hang up. Bloody instruments, she cursed, transferring her anger to the phone. Never work when you need them. She picked up the receiver to check whether there was a dial tone. There was. Perhaps her line had been dead earlier. That happened often enough. Shit! These bakwas phones—how she hated them. Maybe Akshay had tried and gotten no response! Still, he could have sent the driver over. What was the distance, anyway? Hardly anything. Maybe the driver was on Malini’s duty. Then how could he carry a message for her? Akshay could’ve driven over in his BMW. He did that often enough. But maybe the BMW was in the shop for repairs. Last week he’d said it was giving him trouble. Poor chap! He had so many things to worry about. That lousy car was always acting up. Like his lousy wife. Two days of running smoothly—and back to the workshop. She’d told him so many times, “Get an Indian car, get an Indian car,” but no. He was so stubborn. Bas—he was crazy about foreign cars. Toyota, Honda, Mercedes, BMW—that van!
Maybe he was sitting at home waiting for Malini to return. He couldn’t take a cab after all. And that elder brother of his—chhee! Another one! Always lecturing him. All that fellow thought about was money. And more money. No self-respect. No compunctions about freeloading off his younger brother.
Ajay had heard the rumors about her and Akshay. She didn’t give a damn. Naturally his brother was going to side with the wife. So what? All these relatives were just the same. Like Amma. What did they care about the people who slaved in the studios to make money for them? Nothing. But they wanted to control their lives, all right. They wanted to tell them who to marry, who to sleep with, who to act with, who to be nice to, who to ignore, who to snub.
AASHA RANI WENT UP TO her bedroom—all gauzy pink drapes, quilted bedcovers and pink heart-shaped cushions trimmed with lace. There was a king-size double bed pushed against the wall, and a dressing table littered with uncapped jars of makeup. Her stuffed toys were arranged on a low shelf that stretched the length of the room. And the floor was covered with clothes. She went and stood by the window. This was so unfair. On Akshay’s birthday she had canceled all her shooting, thinking this was one day he would really want her to be around.
They had celebrated his birthday two weeks earlier with a quick tryst in the penthouse suite he maintained at the Holiday Inn. She had found a couple of telltale hairpins on the carpet, which he’d waved off nonchalantly. “Tch! Forget it, darling. Malini had brought me some masala milk from the house during a story session and napped here, while I was busy with that chootiya in the next room.” Aasha Rani had let it pass. It was Akshay’s birthday and she wanted to make him happy. Very happy.
She had unbuttoned his shirt and kissed his glistening chest softly. Akshay was practically hairless, and she liked that. She recalled all the hirsute, sweaty men she’d been forced to lick—all over—whose body hairs would get into her mouth and make her feel nauseated. “Don’t stop, Rani,” Akshay had pleaded. Aasha Rani hadn’t needed prompting. Her mouth had worked its way down while her fingers unzipped his jeans. He was wearing her favorite briefs, those lethal black ones. How smooth he was—almost like a woman, she thought, as she flicked her tongue over him. He had propped his head on his arm and watched. “Don’t stare,” she had protested. “I feel shy…” “You…and shy? I like watching your head move while you suck me. Do you want to deny me the pleasure?”
Aasha Rani had wordlessly reached for her bag, which was right next to the bed. “What are you doing?” Akshay had asked. “Lie back. I have a present for you,” she had said. “But you’ve already given me one.” “That was only the beginning. This is something special; you’ll enjoy it.” And she’d pulled out a small bottle. It had filled the entire room with its heady, spicy fragrance. “Oil?” he’d asked. “Special oil we use for ceremonial baths. Your body will smell of it for a week—now relax; let me give you a massage.” And with that Aasha Rani had mounted him and, pouring a palmful of the divine-smelling oil over his erection, had slowly begun massaging him between his thighs. She moved like a lithe dancer, her hair falling all over his chest, her breasts moving above his face, her nipples occasionally brushing his lips. “You sexy woman, where did you learn all this?” Akshay had groaned, surrendering himself to her ministrations.
Two hours later, as they slept coiled up in bed, there was a loud thumping on the door. Akshay had jumped up and thrown a towel in her direction. His face was pale, his eyes panic-stricken. “It’s her!” he’d hissed. “You have to get out of here fast. Malini must be on her way up; that’s the secretary warning me. Chalo, chalo, move it, get dressed!”
Her eyes had been heavy with sleep. He had shoved her off the bed, thrown her clothes at her, and said harshly, “Are you deaf, woman? Didn’t you hear me? Out! My wife’s here!” Aasha Rani had sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the clothes flung at her, and had refused to budge. “If you are shitting in your pants, you leave. Why should I? She isn’t my wife. I’m staying right here. I don’t care whether it’s Malini or Goddess Sita herself!” she had finally said. Akshay had lunged toward her, eyes blazing with anger. At that precise moment there was another knock. The secretary’s voice was apologetic. “Sorry, boss. It’s OK. Madam doesn’t know you are upstairs. She has gone straight to the health club.”
Akshay’s arm had fallen to his side as he’d collapsed in Aasha Rani’s lap, saying, “God help me! I nearly died then.” She had made no move to touch him.
THE PHONE RANG and she snatched it up. Wrong number. Shit. This was proving to be another ghastly birthday. The calendar seemed to leer at her. As it had on that day she’d turned fifteen. She remembered how she had woken up early and lain in bed hoping that Amma would let her have her best friend Savitha over for the day. A special treat. After all, it was her birthday. Maybe she’d get a new pavadai. But Amma had chosen that very day to steer her family from rags to riches, cashing in on the only solid assets she had in the world: the forty-inch bust of her fifteen-year-old daughter.
Looking back, Aasha Rani realized how methodically Amma had geared up for her first big move. From the time she’d painted herself garis
hly and left with dubious uncles in the evenings to the time she’d forced Aasha Rani to “perform” in blue films when she was not quite twelve, there was only one thing on her mind: to save enough money to get Viji to Bombay.
“DON’T CALL MEAMMA in front of people,” her mother had hissed into her ear at Victoria Terminus. “Call me Mummy; remember that, Mummy. In Bombay everybody calls their mother Mummy not Amma.”
She had nodded docilely. She was tired and sleepy. It had been a long train journey from Madras. And her first one. Amma had gotten her new clothes for Bombay. She had hoped for a new pavadai for her birthday. Instead she had gotten a blouse and skirt. And so tight-fitting! She remembered being barely able to breathe in the blouse. And the bra! Chhee, so thick and uncomfortable! She’d looked at herself in the small mirror in their home before leaving for the railway station, and her eyes had filled with tears. “Ai yaii yo, what has Amma done!” Her sister, Sudha, had laughed and teased her. “Look at you, look at your bust! You look just like a she-buffalo!” “Please don’t make me wear this; it looks so horrible,” she had pleaded to Amma. Amma had glared at Sudha. “You shut your mouth or I’ll smack you hard. Viji is going to Bombay to become a big film star. What do you know about such things? She will be famous and rich, while you will still be wallowing in mud.” The girl had sniggered. “Film star, film star, ha, ha, who will look at such a fat, dark and ugly girl?” Amma had run toward her, palm raised, but she had scampered ahead and continued her taunts. “And look at her name. Viji! Can you imagine a film star called Viji? Viji, Niji, Piji.” Aasha Rani had tears streaming down her face, streaking the pink powder her mother had generously dusted her face with. Amma had merely picked up the Rexine bags with the price tags still on them. “We will see which one of us is right. You can make fun of Viji now, but one day she will be a big star. Dance, sing, act, while the rest of you stay here in this hell-hole and rot! Viji can do anything, everything. She is a good girl. She listens to her amma. I will make her a star.”
THE COFFEE ARRIVED. It was awful, but at least it wasn’t Nescafé. She’d been in Bombay for so many years now, but she still hadn’t gotten used to drinking instant coffee. Aasha Rani got up to change out of her kimono. Just in case. She waded past the mess in her bedroom: clothes, shoes, handbags, Akshay’s kurtas, jeans, Jockeys littered all over the carpet. She started flinging kurtas impatiently out of her cupboard. Her hand stopped on a shiny, pink, flowered one. She picked it up and touched it lightly. She remembered it well. She’d worn it that morning when Kishenbhai was escorting her to her first big interview. The day that she’d stopped being Viji. And become Aasha Rani. It was a name Kishenbhai had given her. It happened in a taxi. That was right.
That day they were on their way to see Nitesh Mehra. He wasn’t the renowned producer-director he was today, but he’d made a few reasonably successful films with newcomers. The Godfather of Unknowns. He took chances; he gave breaks. He could sniff out talent. Or rather, he knew instinctively what the audience came looking for. He’d announced a new film: a lighthearted musical comedy with a double role for the heroine, the trade rags informed knowingly. A fresh face. Already hundreds of hopefuls were jamming the studios. Kishenbhai had told Amma that her daughter stood a good chance provided she stayed out of the picture. Amma had bristled. “Viji is my child. I know what is best for her. Who are you to tell me anything?” Kishenbhai had reasoned that many a budding film career died prematurely because of interfering mothers. “Nobody likes lafdas. Let him meet her first and then we’ll see.” Reluctantly Amma had allowed Aasha Rani out of her sight. But only after cautioning her: “Don’t sign anything. Don’t say anything. Do as you are told. If the man says ‘dance,’ you dance. Do disco if he wants disco. Do Bharatanatyam if he wants Bharatanatyam. But do not go alone into a room with him. Do not take off your clothes. Stay with Kishenbhai and let him do the talking. Don’t slouch. Stand tall and straight. If he asks any questions, you just say, ‘Speak to Mummy’—not Amma. Will you remember?” Aasha Rani had nodded and climbed into the waiting cab.
Niteshbhai operated from a cramped office in the legendary “film building” at Tardeo. In this sprawling complex were housed over a hundred film production companies. Nitesh’s office was like all the others—false ceiling, plastic flower bouquets, garish carpets and innumerable phones. Aasha Rani gaped at the publicity stills plastered on the walls. It was Nitesh’s frequent boast that he made films for money—first and last. He was not an aesthete, he sneered. He made movies for moolah—mega moolah. “Arrey, chhodo yeh sab art-fart ki baatey,” he’d say to journalists who accused him of crassness. “My movies sell. They’re seen by millions. I give audiences three hours of masala. That is all. See it. Flush it. Forget it. But see it. At least I’m better than all those pseudo art-film wallahs whose films win awards in Timbuktu. Nobody watches them—even when they are shown free on Doordarshan! Bilkul faltu; ghatiya cheez.”
Nitesh had given Aasha Rani a thoughtful once-over. “Big tits,” he had observed matter-of-factly to Kishenbhai. Then he had turned to Aasha Rani and asked, “Can you dance? Bharatanatyam? Kathak?” Aasha Rani had nodded and looked to Kishenbhai for verification. “Of course she can dance. Give her a screen test, yaar. High class. Top class. Kamaal ki cheez.” Nitesh hadn’t been convinced. “Hindi aata hai?” he’d asked her. “These southie females can’t speak a word of Hindi, yaar,” he’d explained to Kishenbhai. “The producers spend a packet on Hindi tuitions and end up with Hindi-speaking actresses who still sound as if they’re talking Madraasi. Southies and Bengalis. Same problem. Nice eyes, nice tits, lousy accents.”
Nitesh had ordered coffee all around and a tambaku paan for himself. He had turned to Kishenbhai and asked, “Have you got a cassette? Screen test, hai? Wait, let me call Dada.” He had reached for a bell under his monstrous table and had asked a peon to summon Dada, the makeup man. Kishenbhai had turned to Aasha Rani and explained, “Dada is the best. He will make you look like an apsara.” Dada had come in and stared impassively at Aasha Rani. “Forehead ka problem hai, saab,” he had said flatly, “stringing karna padega.” Nitesh had instructed him to go ahead and do whatever was necessary. It had been Aasha Rani’s first makeover. And the most crucial one.
Dada had worked on her face for close to four hours: reshaping her eyebrows, altering her hairline and redefining her plump cheeks with quick strokes of plum-colored blush. Aasha Rani’s hair had a kink to it. It was frizzy around her face. Dada’s assistants had taken care of that with hot tongs that stretched out the curls and straightened the tresses till they fell in a dark curtain.
Nitesh had remained unconvinced. “What are her thighs like?” he had asked Kishenbhai with a gleam in his eyes. “Why?” Kishenbhai had asked, keeping his face expressionless. “Arrey baba, these days you need heroines with thunder thighs! All these Southie girls have them. Don’t you see those hot films from there? Sab undoo-gundoo bhasha mein.” “Those are from Kerala, yaar,” Kishenbhai had clarified, “and the girls are Malayali.” “Same thing, yaar, what’s the difference?” Kishenbhai had pulled out some stills of Aasha Rani—“Here, take a look for yourself,” he’d said, and thrust them into Nitesh’s hands. “Figure badi achchi hai,” Nitesh had said after a minute. “But she’ll have to put on weight on her thighs. I told you—men like tagda thighs.” “When can we fix up the screen test?” “Let me see; I’ll have to fix up a good cameraman. Next week? Phone karna, yaar.”
THE MEMORY OF HER SCREEN TEST was indelibly etched in Aasha Rani’s mind. For more reasons than one. After all, it wasn’t just her career that was launched. It was also the launch of the most-talked-about romance ever to hit the film industry. The scandalous saga of Akshay Arora and Aasha Rani.
She’d left it all to Amma and Kishenbhai. Funnily enough, she hadn’t felt nervous at all. Ever since she could remember—let’s see, how old was she when Amma had pushed her in front of a camera and said, “Dance, Baby, dance”? Five? Six?—Aasha Rani took instructions well. It ha
d never occurred to her that she had a choice in the matter. And so it was when they had all waited for Niteshji and the cameraman to turn up. Her test was to be squeezed in between takes. The film being shot on the studio floors was a mega-epic blockbuster-in-the-making called Jeet. Aasha Rani, Amma and Kishenbhai were shunted into an inconspicuous corner while the sets were rearranged for the next scene. She had watched, fascinated, as nimble-footed lighting boys clambered around on makeshift bamboo props like agile monkeys playing with coconuts. There had been all-around chaos, with lots of people shouting orders simultaneously.
The set had represented a deluxe luxury bedroom, the Indian filmmaker’s idea of how the rich lived and lolled. Aasha Rani had thought it was the most gorgeous room she’d ever seen. Velvet bedspreads, brocade curtains, Rexine love seats, pink telephones, gilt-edged mirrors and a fountain! She had turned to Amma, her eyes large and wondrous. “Can we also have a room like this?” she had asked. Amma had laughed and nudged Kishenbhai proudly. “Did you hear what Baby just said?”
Film technicians ran to and fro, jumping neatly over snakelike wires crisscrossing the studio floor. “Light check, sound check!” someone had shouted. The three of them were in the way, and someone had come up and roughly pushed them aside. Aasha Rani had ensconced herself on a large water drum. Amma had sat on a packing case. Kishenbhai had stood around trying to chat up the dance director—a broad, fierce, ugly-looking woman called Komal. At one point he had beckoned to Aasha Rani. “Come and meet Komalji, the industry’s most mashoor, top-class dance director.” Aasha Rani had walked over and the woman had pinned her with an unfriendly stare. “Naach aata hai?” Aasha Rani had nodded. “She’s very good. Best in Madras. You should see her on the screen—too, too good! Dancing since she was four,” Kishenbhai had said persuasively. But the choreographer’s interest had drifted and she had begun instead to tear apart the heroine of the film being shot. “Bloody whore! Can’t dance two steps, and acting so high and mighty. All these heroines are the same. Come from the gutter and behave like queens after one hit. They think we haven’t a clue about their past. This bitch is no different. I knew her when she first came to Bombay. Her name was Rosy. Arrey, she would sleep with anything that moved, even the spot boy…just so she could bum a beedi. And look at her today! I tell myself, ‘Don’t care about these sluts. They are here for one day and gone the next. But your work goes on.’ I see hundreds like her. Two-film wonders. Trick some sucker, get him to produce a film, and bas, they think they’re Queen Elizabeth. I told the director, ‘Baba, this woman is impossible. She has two left feet. She cannot follow even simple one-two, one-two steps. Jaane do, I will give her easy things to do. She can jiggle her breasts and flash her thighs—that’s all.’ Dekho, she is supposed to be rehearsing with us just now. But where is madam? In Akshay Arora’s makeup room, parting her legs. She thinks he’ll recommend her for his next film. High hopes! He is not such a fool, yaar. He will sleep even with a eunuch if he has nobody else! This rundi should realize that.”