by Shobhaa De
Aasha Rani had listened intently, hanging on to every word of Komal’s colorful Bombay-Hindi. Then, while Komal had nattered on, Aasha Rani had caught sight of the most devastatingly handsome man she’d ever seen. He was dressed in white pantaloons that ruffled at his ankles, red shoes, red cape. His eyes were dark and brooding. His thick hair slicked back. And he had walked as if he owned the place.
She saw studio hands jump out of his way. Someone rushed up with a chair. Someone else had run to fetch a glass of water. He had passed within three feet of Aasha Rani, and she had felt the hair on her arms stand on end. It was as if she had been hit by a high-voltage jolt of electricity. Totally unnerved, she reached out for support. There was a sudden loud splash. Everyone had frozen. Aasha Rani had lost her balance and had fallen into the drum, soaked to the skin, and spluttering for air. The mystery man had helped Aasha Rani out, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. In her confusion she hadn’t noticed that her drenched skirt had climbed up to her crotch. Flushing and blushing furiously, she had pulled herself up, muttering, “So sorry, so sorry.” He’d stared at her, looked down at her exposed legs, shrugged and walked away.
“That was Akshay Arora,” Kishenbhai had said reverently.
AASHA RANI OFTEN recounted her dramatic encounter with the megastar in her subsequent interviews. He, in turn, would also mention it, saying with an easy laugh, “I’m convinced it wasn’t an accident. She planned it all. How else would I have noticed her?” And notice her he had. For a few minutes after the incident, an oily, disgusting man had slithered up to Kishenbhai and asked, “Yeh kaun hai? Akshayji wants to know.”
Kishenbhai hadn’t wasted a minute. “She is the latest discovery. Four, five big banners are interested in her, but we want her to wait and sign the right film. She has worked in the south, but now she is going to be launched in Hindi films. Raj is interested. Nitesh also. Shekhar has been calling every day. After the Dream Girl, Aasha Rani is the one. Aasha Rani—the Sweetheart of Millions!” Amma had also rushed up and belted out her part of the routine: “My baby is only going to sign for big banners with topmost heroes. We don’t mind waiting, but no small side roles for her. She is going to be a big star!” The man had leered and gone back. They’d seen him whispering into Akshay’s ear. But nothing had happened. Not for a year or so, anyway.
Aasha Rani’s screen test had finally been shot at eight thirty that night. They’d gotten nothing to eat, nothing to drink and when she’d asked for the loo, someone had pointed to a dingy corner of the studio and said, “Go there. Don’t make a fuss.” Kishenbhai had gallantly tried to block the narrow passage leading to the smelly corner till Aasha Rani had finished relieving herself. He had noticed that Aasha Rani’s stamina was beginning to waver and had managed to get her a packet of soggy biscuits, which she’d gobbled greedily. She had then timidly asked Amma for some kaapi. Amma had hissed, “No kaapi here. Keep quiet and wait—there will be plenty of time later for food. Concentrate on your test now.” Aasha Rani had nodded miserably and tried to keep her mind off piping-hot sambhar over ghee-soaked bhath.
The screen test had been an anticlimax. It had turned out to be one of those gaon-ki-gori, village-belle-bathing-in-pond scenes, where all that was required of her was to look drenched. She had managed easily. She was getting quite adept at crashing into water.
Two weeks later, Niteshbhai still hadn’t called. It was then that Kishenbhai had stepped in, offering to finance the film himself. One way or another.
THE PHONE RANG AGAIN. “Happy birthday, baby-jaan!” Aasha Rani hung up immediately. Today Kishenbhai was the last person she wanted to talk to. Her first lover. And her first pimp. Between Amma and Kishenbhai there was nothing they hadn’t resorted to. Nothing she had been spared. Her first “customer” had come her way at her first mahurat party. Dully, Aasha Rani’s mind went back.
Kishenbhai had insisted on her going to the party, saying, “You must be seen by the people who matter.” He’d wangled an invitation to it through the financier of the film—a Sindhi with enough surma in his eyes to give a Kathakali dancer a complex. This man had a strange name: Vishnu M.D. He was known throughout the film industry only by those misleading last initials. The only words he had spoken when he saw Aasha Rani were, “She’s dark, but chalegi.” Kishenbhai had winked and shoved Aasha Rani forward, whispering, “Chalo uncle ko smile do.” Amma had gotten her new clothes for the occasion—a hideous, candy pink sari from a bazaar in Dadar.
Kishenbhai had handled the choli. “Kuch sexy banao,” he’d instructed the tailor. And sexy it was. A backless, stringy affair with padded katoris so sharply pointed it was a wonder she hadn’t hurt someone. “Very nice, very nice!” Kishenbhai had enthused while Amma warned her to keep her arms down, so as not to reveal her hairy armpits.
So there she had been with her long, fluid arms glued to her side, in an ensemble that did nothing for her, looking terrified and feeling miserable. “Another Southie idli,” she had heard someone remark as they went past the foyer toward the swimming pool. She had glanced at herself in a mirror. Why had Amma done this to her? Why couldn’t she have worn a skirt and blouse or a salwar-kameez? And the makeup—aiiyo, it was terrible. The maroon lipstick, the glittering bindi, the eyeliner that made her eyes look like Ravana’s, the tons of blush like an angry rash and, of course, the layers of light-colored foundation to make her look fair.
Fair, fair, fair. Amma was obsessed by her color. Even her beautiful, black, naturally wavy hair had been hennaed and pulled and ironed into an improbable coiffure. The straps of her stilettos had already cut blisters into her feet. She had wished she’d come there as an invisible girl, for she was curious to see everyone and everything but not be seen herself.
How beautiful it had all looked! Just like in all those Hindi films she watched, even though she didn’t follow a word. Even the palm trees in Bombay were different from the ones in Marina Beach. Straighter, taller, prettier. They had had fairy lights in them and looked like graceful dancers swaying in the sea breeze. All around the pool were clustered hundreds of expensively dressed people—hundreds! She hadn’t known or recognized anyone. But they had all looked so impressive—the women like dazzling store mannequins, the men pomaded and sleek, just like in TV ads. There had been a band playing on one side, while waiters had cut through, expertly carrying trays full of drinks. Hesitantly she had reached out for one. The bearer had ignored her outstretched hand and kept walking.
Kishenbhai’s eyes had raked the crowd, combing it for contacts. Amma had been like a tigress on the prowl, looking for the right prey. Aasha Rani had caught sight of an attractive man in white—Oh my God! Akshayji! He had looked stunning. The girl with him had looked good too. But why had she not been covered up properly? Chhee…her shoulders had been bare, naked. Didn’t she feel shy or cold? Aasha Rani had shivered on her behalf and continued staring. The girl was throwing her head back and laughing all the time. She had had swarms of people crowded around her. Akshay and the woman with him had looked like a god and goddess—dressed all in white, and looking beautiful. Who was she? Aasha Rani had wondered, and decided to ask Kishenbhai. “Oh, her? She’s Anushree, a Tamil star—like you will be soon.” Aasha Rani had gasped. “That girl a South Indian? Can’t be! She is so fair. And look at her clothes! She isn’t wearing anything, I mean, she’s not wearing a sari.” Kishenbhai had laughed. “These days top heroines don’t wear saris; they have their own designers who make special clothes. You will get one also.” “But I could never wear something like that. Chhee!” “You will, of course you will.”
The party had continued, with lots of film stars turning up and greeting the producer. At one in the morning people had still been arriving in droves, and there was no sign of dinner. Aasha Rani had been dying to eat and get home to bed. Just then the man with the surma in his eyes had come up to Kishenbhai and said, “Chidiya tayaar hai?” Kishenbhai had come over swiftly to Aasha Rani’s side and said softly, “M.D. has a room here upstairs. Go
with him. He will feed you. M.D. is an important man. Treat him nicely. He can help your career. Don’t create a scene or anything. All you have to do is…is…what you do with me…bas. It will be OK. Tomorrow morning I will come and take you home.” Aasha Rani had pleaded with her eyes and looked beseechingly at Amma—who’d simply averted hers.
Looking back on that night, Aasha Rani would conclude it wasn’t all that bad. Surma Eyes could have been a lot worse. Besides, he’d had quite a bit to drink. She’d always heard that drunks gave women a hard time. Amma used to be in tears often enough when Appa showed up stinking of liquor, with bloodshot eyes and speech that slurred. But this man had passed out on the bed like an exhausted bull after a halfhearted attempt at disrobing her. She’d sat around uncertainly, wondering what to do. She didn’t dare make a noise or pick up the phone in case he suddenly awoke. So she had stood by the window and gazed at the people below.
The party was still going full swing—bright lights shone in the pool. There stood Akshay and Anushree. My! How elegant the two of them had looked. She had stood transfixed, watching the slow choreography of the guests as the crowd undulated and steered. After a long time she had drawn the curtains and, stretching out on the carpet, had gone to sleep.
The next morning Surma Eyes had been in a foul mood. He looked ridiculous in his net ganji and long, striped underpants. She had looked at the chains around his neck—two gold ones and a tulsi-bead mala. He had pulled her roughly onto the bed and said, “Kapdey uttaro.” She had looked slightly puzzled, as her Hindi had still been at a rudimentary stage. Seeing her hesitate he snarled, “Saali rundi, soona nahi? Behave like fucking virgins, these bitches!” Aasha Rani had undressed slowly. What she had really wanted was a steaming cup of kaapi. She had kept her mind fixed on that and had taken her clothes off mechanically. He had watched her doing this with a scowl on his face. He’d then picked up a pencil from the table and had dug it deep into his ear, rooting for wax. He’d sniffed the wad he’d unearthed on the tip of the pencil, then grabbed her roughly and shoved her on the bed. She had closed her eyes and thought of coffee, of Madras, of her friend Savitha, of the broken dolls she so dearly loved.
His hands had been like sandpaper against her naked skin. He hadn’t shaved, and his stubble cut her face. He had belched and filled the room with the smell of bum whiskey, greasy kebabs and onion pakoras. His spongy, hairy paunch had been squashed against her abdomen even as he had squeezed her nipples, pinching them till they hurt. He had kneed her legs apart. “Ooper kar,” he had commanded. “Kya?” she had asked. “Saali poochchti hai, ‘kya’? Aur kya? Tangdi!” He had placed his hands below her knees and shoved. “You are like a concrete slab,” he’d said. “Move…excite me…stimulate…don’t just lie there like a corpse, a murda.” Automatically, she had begun shaking her pelvis, rocking back and forth. He’d grabbed her shoulders and had begun thrusting himself brusquely against her. Aasha Rani had thought, This is it. The worst is now over. The beast will spill, get off and leave me alone in peace. Just a few moments more, that’s all. Galvanized by the thought she’d gyrated her pelvis violently and a small scream had escaped from her mouth. That had seemed to excite him. He’d dug his fingers deeper into her neck and had hammered away. He came finally, grunting like a wild pig.
AFTER THAT EXPERIENCE it was all the same. Most times, she didn’t even bother to look at the man’s face or body. She just ceased to react. What difference did it make who he was and what he did? Kishenbhai sent her, Kishenbhai fetched her and in between she didn’t know what was happening. But once Aasha Rani overheard a conversation between Amma and Kishenbhai. Amma was saying, “I don’t mind your sending Baby here and there; I know it’s all a part of the business. I trust you. But what about her health? These men, are they all right? Do you know if they are diseased? We must take Baby for a proper checkup. We have some money now. You are keeping track of all her earnings, aren’t you?”
Kishenbhai had said something in a low voice. Then she’d heard Amma again. “It’s time Baby got a good film. After all, I didn’t bring her to Bombay to become just a prostitute. If that was what I’d wanted for her, we could have started our own dhanda in Madras itself. Don’t think people don’t have money there. We also have millionaires. They would have paid anything for my baby.”
“HULLO…AASHA RANI?”
“Amar?”
“So you recognized my voice, yaar. I’m sooo flattered. Look, remember that scene in our movie—where the director cut to a bolt of lightning just when our lips were to meet? I’m, like, suffering from this continuity problem…could I…that is…”
Aasha Rani giggled coquettishly. If Akshay was going to play hard-to-get, then she would show him. Amar was a chikna, light-eyed stud, desperately young, and desperately enamored. Her latest costar. She was quite fond of him and had even suggested his name to Niteshbhai, recommending him profusely for his next blockbuster. And she didn’t really mind the idea of having Amar over. And in bed.
“I’m alone now.”
“Great, yaar. I’ve even gotten you a priceless present—a full-size blowup of me. I know it’s your birthday; I mean, who doesn’t!”
It was nice to have someone else do the groveling for a change, mused Aasha Rani. Sometimes with Akshay she felt that all the passion, all the need, was only from her side. His attitude was condescending, like he was granting her a favor. Bastard! Putting the phone down, she changed out of the outfit she’d put on specially for Akshay into an oversize T-shirt that hung to her knees. The kind of stuff teenyboppers like Amar would be appreciative of. Wildly.
The full-size blowup had gotten Aasha Rani thinking. She’d dabbled in that sort of stuff too. Poor baby-faced Amar. What a lot he had to learn. She smiled for the first time that day. And thought of Dhiru.
“Baby,” Amma had said one day, “what we really need are some top-class pictures of you. Some really artistic, good photos.”
Amma’s idea of “top-class” photographs had turned out to be topless; namely bare-all shots of Aasha Rani taken by a horny photographer called Dhiru.
Every starlet hitting Bombay made an obligatory trip to Dhiru’s studio. He specialized in cheesecake shots. His modus operandi was simple: He’d lure them into his makeshift studio with vague “modeling” offers. Once he had them captive, he’d start working on their vanity. “Sachchi, kya pyaari figure hai. You should feel very proud of your body. I have photographed hazaar film stars, but I have yet to see such a figure. Chalo, let’s shoot some Adivasi shots. Arrey, all producers just love them! After all, most of our films are about villagers. You will have to wear such costumes when you become a star. I have arranged for one today; take a look!”
The “tribal” costume in question was rarely anything more than a scrap of a knotted choli—more like a bra—and a knee-length ghagra (“This way they can see your lovely legs also”). Once the starlet got into this attire he’d pose her with a matka between her legs or get her to sprawl invitingly on the floor against a laminated backdrop of the Alps. Another favorite was the famous “waterfall shot.” He’d get the “model” to drape herself in a diaphanous white muslin sari, blouseless, as all Hindi film village belles usually were. The first few shots would be restricted to the standard “gaon ki chori” ones. Later, once the “atmosphere” warmed up sufficiently, he’d tell the girl to go into the bathroom and throw some water on herself. If she hesitated he’d take some water from a plastic jug and sprinkle some on her. After the first shiver or two the girl would be fine. He would then pour the entire jug or stand her under the shower—it was that easy.
With Aasha Rani, he had tried another strategy. Taking Amma aside, he’d said, “Your daughter is beautiful. Someday she will be a star. She has a good bust. We will concentrate on that. Let us photograph her in a sari with the buttons of her choli open. That will look sexy and really classy.” Amma had readily agreed and got Aasha Rani to dress in a flimsy georgette sari. She’d pushed the blouse off Aasha Rani’s shoulder, ope
ning the first three hooks. “Enough?” she’d asked Dhiru. “Theek hai—for the first shots,” he’d answered.
In an hour’s time he had worked his way through ten rolls of film; exposing that much more of Aasha Rani with each successive exposure. She was almost naked by the time the session was finished. “OK!” Dhiru had said. “Sign these release forms and I’ll show you the pictures day after tomorrow.”
A few months later, Aasha Rani had spotted a life-size calendar for a television company in a crowded shopping center and stopped to stare—there she was in next to nothing, beaming at the world from under the caption, which read “The Whole Picture: Only on VTS Television.” She’d blushed at the sight of her nipples. They’d been enlarged and retouched. The poster calendar was glossy, sexy. After the initial shock Aasha Rani had smiled to herself. Dhiru was right. She did have a beautiful body.